The basis for the hit movie starring James Franco and Kate Hudson
A thriller by the author of the Brilliance Saga and The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes
“Good People [is] gleefully dread-filled, mercilessly tense, and moves with the speed of something fired from a sawed-off.”—Dennis Lehane
Tom and Anna Reed are young, middle-class, and in love. But financial pressures and the struggle to have a baby are grinding them down. So when they find $370,000 in their tenant’s apartment, “happily ever after” seems one risky decision away.
But before the week is over, they’ll know exactly where the money is from—and come face to face with ruthless men who have been double-crossed. Men who won’t stop until they get revenge.
Nothing in life is free, and for Tom and Anna, happiness may cost more than they can bear to pay…
|Publisher:||Penguin Publishing Group|
|Edition description:||Movie Tie-In|
|Product dimensions:||4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 1.00(d)|
|Age Range:||18 Years|
About the Author
Marcus Sakey's thrillers have been nominated for more than fifteen awards, named New York Times Editor's Picks, and selected among Esquire's Top 5 Books of The Year. In addition to Good People, his novels Brilliance, The Blade Itself, and The Amateurs are all in development as feature films.
Read an Excerpt
THE SMILE WAS FAMOUS. Jack Witkowski wasn’t particularly a fan, but he’d seen those teeth plenty of times. They shone in the huddle of supermarket checkout lines, gleamed on the cover of a hundred magazines. After a while it was natural to think of the smile as separate from the man, and watching him stop on the club steps to throw it at a gawking chick with a camera phone only reinforced the idea. One minute the guy was just a guy—good-looking and well dressed, sure, but just a guy, and even a little on the short side—then that spotlight smile hit, raw wattage that announced you were in the presence of a Star.
Jack gazed through the windshield, forefinger tapping absently against his shoulder-slung .45. Nines might be the gun du jour, but you couldn’t beat a .45 for stopping power. “One more time.”
Bobby said, “Marshall lets us in. We take the service steps up. Put on the masks. Be careful not to use names. Will and Marshall tie them. I get the money. We go back out the way we came, head for the Chrysler. If anything goes wrong, we split, meet up later.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
Jack squinted at that, wondered again if involving his younger brother had been a good idea. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Remember, go in hard. These are spoiled kids. Get your pistol right in their face, yell at them. Anybody gives shit, crack them with the gun, and don’t hold back. It’ll just make everybody else step quicker. In and out in five.”
Bobby nodded. “What about that one?” The man he gestured to was taller than the Star and his entourage, built thick through the shoulders and neck. He carried a black briefcase in his left hand and kept his right open against his stomach, fingers just inside the jacket.
“That’s the bodyguard,” Will Tuttle said from the back, his tone smooth as a jazz radio announcer. He’d once said he’d done some voice-over work back when he was in L.A., that he’d been the voice of a dancing soap bubble in a commercial for toilet cleanser. Easy work; two grand for a morning spent repeating We scrub so you don’t have to. “Don’t worry your pretty head, son. Let the real bad guys handle him.”
Will chuckled. “What’s the matter,” he said, drawing Carltons from his suit jacket and tapping the soft pack to pop a cigarette loose. “I hurt your wittle feelings?”
“Enough.” Jack stared in the rearview mirror. “Don’t light that thing.”
Will tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “Victory smoke.”
Across the street, one of his entourage patted the Star on the shoulder, hooked a thumb in a let’s go gesture. The Star nodded, threw one last smile-and-wave, then stepped through the doors. His friends followed, one of them pausing long enough to pluck a stunning brunette from the line, the girl grinning over her shoulder at her squealing friends. Movie people. Shit. The bodyguard went last, stopping at the top of the steps to scan the street. Jack stared back, just another Chicago yokel awed by American Royalty. After a moment, the man went inside, the door swinging shut to muffle thumping beats.
“Go ahead,” Jack said, and Bobby put the stolen Ford into drive, sliding past the line of boys in shiny shirts and girls with spray-tan shoulders. They fell in behind a taxi to the end of the block, turned right, then left, and pulled into an unattended pay lot they’d scoped earlier. Bobby twisted the key to kill the engine, but cranked it the wrong way at first, the engine grinding.
“Jesus Christ,” Will said. “What’re you, fourteen?”
“I said enough.” Jack pulled up the sleeve of his suit, glanced at his watch. They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the engine, the sound of revelry through the windows. River North, clubland, lah-dee-fucking-dah.
“He look short to you?” Bobby not needing to say the name.
