He turned as he spoke and headed for the street. Defeat goes down hard with black people it’s our most common foe. There was a kind of defeat in the policeman’s plea. But something about Naylor’s request kept me from turning him down. I wanted to stay home, to be with my wife, to make love to her later on. Quinten was becoming visibly more crimson under his brown shell. I don’t need no Sunday drive wit’ the cops. Then why should I wanna go anywhere wit’ you? Here I am spendin’ the day wit’ my fam’ly. I was worth a precinct full of detectives when the cops needed the word in the ghetto. Every once in a while the law sent over one of their few black representatives to ask me to go into the places where they could never go. I knew when he called me mister that the LAPD needed my services again. What do you want wit’ me, officer? I asked. Quinten was from back east, he spoke like an educated white Northerner. But all I wanted was for him to leave me to go back into my home with my wife and children. He stared up into my face wanting me to ask him why he was there. When I didn’t say anything there was an uncomfortable moment for the Los Angeles police sergeant. I shook his hand and looked into his eyes. He held out his beefy paw and said, Glad I caught you in. It was almost as if he were rage-colored.Īs Quinten strode across the lawn he crushed a patch of chives that I’d been growing for seven years. Quinten was a brown man but there was a lot of red under the skin. His hands were the size of potholders, even under the suit jacket his shoulders were round melons. Quinten was normal in height but he was broad and powerful-looking. I turned to see Quinten Naylor twist the handle of my front gate.Įathy, my baby, Edna, cooed as she played peacefully with her feet in her crib next to me on the front porch.
So Easy is back, walking the midnight streets of Watts and the darker twisted avenues of a cunning killer's mind, in the most explosive Easy Rawlins mystery yet. When the white college coed dies, the cops make it clear that if Easy doesn't help his best friend is headed for jail. As he says: "I was worth a precinct full of detectives when the cops needed the word in the ghetto." He’s married now, a father, and his detective days are over. They only show up when the killer murders a white girl.īut Easy turns them down. The LAPD need help to find the serial killer who’s going around murdering young, African American strippers. It's Los Angeles, 1956 and it takes more than a murdered black girl before the cops get interested. The police don't show up on Easy's doorstep until the third girl dies.
From the acclaimed bestselling author of the Easy Rawlins series, deemed “one of America’s best mystery writers” ( The New York Times Book Review), comes a tale about a murdered man who does not want to go to heaven or hell-he’d rather have his old life in Harlem.
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