The Force

by Don Winslow

Some Saturday mornings they’d sleep in late and then go get coffee and sometimes prowl bookstores, something else he never thought he’d do,

Guys in Winslow books are always prowling bookstores.

The guys from the One-Oh-One made sure it went down he was cleaning his gun so there’d be no problem with the insurance or the pension and the claims guy knew better than to fuck with them so he pretended to believe a guy was cleaning his gun at the beach on Christmas.

A cop takes a ham sandwich to look the other way, he loses his job. Congressman Butthole takes a few million from a defense contractor for his vote, he’s a patriot. The next time a politician blows his brains out to save his pension will be the first time.

“This was a double opportunity,” Monty says. “One, for me to pass the PT, and two, to prove that the Job cannot tell one black man from another, and furthermore, doesn’t care to.”

only know 302s have a way of winding up in social clubs next to espresso cups,

“In the words of Allen Iverson,” Malone says, “‘We’re talking about practice here. Practice.’”

This is the greatest ever.

“That’s my job,” Sykes says, looking around the bar. “I love these fucking people.”

Malone picks the Maine lobster, Claudette the smoked squab. “Isn’t that a pigeon?” Malone asks. “It is a pigeon,” she says. “Didn’t you ever want revenge?”

Used to be you could count on that with mob guys. Used to be a lot of things, though.

If I were a woman, Malone thinks, I’d probably be out there with a machine gun, spraying the streets and screaming.

Hell isn’t having no choice. It’s having to make a choice between horrific things.

“And you, shitbird. I’ll ass-fuck your widow on your coffin until she calls me Papi.”

If I had a dollar for every time I've said that...