Diagnosed with a rare eye disorder in the third grade, Charlie’s self-esteem began to unravel by the thread. He wouldn’t have a future as a detective like his hero, Magnum P.I. He would never soar in a jet fighter like he dreamed. He would never drive a race car and see the checkered flag wave. College was out of the question because he just wasn’t smart enough. At least that’s what the teachers told him. Only a God who was unusually cruel would shatter the dreams of a little boy by creating him defective.
Three days before he tried to kill me, I sat side-by-side with Saul in his library. Reposed in his oxblood leather chair, I smoked a Cuban cigar and sipped aged bourbon under a dim brass lamp sitting on his mahogany desk. The lamp suffused a golden color, a shade of sun at dusk, projecting our silhouettes on his bookcases filled with Plato and Homer and Machiavelli. I was in a contemplative somewhat melancholy mood, feeling like I’d come to a fork in the road when Saul’s mobile phone rang. It was Dylan Banks.
Dear Football, I love you. You have been the love of my life for as long as I can remember. Everything good that I am, everything good that I will ever be, in part I owe to you.
You were there for me when I thought all was lost. You picked me up and loved me when no one else would. Now can you please sit down? I have some things I need to say.
Some of my recent essays, interviews and critical analysis.
Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar.
The first essential value of the detective story lies in this, that it is the earliest and only form of popular literature in which is expressed some sense of the poetry of modern life.
I write about black heroes.
Writing is like an iceberg. For every foot that shows there are eight below.
Hard-boiled detective fiction, like jazz, is a uniquely American endeavor.