The Bridge
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The Bridge

4.2 13
by Solomon Jones

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Sometimes, Philadelphia Police Detective Kevin Lynch feels like he has spent his whole life trying to put his past firmly behind him. But a frantic call for help from a childhood friend whose child has gone missing changes all that. Now, Lynch must summon the courage to return to his childhood home, the infamous projects known as The Bridge. As the case unfolds and


Sometimes, Philadelphia Police Detective Kevin Lynch feels like he has spent his whole life trying to put his past firmly behind him. But a frantic call for help from a childhood friend whose child has gone missing changes all that. Now, Lynch must summon the courage to return to his childhood home, the infamous projects known as The Bridge. As the case unfolds and the search for Kenya, the missing girl, intensifies, the secrets guarded by her family and friends begin to emerge. These hidden truths are more sinister and malevolent than Lynch could ever imagine. Once again, The Bridge threatens to be his downfall.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Jones returns to the oppressive, crack-addicted world of the Philadelphia underclass of his powerful debut, Pipe Dream (2001), with this ambitious story. In 1990, a nine year-old girl, Kenya Brown, disappears from a grim housing project known as "the Bridge," and two African-American detectives-Kevin Lynch, who grew up in the Bridge, and Roxanne Wilson, a single mother-lead the police search. Also hunting for Kenya are her irresponsible mother Daneen, a recovering crack addict and Lynch's childhood friend; Daneen's aunt Judy, a crack dealer with whom Kenya lived; and Daneen's feckless brother Darnell. The culprit seems to be Judy's lover and business partner, drug distributor Sonny Williams, a suspected child abuser. As the search for him overshadows that for the missing Kenya, Sonny improvises to avoid capture, causing havoc throughout the city, with political repercussions. The guilty party comes as a surprise, but the real villain in this complex tale is society. Each character's story reveals how the desperate poverty and hopelessness of ghetto life lead to drugs, teenage pregnancy and violent personal relationships. Jones also shows the superhuman task of the few people, usually women, who fight against the odds to ensure that their children escape from the Bridge. The plotting is well paced, with some shortcuts and one unpardonable deus ex machina. Jones, who grew up in the Philadelphia projects and knows his subject well, is a talent to watch. Author tour. (June 6) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
In this second novel from the author of Pipe Dream, a recovering drug-addict mother calls on police detective Kevin Lynch to locate her missing girl. When police arrest the girl's crack-dealing aunt and pursue her child-molesting lover/supplier, a devastating chain of events ensues well beyond the Philadelphia housing project known as the Bridge. A potentially influential black judge dies as a result of a police chase, and Lynch may lose an upcoming promotion. Jones's authentic dialog, gritty sketches of crack dens and project buildings, and amazing character interactions recommend this to most collections. Fans of dark urban mysteries by such authors as George Pelecanos and Dennis Lehane will enjoy. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
After his stunning debut with Pipe Dream (2000)-a harrowing novel about the inner city's lost souls-Jones tries hard again but falls short. The East Bridge Housing Project in Philadelphia (the "Bridge") consists of broken windows, filthy hallways, neglected services, and defaced everything: all the ugly, emblematic signs of urban blight. Just as depressing, and as pervasive, however, is the smell. To a frightened nine-year-old named Kenya Brown, "It smelled like death." And then suddenly Kenya is gone, vanished, and even in the Bridge-where drugs have all but destroyed empathy-the news manages to shock. It does more than that to Detective Kevin Lynch. Because he knew Kenya and knows Daneen, her mother, even better, the girl's disappearance draws him back into a world he thought he had forever left behind him. Childhood playmates, Daneen and Kevin might have one day become lovers if it hadn't been for the intervention of an implacable grandmother. Ambitious on Kevin's behalf, the ferocious old lady had been quick to recognize beautiful, blossoming Daneen for what she was: a honey trap. Measures were taken-swift and Draconian-and as a result, the young people followed sharply divergent paths. Kevin's led to a university education and eventual liberation, while Daneen, raped and a mother at 17, found crack-cocaine. Now, the predawn phone call from Daneen pleading for his help plunges Kevin into a dangerous double investigation: first is the search for himself-an unexpected collision with long-hidden issues of identity and unresolved guilt; and second is the search for Kenya-and confrontation with a certain bleak and embittering question: Who would want to harm a lovely, still-innocent child?In the Bridge, it turns out, the answer is: almost everyone. As passionately unsparing as before in its portrayal of a subculture in despair, but Jones's second ultimately disappoints, undercut by soap-opera plotting and a curiously lifeless cast.