“They all are,” Will said. “Tom Cruise is five-seven. Al Pacino, too.”
“Emilio Estevez. Robert Downey Jr.”
“I like that guy,” Bobby said. “He’s a great actor.”
“Don’t change his height.”
Jack let them talk, taking steady breaths, waiting for the rush to hit.
“Funny,” Bobby said, “it’s like the pope is visiting. All week I been hearing where he was spotted. Saw an article in theRed Eye on his favorite restaurants. He’s just here to work, right? Film a movie. But where he eats is news. Kind’ve feel sorry for him.”
“Yeah,” Will said, “poor famous millionaire, neck-deep in pussy makes the skanks you date look like schnauzers.”
“Will,” Jack said, “go stand on the corner, scope for cops, would you?”
“What the hell? Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Will sighed. “Whatever.” He popped the door, the street noise suddenly louder. “Amateur,” he muttered as he got out.
“Screw you.” Bobby said it quietly.
They sat, Jack letting the tension dissipate. He cracked gloved knuckles. After a minute, he said, “You okay?”
Bobby looked over, face pale and eyes all pupil. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can. Easiest thing in the world.”
“You can.” He smiled. “Look, I know where you are. First time I stuck somebody up, I had the shakes like you wouldn’t believe. Almost dropped my gun.”
“Sure. Part of the job. Why do you think Will’s being such a dick? Everybody gets the shakes.”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.” He smiled, reached out to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is heavier than what you’re used to, I get that. But try and concentrate on the score. In fifteen minutes, you’ll be a whole lot richer.”
“If I thought we could do this with three, I would. I need you, bro.”
Bobby nodded, took a deep breath, let it out slow. He rolled his head side to side, then said, “Okay.”
Jack felt that old flush of warmth. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see. The Brothers Witkowski, rolling hard. Just follow my lead, it’ll be over before you know it.” He punched Bobby’s bicep. “Besides, you’re a bad man.”
“Right,” Bobby said. He took another breath, then drew a chrome-over-black Smith and racked it. “I’m a bad, bad man.”
They got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. The evening air was alive with the noise of a dozen clubs, the honk of taxis, and the laughter of girls. Rich cocoa tickled Jack’s nose from the Blommer Chocolate Company a mile away.
“You ladies ready?” Will rocked his weight from one foot to another.
They started east, pace easy. Just businessmen, conventioneers maybe, on a weekend away from the wife. Out to check the scene, have a couple of cocktails, try to bang girls their daughters’ age before catching a morning flight back to boredom. Jack put himself between the other two, kept his eyes alert. They jaywalked across Erie, then cut down the alley. Broken glass crunched under Jack’s heels.
As they fell into shadow, he drew his pistol and unsnapped the safety.
INSIDE THE CLUB, Marshall Richards waited till the bartendress in the belly shirt looked away. Then he took the thick-bottomed rocks glass and poured the whiskey on the floor. He smacked the glass down with a wince just as she turned back. She shouted, “Another?”
“Sure.” He put an elbow on the edge, then made a show of slipping and catching himself. Marshall smiled at her, mouthed Oops over the pounding music. She shook her head as she refilled him, raising her arm to stretch a rope of amber between bottle and glass, a neat trick. Then she snagged a twenty from the stack of cash he’d laid out and turned away.
He took the drink and spun on his stool, careful to keep his shoes off the ground. He’d poured about nine whiskeys there, and the puddle was growing sizable. The drunk act probably didn’t matter, but life had a wicked arm for curves. A smart hitter respected the plate.
The VIP lounge sat off the main floor, guarded by a bouncer with a shaved head. Gauzy green curtains puffed and swelled with the motion of air, like the room was breathing. Beyond them a mob of moneyed twenty-somethings danced beneath a frenzy of lasers, visible only as writhing silhouettes. It reminded Marshall of something out of a Bosch painting, a vision of a sweating hell. It was early yet, not even midnight, and the lounge had only a handful of Very Important People: a group nursing the bottle of thirty-dollar vodka they’d dropped two hundred on; a sugar daddy playing garter games with his stripper girlfriend; two lipstick lesbians comped in to add a whiff of the forbidden; and, at the end of the bar, two black guys. His marks.
The boss was dark-skinned and stylish, with a precise mustache,a gold Rolex dangling from French cuffs, and a tailored Armani suit. The other, straining against a Sean John tracksuit, was clearly muscle. Armani drank seltzer. The other didn’t drink at all. Marshall smiled to himself, then spilled his whiskey and ordered another.
