the last book I ever read (The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke, excerpt four)

from The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke:

We drove in Clete’s car along the lakefront road. There was a light chop on the slate-green surface, and pelicans were diving for fish out of the white sun. The palm trees on the esplanade clicked dryly in the wind; and on the right-hand side of the road beyond the pink stucco walls, the long iron pike fences, the impassable hedges and rows of myrtle trees, lay the terraced lawns and mansions of the rich. I knew liberals out at Tulane who would tell me these were the people whom we served. But I didn’t like them any better than anybody else did. Actually, they didn’t like the police, either, or at least trust us, because they hired their own security, kept attack dogs on the grounds, and maintained floodlight and burglar alarm systems that were an electronic miracle. They lived in fear of kidnappers of their children, sophisticated jewel creeps, minorities who would compromise their property values. The irony was that they were among the most secure people upon earth—secure from disease, poverty, political oppression, virtually everything except death.

“How much you think these places cost?” Cletus asked.

“I don’t know, maybe a million bucks.”

the last book I ever read (The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke, excerpt three)

from The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke:

So this was the state of the art down at the Federal Building, I thought. We didn’t see much of the federal boys, primarily because they operated on their own as a rule, and even though they said otherwise, they looked down upon us as inept and uneducated. On the other hand, we didn’t have much liking for them, either. Any number of television serials portray the feds as manicured, dapper altruists dressed in Botany 500 suits, who dispassionately hunt down the oily representatives of the Mafia and weld the cell door shut on them. The reality is otherwise. As Didi Gee would probably point out, syndicate gangsters have little fear of any police agency or court system. They own judges, cops, and prosecutors, and they can always get to a witness or a juror.

The Treasury Department is another matter. Law enforcement people everywhere, as well as criminals, consider Treasury agents incorruptible. Within the federal government they are to law enforcement what Smokey the Bear and the U.S. Forest Service are to environmental integrity. Even Joe Valachi, the Brooklyn mob’s celebrity snitch, had nothing but admiration for the T-men.

the last book I ever read (The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke, excerpt two)

from The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke:

Three patrol cars from the Second District, an ambulance, and a fire truck answered the neighbor’s emergency call. Revolving red and blue lights reflected off the trees and houses; the lawn and house were filled with patrolmen, paramedics, firemen in yellow slickers, neighbors drinking beer and sangria, people writing on clipboards and talking into static-filled radios, and all of it signified absolutely nothing. Any candid policeman will tell you that we seldom catch people as a result of investigation or detective work; in other words, if we don’t grab them during the commission of the crime, there’s a good chance we won’t catch them at all. When we do nail them, it’s often through informers or because they trip over their own shoestrings and turn the key on themselves (drunk driving, expired license plates, a barroom beef). We’re not smart; they’re just dumb.

That’s why the feds were made to look so bad back in the late sixties and early seventies when they couldn’t nail a bunch of middle-class college kids who ended up on the “Ten Most Wanted” list. Instead of dealing with predictable psychopaths like Alvin Karpis and Charles Arthur Floyd, the FBI had to second-guess Brandeis and Wisconsin English majors who dynamited research labs and boosted banks and Brinks’ trucks and then faded back into the quiet life of the suburbs. For a time, the amateurs ruined crime for everybody.

the last book I ever read (The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke, excerpt one)

from The Neon Rain: A Dave Robicheaux Novel by James Lee Burke:

A few genuine bohemians, writers, and painters still lived in the Quarter, and some professional people paid exorbitant rents for refurbished apartments near Jackson Square, but the majority of Vieux Carré residents were transvestites, junkies, winos, prostitutes, hustlers of every stripe, and burnt-out acid-heads and street people left over from the 1960s. Most of these people made their livings off middle-class conventioneers and Midwestern families who strolled down Bourbon Street, cameras hanging from their necks, as though they were on a visit to the zoo.

I couldn’t find a place to park by Pearl’s Oyster Bar, and I kept driving around the block.

the last book I ever read (The Van: A Novel by Roddy Doyle, excerpt eleven)

from The Van: A Novel (The Barrytown Trilogy) by Roddy Doyle:

He kept snapping out of it, again and again, for the next two days. He’d take deep breaths, force himself to grin, pull in his stomach, think of the ride with Veronica, think of Dawn. But once he stopped being determined he’d slump again. His neck was sore. He felt absolutely shagged. All the time. But he tried; he really did.

He was really nice to Bimbo, extra friendly to him.

—How’s it goin’, and he patted his back.

He whistled and sang as he worked.

—DUM DEE DEE DUM DEE DEE—DUM—DEE—

But, Christ, when he stopped trying he nearly collapsed into the fryer. You’re grand, he told himself. You’re grand, you’re alright. You’re grand. You’re a lucky fuckin’ man.

But it only happened a couple of times, the two of them feeling good working together. And it wasn’t even that good then because they were nervous and cagey, waiting for it to go wrong again.

It was like a film about a marriage breaking up.

the last book I ever read (The Van: A Novel by Roddy Doyle, excerpt ten)

from The Van: A Novel (The Barrytown Trilogy) by Roddy Doyle:

Jimmy Sr and Veronica had the front room to themselves. Jimmy Sr’d just been watching the News. Saddam Hussein was still acting the prick over in Iraq. Veronica had her coat on. She’d just come in; she’d been up at the school registering for more night classes—Leaving Cert History and Geography this time.

—Geography? Jimmy Sr’d said when she’d come in.—That’s great. You’ll be able to find the kettle when you go into the kitchen.

—Humour, said Veronica, imitating Darren.

the last book I ever read (The Van: A Novel by Roddy Doyle, excerpt nine)

from The Van: A Novel (The Barrytown Trilogy) by Roddy Doyle:

And then they got beaten by the Italians and that was the end of that.