Product Details

St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.70(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Bridge

By Solomon Jones

St. Martin's Minotaur

Copyright © 2003 Solomon Jones
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0312306156

Chapter One

lingering in Miss Lily's arms and breathing in the mingled scents of baby powder and fried chicken on a hot summer evening. It was hard for Kenya to let go of Miss Lily, because the reality of Kenya's home was a far cry from loving hugs and sweet scents.

But Kenya Brown was strong enough to accept her reality and wise enough not to dream of something more. Dreaming only made the truth of the projects that much harder to take. So when she left Miss Lily's apartment and headed home for the evening, Kenya didn't look back. Regret was a luxury that neither she nor anyone else in the Bridge could afford.

As she walked down the fifth-floor hallway and entered the building's shadowy stairwell, she passed by a group of men who talked too loud and laughed too hard as they guzzled forties of Old English from brown paper bags. She ignored them and pressed on, trying not to think of what awaited her at her aunt's apartment.

Kenya was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she heard a sound like footsteps padding softly behind her. She stopped and turned around, but there was nothing. Kenya felt her stomach flutter and instinctively began to walk faster.

Seconds later, she heard the sound again. She looked toward the bottom of the poorly lit stairwell and listened intently. She didn't hear anything. But she saw something move.

Kenya picked up her pace, skipping every other stair as she trotted to the seventh floor. By the time she reached the hallway outside her aunt's apartment, she was nearly running.

But then Kenya remembered what she was running to. She stopped in the middle of the hallway and held her breath as the echo of her heartbeat reverberated in her ears.

She looked around, waiting for the source of the stairway footsteps to appear. When no one came up the stairs, her heartbeat slowed. But by now, Kenya was afraid.

She walked down the hallway toward her aunt's apartment, sliding her hand against the dingy white cinder-block wall and listening to the muted voices murmuring behind her aunt's door.

She stood outside for a moment, and the voices seemed to go silent, as if they were waiting for her to enter. Kenya opened the door, took a few tentative steps into her aunt's apartment, and immediately wished that she hadn't.

There was a cloud of gray-white smoke wafting a few feet above the floor. She narrowed her eyes and surveyed the room. Aunt Judy was in a tattered armchair in the corner, handing a capsule of crack cocaine to an emaciated man who hopped from one foot to the other with bug-eyed anxiety.

In the ten feet that separated Kenya from Judy, there were others wearing that same look-a look that Kenya had seen more times than she cared to remember.

Uncle Darnell and Renee were hunched over a small pile of white rocks, ensconced in their own swirling cloud of smoke. Two gaunt-faced men were seated next to them on milk crates, greedily sucking crack smoke from makeshift metal pipes. A rail-thin woman in a grimy miniskirt swayed absently before a gray-haired man who slurped corn liquor as he groped her.

The man looked familiar to Kenya. She always saw him there, and he always seemed to be watching her. Thankfully, he had someone else to watch that night.

She looked beyond the old man to the wall where desperate, hard-looking women sat in a line, silently appraising the men's pockets.

Aunt Judy's boyfriend Sonny was in the kitchen, his hooded eyes observing every movement. He rested his left hand on top of the counter, while his right hand, and the gun that it held, was hidden beneath it.

Kenya scanned the room, taking it all in as she squinted through the smoke. She saw the old man shuffle over to her aunt and hand her five dollars. Judy pointed toward the room where Kenya normally slept. The girl with the miniskirt rubbed her hand against the old man's crotch and led him into the room.

Kenya stared at the closed door and knew that there would be no sleeping there that night. Because after the first trick was turned, there would be another. And the parade of whores would not stop until dawn crept through the window and all the money in the projects had been swallowed up in crack pipes.

"Here," Judy said, speaking to Kenya for the first time.

She was holding out the five dollars the old man had just given her.

Kenya walked over to Judy's chair and took the money.

"Go down the Chinese store on Ninth Street and get you some shrimp fried rice or somethin'," Judy said.

Kenya's blank expression said nothing. She'd long ago learned not to seek sympathy from Aunt Judy.

