By Thomas King
From award-winning literary writer Thomas King (aka Hartley GoodWeather) comes a trendy secret debut that includes ex-California cop Thumps DreadfulWater, a sensible and savvy Cherokee Indian whose witty external belies a smart, obdurate sleuth.
With his cop lifestyles formally at the back of him, Thumps now makes his residing as a fine-arts photographer in Chinook -- a western city snuggled up opposed to a reservation that's suffering for monetary independence through funding in a glitzy new inn and on line casino complicated known as Buffalo Mountain. It's a slow-paced, solid existence for Thumps and his eccentric cat, highway. more often than not. but if a lifeless physique turns up in a single of the just-completed luxurious condos, issues swap quickly -- and never for the higher. Photographing corpses isn't really a part of Thumps's grasp plan.
He can't aid becoming concerned, specifically whilst he realizes that the number 1 suspect is Stanley "Stick" service provider, anticondo protestor and wayward son of Claire service provider, head of the tribal council and Thumps's onetime love. If it impacts Claire, it impacts Thumps.
It turns out that Stick disappeared near to the time of the homicide. twist of fate? or simply undesirable timing? Thumps understands that the police usually shoot smart-ass youngsters first and ask questions later. He doesn't wish that to take place to stay. yet can Thumps locate Stick in time? and will Thumps discover a killer earlier than a killer unearths Thumps?
DreadfulWater indicates Up marks the coming of a detective with a distinction. With strength and verve and a really distinctive voice, Thomas King and Hartley GoodWeather create a fascinating and unique page-turner that zings with memorable characters and biting social statement.
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Example text
When he saw me he got up and took a Sig Sauer pistol from the table, stuffing it into his waistband, the grip hanging over the lip of his drawstring pants. We shook hands and he walked me over to my bike. He straddled it, started it up, and rode the throttle in neutral. He yelled over the engine, “That Spectre pistol Core's selling you? ” “Mommy. That's too much for a pistol, Bird. It was me I'd charge you three hundy” “That's cool of you, dude, but he ain't budging. ” I stuck my chin at the bike.
Or get shot here and let my partners waste him? Or hope one of them gets a clean line on him right this second? Or lie down and try to stay out of the way of everyone's bullets that were sure to puncture the Monte Carlo any second? Or, or, or … drop the keys? Yes, drop the keys. If I was going to die, then he was going to die too. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and let them fall into the footwell. ” “Motherfucker—” I leaned forward and Provestgaard did too. Mellor, who was closest to the passenger's side of the car, stuck his revolver in the rear window gap and emptied it.
Shoot, in that year, 1987, he probably even had his own computer. It didn't appeal to me. The bullet put the rush of the streets in me and through me. It guaranteed I'd never direct anything but myself, and convinced me that large desks were for castrated dummies. I thought, Fuck that, I'm gonna be an undercover. ” AUGUST 2001—JANUARY 2002 IF ANYTHING, THE shooting proved that my job, and therefore my life, was not glamorous in any way. Pathetically, I'd imagined that undercover life would be like Miami Vice—full of cigarette boats, fast cars, expensive clothes, and perfect tens in bikinis sitting in my lap while I negotiated with drug kingpins.