The bartendress had just finished pouring it when Boss Man’s cell phone beeped. Marshall cradled his chin in his hands and stared forward, pretending to be lost in a liquor dream. From the corner of his eye, he saw the guy open the phone and scan the screen. His fingers punched keys quickly, replying to the text message. Then he dropped a fifty on the bar and slid off the stool. His bodyguard fell in behind him.
Marshall counted to thirty, then collected his change, folded it, and tucked it in his pocket. Took his whiskey in one hand and staggered for the stairs. The bouncer yawned, looked away.
The dance floor vibrated, the bass line throbbing through his belly, a remix of Fergie singing about being so delicious, how she was so tasty tasty laced with lacy. Bodies mobbed the space, smelling of cologne and desire. He looked at the open staircase over the floor, thick-cut glass that glowed with the sheen of lasers. Boss Man and his bodyguard were halfway up. Perfect.
Shielding the drink with his body, Marshall cut to the back wall. It was painted black, and couples huddled there, the women flush with power, men leaning into them, trying to close the deal. He moved beside a door marked “Private” in white letters. Turned, did an easy scan. No one paid him any mind as he pushed through the door.
The hallway on the other side was drab and overlit. He walked past an open door where men spoke Spanish, turning his face away and walking with purpose. Not like a couple of illegals were going to challenge a man who walked like he belonged. There was a corner at the end of the hallway, and beside it the servers’ steps to the private rooms. He stopped long enough to throw the whiskey down, that sweet burn. He liked one before a job. Then he palmed the glass and turned the corner.
The bouncer sat on a stool, beefy arms crossed. He came off his perch when he spotted Marshall. “This ain’t the bathrooms, mate.”
Marshall took a step, then another, slower. He raised his left hand and put on a confused expression, looked over his shoulder like he was lost. As he spun back, he hurled the heavy rocks glass in an overhand fastball, leg winding up and then down, arm cracking like a whip, form perfect. Once upon a time, he’d been All State.
The glass didn’t so much strike the bouncer’s forehead as explode against it, spraying sparkling shards in all directions, the noise lost against the raging beats through the walls, the bouncer flinging his hands up to his eyes, fluids pouring between his fingers and a horrified moan jerked from his lips.
Marshall stepped forward, drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus to double him over, then hammered an elbow against the back of his neck to drop him. He straightened, shook out his hands, and pushed the release bar to open the back door.
Jack smiled as he stepped over the bouncer. He passed Marshall the .22, and the four of them started for the stairs.
Children. Undisciplined, foolish, and entitled all their lives. From the Star on down, they were all children, and they grated on Malachi. “My brother,” he said, smile wide and arms open, the Rolex sliding down inside the cuffs of his shirt. “How’s it hanging, dog?” Playing the role of the big bad black guy.
The Star flashed white teeth and stepped into the embrace. “Hey G! Thanks for coming.” The room was decked out like a sultan’s palace, dangling fabrics and candles everywhere, cushions instead of chairs. “Drink?”
Malachi smiled, shook his head slightly. He unbuttoned his Armani jacket and tucked his hands in his pockets, exposing the shoulder holster. By the way the Star’s eyes fell on it, Malachi could tell he loved it, loved the image he had of himself, a tough guy hanging with gangsters. Movie people. Shit. “I’m straight,” he said.
“We got Ketel, some Cristal. Oh, I could send down for Hennessy . . .”
“We’re good.” Malachi smiled. “How’s the picture?”
The Star sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “It’s a nightmare. Director doesn’t have the first clue. I don’t know who the guy blew to earn his statue.” He shook his head, then said, “You sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“I’d as soon get down to business, you got no objection.”
The Star smiled. “My man.”
Malachi waited. A moment passed, and then the Star caught on, said, “Right, sorry.” He adopted the tone of a schoolboy answeringan instructor, hamming it up. “I’d like to buy some illegal drugs, please.”
Malachi nodded to his man, who set the briefcase on a low table then stepped back. “Here’s how we do. Blow, smack, Ecstasy, hydro, painkillers I have anytime. You want something special, I might need a couple hours’ warning. I’m available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, anywhere in the country. I don’t fly internationally, I don’t deal for less than twenty-five, and I don’t trade in rock.” He popped the latches on the case but didn’t open it, noting the anticipation in the kid’s eyes, playing out the moment. The brunette on the pillows squealed as one of the entourage poured champagne down the front of her dress. She laughed, then moaned when the blonde leaned in to lick it off her tan skin. The boys whooped in appreciation.