"What the hell wrong wit' you, girl?" Judy said, her face creased in exasperation.

"I ate already," Kenya said quietly, glancing toward the bedroom.

"Well, eat again. Time you get back, they'll be outta there, and you can go 'head in and go to bed."

Without another word, Kenya turned from her aunt Judy and moved toward the door. She turned the knob and looked back at Sonny, who ignored her. As she closed the door and walked out into the dank hallway, a cloud of smoke followed close behind.

She watched it float toward the ceiling and disappear, and wished in her heart that she could do the same.

Kenya walked nervously down the hallway, trying to block out thoughts of the footsteps she'd heard on the way up to her aunt's apartment. She contemplated taking the elevator, then thought better of it.

As she ran into the dark stairwell, she tried to think of someplace where she could sleep. She couldn't take another night of waiting for Aunt Judy's crack to sell out.

Just the thought of going back there was too much for her to bear. And so she ran, trying desperately to erase the images of smoke and rail-thin women, old men and scheming eyes, footsteps and burning crack.

She had almost outrun it all when she passed the third floor and found Bayot-a man who often frequented her aunt's apartment-standing on the landing.

She tried to run past him, but he folded his arms and spread his legs, blocking the stairway.

"You in the wrong place, ain't you?" she asked with all the sarcasm she'd learned from listening to grown folks. "All the crack upstairs."

He smiled at her, revealing teeth as gray as the smoke in Judy's apartment.

"Move, Bayot," she said, low and threatening.

He didn't move. Instead, he fixed his eyes on hers. They seemed to bore into her.

"Move!" she screamed, pushing past him and running down the steps.

She could feel his eyes at her back as she made her way to the first floor. The thought of him looking at her made her skin crawl. She shivered.

Kenya ran out into the night, panting as she walked quickly away from the building.

"Where you goin', Kenya?"

Tyreeka, a thirteen-year-old girl whom Kenya had befriended just months before, was behind her, walking in the same direction.

"I'm goin' with you," Kenya said, looking back nervously at the dark entrance to the building and wondering if Bayot was still there.

"You ain't goin' nowhere with me lookin' all paranoid like somebody after you or some shit."

"Ain't nobody after me," Kenya said, catching her breath and smiling at Tyreeka as she prepared to spin a lie.

"I'm glad I seen you, though. Aunt Judy told me to see if I could spend the night with y'all 'cause my cousins came up from down South today and they stayin' with us 'til they get a hotel room tomorrow."

"Why they ain't get no room tonight?" Tyreeka asked.

"I don't know." Kenya rolled her eyes with all the attitude she could muster.

"I'm 'bout to go out, Kenya," Tyreeka said, dismissing the lie and ignoring the attitude as she walked past her.

"Take me with you, Tyreeka," Kenya said with quiet desperation. "Please?"

The edge in Kenya's voice caused Tyreeka to stop and turn around.

Kenya forced her eyes to fill with tears. Then she looked up at the sky as if she was trying not to cry. She couldn't let Tyreeka put her off. Because in truth, Kenya had no place else to go.

Tyreeka could sense that this was more than just another one of Kenya's lies. But just as she was about to relent and take Kenya home with her, a bright green Mustang stopped at the curb.

"Come here, Shorty," said the teenage driver as he beckoned with a hand full of gold rings. "Lemme talk to you for a minute."

"Who, me?" Tyreeka said, hoping that the drug dealer she'd been watching had finally noticed her.

"Yeah, you," he said with a sly smile. "I don't bite, baby. I just wanna ask you somethin', that's all."

"Hold up," Tyreeka said, before leaning over and whispering in Kenya's ear.

"Go 'head up to my mom apartment, Kenya. I'll meet you up there in a few minutes."

"But, Tyreeka, I-"

"Go 'head, Kenya. Tell her you waitin' for me. I'll see you up there in a few minutes."

Kenya looked from Tyreeka to the boy and saw that she couldn't win.

"Okay," she said reluctantly.

Tyreeka walked over to the car, bent over, and leaned against the door with her cleavage resting on her forearms to give him a closer look.

Kenya walked slowly back toward the entrance of the projects, dragging her feet in the hope that Tyreeka would finish talking to the boy and join her before she went inside.

