The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do
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A hard-hitting, critically acclaimed trilogy of crime novels from an author about whom New York magazine has written, "What people say about Cormac McCarthy ... goes double for [Woodrell]. Possibly more."
In the parish of St. Bruno, sex is easy, corruption festers, and double-dealing is a way of life. Rene Shade is an uncompromising detective swimming in a sea of filth.
As Shade takes on hit men, porn kings, a gang of ex-cons, and the ghosts of his own checkered past, Woodrell's three seminal novels pit long-entrenched criminals against the hard line of the law, brother against brother, and two vastly different sons against a long-absent father.
THE BAYOU TRILOGY highlights the origins of a one-of-a-kind author, a writer who for over two decades has created an indelible representation of the shadows of the rural American experience and has steadily built a devoted following among crime fiction aficionados and esteemed literary critics alike.
many neighborhoods, Frogtown and Pan Fry being the largest and most fabled, and great numbing stretches of anonymous, bland, and nearly affluent subdivisions. At Clay Street Blanchette turned east with rubber-squealing confidence and stomped the gas pedal since traffic was light. Pio’s Italian Garden was still open, the red neon pizza in the window flashing an all-night invitation. Blanchette found his memories of repasts taken there to be varied but sufficient, and he suddenly wheeled into the
eyes. “The meat was my mistake,” he said softly. “Just get us our money. That’s all we want.” “You’ll get it, plus ol’ Paw-Paw’s head on a stick.” “Uhhh, forget the head on a stick. Angelo can get heads on sticks all day long, at wholesale.” Short Paul choked something back down in his throat. “What he wants is his money, forty-seven K. When’ll you be off to get it?” Lunch touched a finger to his nose as if imagining his journey, then sprang from his seat, put both hands next to Short Paul’s
from the scar and raked back her blond hair. “Help yourself,” she said. “It’s different.” Oh so lightly Etta touched her fingers to the scar, then slid them along the track of proud flesh. Her young face and bright eyes reflected her enthrallment. “Wow,” she said. “Holy freakin’ wow! It’s slick, ain’t it? Slick like satin.” Laughing softly, Gretel leaned her face down to Etta’s touch. “I’ve come to love the feel of it,” she said. “Spiritually, it’s quite a reminder.” “It’s slick like
“Spit it out, sport,” he said. “What were they gabbin’ about at The Shamrock?” “Now you, you’re a rude motherfucker, ain’t you?” Bell said. He pointed a gnarled finger in Blanchette’s face. “My mother’s dead,” Blanchette said, smiling slightly as he generally did when called a name. “The rest of it is personality.” “I see,” Bell said. “A defective.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “What I heard at The Shamrock was that Gerry, Gerry, maybe, possibly, had took a little battin’ practice on
of his brother, Francois, who was an assistant D.A., and wondered if li’l bro Frankie could bail his ass out if this thing went Byzantine on him. And somehow the thought of Francois rewound the years and Shade was remembering a time when he, Francois, and this very same Shuggie had set off on an adventure together. It had been the fourteenth birthday of big brother Tip, and Shade, nine years old and earnest, wanted to find a present suitable for presentation to an idol. For this was in the time