“Is it good stuff?” The kid trying to sound hard. “I don’t want to pay top dollar for some watered-down shit.”
Malachi shook his head. “Pure as a nun’s daydream. Guaranteed premium. My prices are high because of the service and quality I provide. Now,” he said, and flipped open the briefcase to reveal the rows of neat bundles and colored bottles, “the doctor is in.”
The staircase was thin and steep, a pipeline for servers to bring the occupants anything they wanted. There were VIP rooms and VIP rooms, and this was the latter, a private playground for the young, famous, and obscenely wealthy.
He blew a breath outside the door, paused to check the men behind him. They had already pulled on their masks, and in the dim light he could make out only the gleam of eyes and pistols. Bobby and Will seemed anxious, adrenaline jitters, but Marshall had that predatory slowness. Cobra cool, ready to strike.
Jack smiled. Shrugged his shoulders, slipped on his own mask, the fabric trapping breath hot against his lips. Let the rush run through him. Embraced it, that edge when everything was sharp and of consequence.
He put a hand on the knob and turned.
Bobby felt like the veins in his forehead must be about to pop, his heart was banging so hard. He tried to swallow, his throat like sand. He wanted to rub his palms against his suit pants but didn’t want to take off the gloves.
This wasn’t his first job, nothing like. He’d helped Jack before: late-night warehouse load-outs where the night watchman turned the other way for a C-note. Or jumping the manager of a bar on his way to deposit the night’s take. Beating down those two Latinos who had tried to cheat his big brother. Not like he was squeamish. But this, to walk into a room with masks and guns?
It’ll be fun. Jack’s voice played in his head. The Brothers Witkowski, rolling hard. Just follow my lead, it’ll be over before you know it.
He took a deep breath.
You’re a bad man.
Jack threw the door open, and he and Marshall stormed in.
A group of pretty boys stared wide-eyed from a pile of pillows where two girls were getting it on. Will was right: Both of them were better looking than any naked girl he’d seen outside a magazine. The Star sat at a low table with a well-dressed black guy, a case open between them, the Star holding a playing card an inch from his nose, and his panic exhale sent white powder billowing out like a summer cloud rolling across the plains.
“Go!” Will said, behind him.
Go, Bobby said to himself. Move your feet. He felt a trickle roll down his side. His hands trembled.
“Goddamn amateur,” Will said, and pushed past, his gun out and up, yelling at the second black guy, a gangster-looking dude who froze with his hand almost to the butt of his pistol.
The scene was surreal, guns waving in this swank space, the beats turning everything into a music video. There were more people than Bobby had pictured, five or six friends of the Star, plus the girls, the bodyguard, and the drug dealers, a lot to manage. Jack was right, they needed four. Hot shame flushed through his bowels. Go in.
What People are Saying About This
“One of our best storytellers.”— Michael Connelly
"It’s the depth and intelligence and passion and emotion that set Sakey apart.”—Lee Child
"Sakey creates a moral dilemma fit for an advanced ethics class...I felt the protagonists' pain to the point of flinching."Chicago Sun-Times
"Masterful. Each of Sakey's novels has topped the previous. GOOD PEOPLE follows that stellar pattern."Florida Sun-Sentinel
"Sakey sees Chicago as a constant source of sin and temptation...[GOOD PEOPLE] is a classic bind."The New York Times
"Sakey may have trouble equaling this stellar performance."Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Marcus Sakey writes books that make you want to call in sick so you can brew strong coffee cozy up on your favorite chair and read all day. 'Good People' is as good as it gets! He's created real characters. You can feel their pain and (as usual) it has page-turning suspense. We can only hope that Marcus lives to be 100-years-old and writes 1,000 more books. Marcus, thank you for making reading cool again!
This is the second book of Sakey's that I have recently read. It has a great story, but I was left wanting a bit more out of the ending. Although, I absolutely loved the last page of the book...it's perfect and very original. I thought "The Blade Itself" was excellent, but I highly recommend reading this one too! Sakey does such a great job at putting the reader into the story; where the reader gets a chance to make decisions on tough situations. Both books are like that. I've became a fan of his--I'm starting to read his second book and his 4th book comes out in August...
Have recently been reading marcus Sakey and have been impressed. If you like Lehane, Connelly & Pelicanos you will like sakey.
