By Richard Lange
A girl is going at the run during this severe and cinematic mystery by means of an award-winning writer.
to flee the bleak lifestyles she has descended into, Luz plans conscientiously. She takes purely the garments on her again, a Colt .45, and the entire funds in her husband's secure. The corpses within the hallway weren't a part of her plan.
Luz must locate the daughter she left in the back of years previous, yet she is aware she may well die attempting. Her husband is El Principe, a key participant in a high-powered drug cartel, a company he runs with an analogous violence he has used to maintain Luz his excellent, obedient wife.
With the velocity and constant strength of a Scorsese movie, ANGEL child is the most recent masterpiece from the most formidable and proficient crime novelists at paintings at the present time.
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Additional info for Angel Baby: A Novel
Whirlaway, 1942. Armed vs. Assault, 1947. Swaps vs. Nashua, 1955. Convenience vs. Typecast, 1972. I arrived in time for the fourth race. The crowd was large, hot, and by that time—surly and depressed, walking into each other blindly, pushing dazed and dulled. When you see humanity like that, you know there’s not much chance. If you want to find what a person is like inside, take them to a racetrack and watch how they react to defeat. I walked over to the bench where she always sat, my lady with the long glorious legs.
He worked her panties off and got it in, taking both hands and spreading the cheeks of her ass wide, extremely wide. He saw her ass in the mirror and himself bent over her like leprosy. They worked across the room knocking over the coffee table, banging into a wall. Her cunt was too large for him. Too many babies. He had to get her in front of the mirror and watch. He finally came. He threw her on the bed. She seemed to be convulsing. He saw a high-heeled shoe on her rug. He dressed, watching her.
I got on the phone. I tried to get Hymie Stringer out of Philly but his manager told me Hymie broke his leg when he fell out of a tree trying to untangle a kite for some neighborhood kid. I tried Mexicali. I tried Canada. Nothing. The phone rang. “Listen, Shithead, I want to tell you about my goldfish. I got up early this morning and went out to the garden. It was about 6:30 and there was this light fog. And there they were floating near the top, mystified by this shroud of leaves that had fallen over them.