She turned around to look at them once more. The boy had gotten out of the car and was standing close enough to Tyreeka to kiss her. He said something, and Tyreeka threw her head back and laughed as she placed her hand gingerly on his chest. Kenya knew at that moment that waiting for Tyreeka was a waste of time.

But it would be okay, she thought as she walked back inside. Tyreeka's mother would let her in and allow her to stay the night. Kenya would be able to rest. Tomorrow, she thought, would take care of itself.

It always did.

The building seemed a little darker when Kenya walked into the foyer. The guard who should've been in the booth at the building entrance was gone, and the glow coming from the stairway was an odd yellow she hadn't noticed before. She thought that one of the lights must have blown out.

Kenya hesitated for a moment, listening as the sound of the all-night craps game echoed from the bottom of the ramp in the rear of the building. She glanced at the back entrance, where fenced-in Dumpsters hid used condoms and empty crack vials. Then she made her way toward the stairs.

As she was about to go up, five teenage girls in tight jeans and stiff hair weaves trotted out of the dark stairway.

"That nigga on the steps look crazy," one of them said, as they rushed out of the building.

"Girl, that's Bayot," her girlfriend said, as they walked away. "That nigga is crazy."

As soon as she heard that, Kenya knew the stairs were out. Even though she hated waiting for the elevator because it made her feel closed in, the thought of Bayot looming in the shadows frightened her even more.

Steeling herself, she approached the single working elevator and pushed the up button. The numbers above the elevator didn't light up to indicate its location. Like everything else there, the lights weren't working.

Kenya stood back in the shadows near the stairway, hiding in case someone she didn't want to see stepped off the elevator.

When the doors opened, Kenya looked to make sure no one was on board, then rushed out of the shadows and got on. She pushed 7, and when the doors closed, she leaned back against the wall with her eyes shut tightly, fighting against the trapped feeling she always felt in the elevator.

Her eyes still shut, Kenya counted the floors as the elevator ascended. When it reached the fifth floor, the sound of loud hip-hop poured in as the doors opened. Kenya stuck her head out of the elevator and saw a crowd outside 5B. Someone was having a party.

As Kenya scanned the hallway looking for people she knew, she felt someone slip into the elevator behind her. Startled, she turned and looked up into a familiar face. Kenya was relieved and smiled brightly as she reached out for a hug.

As the doors shut, Kenya closed her eyes and lost herself in comforting arms. She wished that she could always feel that way-protected and loved. But as Kenya began to melt into the embrace, the arms began to tighten around her. Kenya's smile disappeared.

Suddenly, there were hands at her throat. She was gasping as her windpipe squeezed shut. She tried to scream, but managed only tortured, animal-like sounds that died in the back of her throat.

Her struggle was silent, but violent nonetheless. She kicked her feet so hard that one of her sneakers fell off. She punched at her captor's back, but her arms were weakening as her muscles screamed out for oxygen. She reached for the hands at her throat and scratched at them desperately. But with each movement she made, their grip seemed to tighten.

Tears streamed down her face as the elevator lurched toward the top of the building. Kenya stopped fighting then. And at that moment, for the first time since she could remember, Kenya allowed herself to dream.

She closed her eyes and imagined that she was the smoke she'd seen at Judy's. She was floating toward the sky in great, looping wisps, coming apart and fading into air, into light, into nothing.

As her captor squeezed her breath from her body and Kenya Brown fell down into velvet blackness, she smelled the Bridge for the first time.

It was the smell of forties and blunts, swirling in a sweat-soaked summer. The smell of graffiti and urine sprayed haphazardly against concrete walls. The smell of fear trapped behind elevator doors.

For the first time, Kenya truly knew the smell of the Bridge.

It smelled like death.

Chapter Two

haze and tried to understand why Kenya was walking naked across the moonlit rooftop of the high-rise.

As Lily watched in disbelief, Kenya smiled at her, then leaned over the edge of the building and pointed toward the ground. Lily's gaze followed Kenya's pointing finger as she stared down into the courtyard outside the building.

Bewildered, Lily looked at Kenya, who smiled and met her gaze with large, almond-shaped eyes. Lily was disarmed by her loveliness. She smiled back.

Kenya pointed toward the ground again-this time with urgency. Lily looked down and saw moonlight reflecting against thousands of shining jewels. For a moment, they were beautiful. Then a cloud passed over the moon, and the brilliance dissipated. The jewels were nothing more than broken shards of glass.