Good People starts well, with a strong narrative. Unfortunately it degenerates into graphic scenes of sickening cruelty - beginning with an innocent young man's hand being methodically crushed by a thug, lovingly detailed. I'm not a reader who defines this as "entertainment". Those who do will find this unpleasant story of greed, malevolence, and nauseating gore enjoyable. I did not. The only reason for two stars instead of one is a good plot premise and decent writing, in spite of the use to which the author puts it.
Wow . . .this author has nailed the crime fiction novel genre. This being only his third offering and I would rank him among the best writers I know of, and I read a lot of books. I would never have guessed the ending in a million years! I was awake for a long time, last night, after finishing this book. I am eagerly awaiting Marcus Sakey's next book.
The basic premise of Good People centers on the question 'How far would you go to keep hidden the fact that you found $370,000?' When Tom and Anna Reed find $370,000 they develop a simple plan regarding their find. Their plan is to keep the money hidden and wait to see if anyone comes to claim it. If not, they plan to keep the money and use it in ways that will change their lives. What the Reeds don't realize is that their simple plan has led them to cross some very dangerous men who won't stop until they get revenge no matter where they find it. Let me be very clear about the fact that Sakey's third book, Good People, is a very fast-paced, exciting, entertaining read. What the premise of the book is not, however, is original. That is, it is very similar to the book written several years ago by Scott Smith called A Simple Plan. As I said, Good People is a book that is suspenseful and worth reading, especially by those who have never read (or seen the movie) A Simple Plan. In comparison, however, I think readers (and/or viewers) of A Simple Plan will find, as I did, that Good People pales somewhat in comparison.
Since Marcus Sakey is a local thriller author (Chicago, IL), I decided to read Good People. Available at my public library, I was excited to listen to the audio version of this fast-paced thriller. Though my iPod mixed up some of the tracks in this book, I listened to the majority of the story in chronological order. The premise of the book is interesting: What happens to everyday Good People when they fall into sticky situations?------Here¿s the official synopsis:¿A family, and the security to enjoy it: that¿s all Tom and Anna Reed ever wanted. But years of infertility treatments, including four failed attempts at in-vitro fertilization, have left them with neither. The emotional and financial costs are straining their marriage and endangering their dreams. So when their downstairs tenant, a recluse whose promptly delivered cashier¿s checks were barely keeping them afloat, dies in his sleep, the $400,000 they find stashed in his kitchen seems like fate. More than fate: a chance for everything they¿ve dreamed of for so long. A fairy-tale ending.But Tom and Anna soon realize that fairy tales never come cheap. Because their tenant wasn¿t a hermit who squirreled away his pennies. He was a criminal who double-crossed some of the most dangerous men in Chicago. Men who won¿t stop until they get revenge, no matter where they find it.¿------Interesting, right? What would I do if I found $400,000 in my imaginary tenant¿s kitchen? Those were the thoughts constantly running through my head. What would YOU do in that situation? Many contemporary thrillers seem to lack depth. Not Good People. Sakey wove his theme through the narrative in a not-so-subtle manner, but it worked. After each chapter, I imagined myself as one of the characters in yet another conundrum from my bad choices. Now what would I do?Point of view in the novel is another noticeable technique. As writers, we are cautioned against head-hopping between the characters in a given scene. Sakey knows that ¿rule,¿ but he broke it marvelously. Sometimes, I was jolted out of the story to switch perspectives from Tom to Anna. I still could follow the story.Thrillers should have that page-turning quality to them. That¿s one of the telling characteristics. Sakey delivered. I could hardly stop listening to this book long enough to catch up on my favorite pod casts. I was obsessed with the story till the last page.Give it a read (or a listen). Let me know what you
Great, fast-moving story. A couple in deep debt find $400,000. What should they do? It seems easy enough to keep it, as there is no trail to the owner. A believable reaction. Then all hell breaks loose as the bad guy whose money it originally was (before it was stolen) appears on the scene to get it back...at any cost. No wonder Sakey's novels are getting optioned for movies as fast as he can write them! A great thriller with a really bad bad guy.
The Summary: They merely wanted a baby of their own. Finding $400,000 in the cupboards of their downstairs tenant would make so many problems go away. And bring a whole set of new ones.The Take Away: Sake continues to belt out magnificent thrillers. His third offering puts a very normal couple facing the same problem as any American dream today -- too much debt and a miraculous sum of money to save them from it. Anyone could imagine doing what they did. That's what pulls you in.What keeps you there is the good cop trying to solve the case, the bad guys who just keep popping up and the non-stop action.Plan on reading it in one session and get your evening clear.
