By Larry Beinhart
A few instances try out a personal investigator’s wits, others try out his braveness, and nonetheless others, his personality. In Salvation Boulevard, P.I. Carl Van Wagener has stumbled on a case that assessments all of them, after which is going directly to attempt his soul. A professor is useless and a suspect—who has confessed—is in custody. yet not anything is what it sort of feels. in the end, the useless guy is an atheist professor, the accused an Islamic overseas pupil, the safety legal professional a Jew, and the detective a Born back Christian. As Carl will get deeper and deeper into the research of the dying of professor Nathaniel MacLeod, his most elementary ideals and relationships are attempted and his international is became the other way up. The mega-church, the pastor, and his new spouse who've redeemed Carl from a lifetime of grim debauchery insist on his shedding the case. yet he can’t cease looking for the genuine killer and the truth—no topic what the non-public cost.
Salvation Boulevard is a page-turning mystery within the culture of John Grisham and Richard Condon that grapples with the ecstatic and entropic nature of non secular religion in modern the USA.
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Additional resources for Salvation Boulevard: A Novel
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.