If, as it is said, all politics are local, this compelling story transcends politics and puts a human face on how the American democratic system really operates. Unforgettable characters and a powerful plot offer a remarkable and tense story of how tragic endings affect new beginnings.
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.78(d)|
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THE black limousine picked its way cautiously around the potholes on the rain-slicked streets, past the darkened hulks of aging buildings. Only the tentative cheerless lights of many bars, embedded like dulled cat’s eyes in the unrelenting blackness, testified that human life was out there somewhere. A light turned red. The big car stopped. Suddenly a burst of brightness illuminated a fender as a drunk staggered from a bar, hands outstretched for balance. “He’ll go home now and beat the shit out of his wife,” Fitz said, rolling up the window, as if the act of closing it would choke off his outrage. Ashamed of his breed, Sully thought, his eyes closed, his head resting against the gray downy interior. Shoes off, his feet were propped stiffly against the backless jump seat. No sleep ever came to him in moving vehicles, only a peculiar state of languor, where the brain shed physical sensation and thoughts became abstractions, images coldly clear, perceived within icicles with sounds expressed in echoes. The afternoon replayed itself in his senses. “I’m John J. Sullivan, your Congressman.” It came always as an endless programmed recorder with his voice triggering an outstretched hand. “No comprendo.” “Congressman Sullivan,” he said in a charade hopelessly performed before the tiny woman, gold chips glistening in a toothy smile. “Koon-grass-man,” she mimicked. “Sí.” She giggled shyly and clutched her net shopping bag with its jumble of potatoes and bananas. He knew she had not understood. Smiling, he patted her shoulder. “It’s an invasion,” he mumbled. “Thiswhole goddamned neighborhood is spic. What the hell happened to the Polacks, the Guineas, the Hebes? The whole fucking Eighth Congressional District is playing musical chairs.” He told Perlmutter, who trotted by his side while Fitz waited like some Mafia hit man in the driver’s seat of the black limo, to get Ramirez down from Washington by tomorrow. Somebody had to translate that spic shit. “You call yourself a district leader,” he told Tom Mullins later—“good old Moon” to the boys. “Must be five, ten thousand new spics in this neighborhood since two years ago. Get yourself some spic subleaders. The world’s a-changing, Moon.” “I know, Sully. But I ain’t changin’ with it. It’s goin’ too fast for old Moon. We need some real good Portarickens to handle this district. They’re comin’ in like ants chasin’ a puddle of molasses. Now I go to the meetin’s and I don’t know what they’re speakin’ about, chirpin’ so damn fast and arguin’ all the time. Not like the old days, Sully.”