A smart, literary mystery with an ethical dilemma at its core. Reminded me of No Country for Old Men.
In my opinion, this is Mr. Sakey's best so far - a good villain, at least half a dozen dead bodies, good dialogue, a minimum of "azure sky" descriptions and a self-centered YUP couple in trouble. What's not to like?
The Reeds are up to their ears in debt. When they're at the pit of despair, not sure how in the world they can turn their life around, they find a boat load of money. The money is calling their name. In their current situation of complete desperation, they make the only decision that seems logical, they take the money. There is no way they could have foreseen how this one decision would change their lives forever. Will they make it out alive?I was completely drawn into this book before I even finished the second page. I can usually tell from the first chapter whether or not I am going to like a book. The beginning is one of the most important pieces for an author. A good author can entice you within a few paragraphs and keep you interested for the remainder of the book. Marcus is a pro. Seriously. I can't think of one word that would really do his writing justice... I've found another author to put on my "I need everything this author writes list".
A good story told at a brisk pace, on a par with his first effort "the blade itself" but maybe not enough depth to the characters as I didnt feel engaged with the couple who as main characters I know I should have been rooting for and I know the ending should make you feel sorry for them in the unhappy fairytale ending kind of way but actually I didn't. (Sorry about that as Bill Hicks might say). That said I would have no hesitation in recommending Sakey to the uninitiated after reading 3 of his books this year and enjoying all of them.
Good People is not a genre I read often but I tend to mix a thriller in from time to time and when I do I want a real page-turner: a Laura Lippman or a Harlan Coben. A story that keeps me thinking, guessing, and most importantly keeps me up all night reading. Good People, unfortunately, is not that book. Here¿s the premise: Chicago couple Tom and Anna Reed have been trying to have a child for an extremely long time and have hit the expensive stage of the fertility process: IUI [intrauterine insemination] and IVF [in vitro fertilization]. Anna and Tom find nearly $400K in hidden money in their tenant¿s basement unit. Not surprisingly, this hidden stash leads to more trouble than the couple ever expects when slowly the money¿s links to drug-deals, thieves, and other unsavory characters are exposed. How much is the money worth to them? While Sakey has a decent concept he fails to develop the characters of Anna and Tom enough that I cared why they wanted/needed the money to face so much danger and to deceive each other and those around them. Thousands of couples cannot have their own children. I did not feel so sorry for them that I was thrilled with their decision to keep this money. Adopt like other people and stop being so selfish. I did not buy into the entire morality tale that Sakey tried to build around this supposedly ¿good¿ couple finding a stash of tainted money and going to extreme lengths to keep it. These ¿good¿ people turned out to be just as calculated as the ¿bad¿ guys. Good People starts with a bang and ends with a whimper. This is not what I want in a thriller.
Struggling middle class Tom and Anna Reed are good solid citizens who love one another. Their dream is to have a child, but infertility makes it impossible without expensive help. They do not have the money for some of the alternatives and those they have tried like in-vitro have proven futile.----------------------- Helping them survive financially as they pinch pennies for their next fertility try is a reclusive tenant who pays monthly rent to them. When their hermit dies, the Reeds worry about how they will survive without his income coming in monthly. They enter their late lodger¿s room to clean it out only to find four-hundred thousand dollars. Unable to resist what both feel is an easy windfall that no one will know about except themselves, this will allow them to attempt again to fulfill their dream of a child. However, neither understands that their deceased boarder left behind some irate Windy City associates who believe the ill-gotten loot belongs to them these dangerous thugs do not mind the use of force including breaking limbs or even murder and their sights are set on the Reeds.--------------- This exciting thriller uses a typical American suburban family trying to fulfill their dream that places them in extreme danger from deadly mobsters who believe their ill-gotten loot belongs to them as the late tenant double-crossed them. Where else would a mobster hide than in the burbs making for quite a contrast between middle class American and the mob will sort of remind readers of the haunting contrasting final scene of the Cagney film Public Enemy. Readers will appreciate this strong thriller as the American dream turns nightmarish when the Reeds become avaricious in achieving their personal quest as Marcus Sakey asks his audience would you ethically turn in $400,000 that you believe no one knows you found.--------------- Harriet Klausner
Middle-class greed combined with hardened criminals with some philosophical musings thrown in is how I would describe this third entry by Marcus Sankey. I work in a book store and I am puzzled about the lack of fame and popularity for this author. If he had a good agent, his books would be best-sellers.