Small Mercies

by Dennis Lehane

Of a worldview that said rules apply only to the people who aren’t in charge of making them.

Call them gooks, call them niggers, call them kikes, micks, spics, wops, or frogs, call them whatever you want as long as you call them something—anything—that removes one layer of human being from their bodies when you think of them. That’s the goal. If you can do that, you can get kids to cross oceans to kill other kids, or you can get them to stay right here at home and do the same thing.

“The rule of law is all that separates us from the animal kingdom.”

Every time I see my son? I hug him so tight he complains. I smell his hair and his skin. I put my heart to his back sometimes, just so I can hear his blood and the beat of his heart. I mean, he’s of the age he’s gonna get sick of it soon, so I’m just getting it in while I can.”

We’re not built for princesses down here, Bobby thinks.

He sits there, staring at the phone, and remembers why he started doing heroin in the first place—when you’re high on smack, the world seems gorgeous. When you aren’t, it seems like a hopeless fucking mess.