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496 pages, Hardcover
First published June 13, 2017
…he started out with his eyes firmly on the guiding star, his feet planted on the path, but that’s the thing about the life you walk—you start out pointed true North, but you vary one degree off, it doesn’t matter for maybe one year, five years, but as the years stack up you’re just walking farther and farther away from where you started out to go, you don’t even know you’re lost until you’re so far from your original destination you can’t even see it anymore - Don Winslow
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown - Henry IV Part 2 � W. ShakespeareAfter eighteen years in the NYPD, Detective Sergeant Denny Malone has good cause for unease. The de facto king of Manhattan North has seen considerable upheaval in his kingdom. He may be, effectively, the head of this select unit, charged with going after gangs, drugs, and guns. “Da Force� may have unusually free rein to do as they see fit to accomplish their goals. But a turf war between competing providers of recreational pharmaceuticals is growing increasingly kinetic, with one of the combatants looking to purchase a considerable supply of death-dealing hardware. Not OK. The captain is pressing for a high-publicity bust. There is also the perennial political dance one must perform to keep the brass at One Police Plaza and the political suits from interfering with business as usual. Of course, what passes for business as usual might not look all that good splashed across the front pages of the local tabloids.
The street stays with you.Lines are crossed here with the frequency of runners reaching the end of the NYC marathon. Early on, Denny and his crew take out a major distributor, whack the principal, and skim off a significant portion of the captured product, a bit of an extra retirement fund. Some people are a tad upset by this. It’s not exactly much of a secret, though, and there are those who would like to see Denny being saluted by the entire force in Dress Blues and white gloves while someone plays Taps.
It sinks into your pores and then your blood.
And into your soul? Malone asks himself. You gonna blame that on the street too?
Some of it, yeah.
You’ve been breathing corruption since you put on the shield, Malone thinks. Like you breathed in death that day in September. Corruption isn’t just in the city’s air, it’s in its DNA, yours too.
Yeah, blame it on the city, blame it on New York.
Blame it on the Job,
It’s too easy, it stops you from asking yourself the hard question.
How did you get here?
Like anyplace else.
A step at a time.
Malone drives past the Wahi diner and the mural of a raven on 155th. Past the church of the Intercession, but it’s too late for Intercession, past Trinity Cemetery and the Apollo Pharmacy, the Big Brother Barber shop, Hamilton Fruits and Vegetables and all the small gods of place, the personal shrines, the markers of his life on these streets that he loves like a husband loves a cheating wife, a father loves a wayward son.There are wonderful nuggets of law enforcement intel in here. Like the notion of testilying. Or what is considered proper attire for a day on the stand. How about special celebratory nights for a crew? The upside of EMTs not taking a Hippocratic oath. Rules for note-taking on the job. How 9/11 saved the mob. Planning your crimes so they cross as many precinct boundaries as possible, increasing the likelihood that a paperwork snafu will botch a prosecution. On tribes within the force.
Malone comes off the bridge near Fort Wadsworth, where the New York marathon starts, gets off on Hylan and drives down through Donegan Hills, past Last Chance Pond, and then takes a left onto Hamden Avenue.
The old neighborhood.
Nothing special about it, just your basic East Shore block of nice single-family homes, mostly Irish or Italian, a lot of cops and firefighters.
A good place to raise kids.
The truth is he just couldn’t stand it anymore.
The incredible freakin� boredom.
Couldn’t stand coming back from busts, the stakeouts, the roofs, the alleys, the chases to what, Hylan Plaza, Pathmark, Toys “R� Us, Gamestop. He’d come home from a tour jacked up from speed, adrenaline, fear, anger, sadness, rage, and then go to someone’s cookie-cutter house to play Mexican Train or Monopoly or nickel poker. And they were nice people and he’d feel guilty about sitting there sipping their wine coolers and making small talk when what he really wanted was to be back on the street in hot, smelly, noisy, dangerous, fun, interesting, stimulating, infuriating Harlem with the real people and the families and the hustlers, the slingers, the whores.
The poets, the artists, the dreamers.
Whites started to get opium-based pills from their physicians � oxycodone, Vicodin, that shit. But it was expensive and doctors were reluctant to prescribe too much for exactly the fear of addiction. So the white folks went to the open market and the pills became a street drug. It was all very nice and civilized until the Sinaloa Cartel down in Mexico made a corporate decision that it could undersell the big American pharmaceutical companies by raising production of its heroin, thereby reducing the price.
As an incentive, they also increased its potency.
The addicted white Americans found that Mexican “cinnamon� heroin was cheaper and stronger than the pills and started shooting it into their veins�
"The cops feel for the vic's and hate the perps, but they can't feel too much or they can't do their jobs and they can't hate too much or they'll become the perps. So they develop a shell, a we-hate-everybody attitude forcefield around themselves that everyone can feel from ten feet away. You gotta have it, Malone knows, or this job kills you, physically or psychologically or both."Malone developed an interesting take on the New York Times' declaration of a heroin epidemic: "it's only an epidemic, of course, because now white people are dying." He goes on to explain how whites started getting hooked on opioids prescribed by their physicians who stopped prescribing for fear of this very addiction. So white folks went to the open market and opioids became a high-priced street drug. Meanwhile, the Mexican Sinoloa Cartel made an executive decision to undercut American pharmaceutical companies by increasing production, thus lowering prices, of an easier-made form of heroin more potent than opioids. Addicted white Americans, finding this black-tar heroin cheaper and stronger than lortab, norco, vicodin, oxycontin and the like, began shooting up, overdosing and many times dying. "Malone literally saw it happening. He and his team busted more bridge-and-tunnel junkies, suburban housewives and upper Eastside madonnas than they could count."
Hell isn't having no choice. It's having to make a choice between horrific things.At the risk of this sounding like hyperbole, Don Winslow takes a crooked cop story that's a combination of and (yes, it's just as amazing as that sounds), and crafts:
You tell yourself what you gotta tell yourself to do what you gotta do. And sometimes you even fuckin' believe it.The story of Manhattan Task Force Detective Denny Malone is the epic tragedy of a crooked city cop at the top of his game slowly losing his grip on his kingdom. Throughout the novel, it's mesmerizing to witness him struggle to keep control and to get his head out from under the slowly rising waters of corruption, lies, dirty deeds and violence created by both he and the system he's a part of.
All cats are gray in the dark.Trust me, this will be seen as one of THE books of the year.
Truth, justice and the American way. The American way is: truth and justice maybe say hello in the hallway, send each other a Christmas card, but that’s about the extent of their relationship.There is a real “your mileage may vary� element to The Force. I lost count of the number of times that characters use the n-word. Racist, sexist, and homophobic characters abound. If you accept that this book is a realistic portrayal of the NYPD, then it is a terribly depressing one. Literally every cop, almost everyone in the criminal justice system, and almost everyone in government, is taking bribes and personally acting to subvert justice. And if you refuse to accept that every cop is a bribe-taking racist, then you are left with a book full of unrealistic stereotypes of what a writer thinks a dirty system would look like.