Lily looked up at Kenya. And the little girl who'd seemed so lovely just moments before started crumbling to dust, right before Lily's eyes.


Excerpted from The Bridge by Solomon Jones Copyright © 2003 by Solomon Jones
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Meet the Author

Solomon Jones is a senior contributing editor for Philadelphia Weekly and the author of Pipe Dream. He is a native of Philadelphia, where he lives with his family.

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Bridge 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 13 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
One of my favorite books by mr. Jones
Guest More than 1 year ago
Now I can tell you what living in the projects is like, but only Kenya went through the real pain and betrayal. Family and drugs don't mix, and once that happens the love is shadowed with anger and hatred. Then thats when pain shows its ugly face. She found herself lost from the world. Her life was just a another lost soul inside of the projects. But will there be someone that will save this child, well i guess you will have to find out!
Guest More than 1 year ago
The bridge is a sad but amazing story. I live in west philadelphia and what is said in the book is true. Its a cany-stop-reading book. I hav read it over 10 times
Guest More than 1 year ago
The bridge was read by Stressless Moments Book Club in Bermuda. It was one of the best that we have ever read in the whole entire 2 years that our club has been reading. Keep writing and we will keep reading your work.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Solomon Jones is a great writer. This book is a page turner that you will not want to put down. It has mystery, suspense and even love all wrapped up in one. I never would have guessed the ending. GREAT !!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a must read!! Solomon Jones has you on the edge of your seat right from the novel's begining and leaves you to rock back and forth in anticipation through the guts of the book and finally collapse in exhaustion as you reach its climax. This was a wonderful and thrilling ride; but why should I expect any different from Mr. Jones.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Solomon Jones is phenomenal. The Bridge take us deep into the bowels of hard life, despair & yes hope. Detective Lynch goes back home to uncover the reason behind the disappearance of a child hood friend¿ s daughter. The utterly descriptive narration leaves you breathless as the storyline pulls us into the streets and projects known as The Bridge. Solomon Jones has already made his mark, this is merely another chapter. Sensational novel and must read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was better than Pipe Dream, which I thought was an excellent book. He makes sure to capture his characters in great detail, and the story will keep you guessing until the climax. In some sort of sick way, you actually catch yourself feeling bad for the perpretrators in this book and not just the victims. It's worth the $26 and change I paid for it. Solomon Jones has a fan for life with me.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The thing about mysteries that bug me is I have no patience. THis book didn't let you know who the killer was until the last couple pages & I was about ready to read the book backwards to see if my guess was right (it was). But I read it the right way, enjoyed it the right way, and will be reaching with my right hand because this author is...well righteous! I loved 'Pipe Dreams' and this book was just as good.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you're a fan of Walter Mosley, you'll enjoy the Bridge. The Bridge is a great read and you'll feel for his characters and see a side of Philly's inner city that you only read about in the newspapers.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In a run down Philadelphia project THE BRIDGE, nine-year-old Kenya Brown disappears. Assigned to the case is African-American detectives Kevin Lynch and Roxanne Wilson. Kevin comes from these projects and knows Kenya's guardian is his childhood friend crack dealer Aunt Judy.

The evidence points towards Judy's lover and business partner Sonny Williams who is an alleged child abuser and has conveniently vanished too. The cops feel if they find Sonny, they will find Kenya, hopefully alive and not violated. However, Sonny is a pro in evading the law something he learned as a drug dealer. The two police detectives know that each minute that passes most likely means bad things have happened to Kenya.

Though the investigation and subsequent police search is fun, this tale has a deeper message about an abundant society ignoring abject poverty and its consequences. Readers will taste the despondency of the ghettos whose basic outputs are violence and other undesirable behavior. The heroes are those select few trying to make a better life outside the hood for their children. This is a strong condemnation of a 'compassionate' America written within a solid police procedural.

Harriet Klausner

Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
'The Bridge blew me away - it is an incredible true-to life depiction of life in the projects - sadly, painfully and skillfully it showed that life on crack ain't no joke. Kenya will pull on your heart strings- so young but so resilient. The character development went full circle - the scenes were vivid - I actually ached because what Jones managed to do so masterfully - was to capture in a story - what so many addicts an destitute people are actually living today - a life of hell. Definitely on my list of recommended books.' Sister Sharon