Product Description

“Among the new voices in twenty-first-century crime fiction, Charlie Huston . . . is where it’s at.”
–The Washington Post

“Huston writes dialogue so combustible it could fuel a bus and characters crazy enough to take it on the road.”
–The New York Times Book Review

Reluctant hitman Henry Thompson has fallen on hard times. His grip on life is disintegrating, his pistol hand shaking, his body pinned to his living room couch by painkillers–and his boss, Russian mobster David Dolokhov, isn’t happy about any of it. So Henry is surprised when he’s handed a new assignment: keep tabs on a minor league baseball star named Miguel Arenas.

Henry has no pity for the slugger and the wicked gambling problem that got him in trouble, but he can’t help liking the guy. After all, Henry used to be just like him: a natural-born ball player with a bright future. But hell, that was long ago. Before Henry did some guy a favor and ended up running for his life. Before his girlfriend and buddies got gunned down by someone on his tail. Before he agreed to buy his parents’ safety with a life of violence.

And when Miguel gets drafted by the Mets and is sent to the Brooklyn Cyclones, Henry must head back to New York, back to the place where all his problems began–and where Henry might find a real reason to keep living, a reason that may just cost him his life.


“Huston reminds me of all my favorite writers–Pete Dexter, Robert Stone, Crumley. If there is such a thing as compassionate noir, Charlie has found it. He’s a true marvel.”
–Ken Bruen, author of The Guards

“Charlie Huston is the real deal.”
–Peter Straub

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #40074 in Books
• Published on: 2006-09-19
• Released on: 2006-09-19
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 286 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780345481337
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

From Publishers Weekly
Huston doesn't let his battered, tormented protagonist rest for one moment in the exciting final volume of his trilogy featuring Henry "Hank" Thompson, now an unwilling hit man for David Dolokhov, the Russian mobster whose $4 million he stole (and lost) in 2005's Six Bad Things. With a botched plastic surgery job that's left him disfigured and in chronic pain, Hank is only able to deal with his nightmares about the people he's killed with handfuls of prescription painkillers. He's on the verge of slipping under when Dolokhov assigns him to protect Miguel Arenas, a rising young baseball star and gambling addict who also owes the Russian a big chunk of change. Hank is forced to confront his own past as a former minor league player as his bodyguard gig takes him to New York, where his misadventures began. While the book drags a bit in the middle, the pace picks up toward the end as Hank finds himself once again doing what he does best, running for his life. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
Hank Thompson comes full circle in this fitting end to a mayhem-packed trilogy (Caught Stealing, 2004, and Six Bad Things, 2005) that also packs a potent emotional punch. The young man who lost his chance at a baseball career in an auto accident that killed his best friend has descended into Fat Elvis mode, digging pills out of the carpet of his Vegas flop when he is not killing reprobates for a Russian mobster who holds the lives of Hank's parents in his hands. But when he is ordered to babysit a Mets phenom with a gambling problem so bad he'll bet on which guy at the casino urinals will finish first, Hank's penchant for doing the right thing in the wrong way sets into motion a series of very bad events. He may fumble around, but when his life's on the line, Hank becomes a virtuoso killing machine. It's like when Sundance shoots at that rock in Bolivia: he is better when he moves. The satisfying story moves right along with him, leaving fans glad they still have Huston's other series antihero--vampire detective Joe Pitt--to kick around. Frank Sennett
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1

I find the guy in the Laughing Jackalope just like they said I would.

I take a seat at the bar, order a seltzer and ask for a roll of quarters. I let the seltzer sit and start slowly dribbling the quarters into the video poker game built into the surface of the bar. I stare at the cards as they blip across the screen. I play a quarter a hand, flying in the face of the most basic rule of video poker that says you always bet the max. Quarter bets pay a bare fraction of the max bets. Hit a big hand on a quarter bet and you’re gonna feel like an asshole.

I hit a straight flush with a quarter once, paid 1,200 to 1. Sure enough, I felt like an asshole. Well that’s happened before and it’ll happen again.

The machine blips me a pair of jacks along with a nine, a ten, and a king. I pass on the even money the pair promises, throw one of the jacks and go for the inside straight. Deuce. I drop another quarter in the slot.

There’s only a handful of people in here. The guy; the bartender; a couple sitting on stools, feeding nickels to one of the slots; an old-timer nodding a bit at the bar; and the evening cocktail waitress straightening the tables and getting things set for the crowd that will come in when the shifts change across the street.

I keep my face in the game, sneaking peeks at the guy, keeping my hand next to my face, hoping no one notices the palm-size patch of white scar tissue around my right eye. I’d just as soon no one remembers that scar if the cops come around later. But really, I only have to worry about that if a body turns up.

I’m on my third roll of quarters and little has changed. The couple’s shifted from the slot machine to the jukebox, so now “Crazy on You” complements the blips of the poker games and the recorded come-on of the slots. The guy still hasn’t moved.

He’s been sitting at the far end of the bar, sliding C-notes into his own video poker game and going through them about as fast as I’ve been going through my quarters. Every fifteen minutes or so he throws back another shot of chilled Jäger and bangs the glass on the bar, indicating the bartender should get his ass over there and give him a refill.

Back in the day, when I had to do that job, when my biggest worry was getting the drunks out the door before the sun came up, I’d never have put up with that shit. Someone banged a glass on my bar or snapped their fingers or something like that and they’d be sitting dry a long fucking time before I remembered they were there. This bartender is different, he’s working the day shift at the Laughing Jakalope for Christ sake, glasses banged on the bar are the last fucking thing he’s gonna raise a sweat over.

The bartender pulls the frosted green bottle of Jägermeister out of the cooler, fills the guy’s shot glass and puts the bottle back. The guy doesn’t even look at him, just keeps peering into the game screen, his credits rolling up and down as he scores on two pair here, three of a kind there; searching for a full house or a straight flush or even a royal.

There’s a blast of sunshine as someone opens the tinted front door and two drunk couples come stumbling in. They’re college kids, the boys in shorts and tank tops, their faces sunburnt except where their eyes have been raccooned white by their sunglasses, the girls in shorts and tube tops, skin tanned cancer brown, harsh bikini lines climbing up out of their stretchy tops and creeping around their necks. All of them are double-fisting plastic cups full of something bright blue and frozen.

The bartender looks down from the TV hanging above the bar. He’s been watching one of those behind-the-scenes shows; this one cracking the lid open on a reality show that teamed up stars from older shows that have already been behind-the-scened. He sees the cups the kids are carrying and shakes his head.

—Uh-uh, not in here, can’t bring outside booze in here.

One of the guys, his tank says don’t drunk with me, i’m fuck!, looks at the drinks in his hands and back at the bartender, trying to connect the dots.

—What the fuck, man? We been carrying drinksh in and out of cashinosh all fucking day.

The other guy, his shirt says i’m with asshole and has an arrow pointing up at his own face, hoots.

—Been drinking all fuckin’ day! All fuckin’ day! Gonna drink all fuckin’ night! All fuckin’ night!

The bartender nods.

—Sure, just not those drinks in here.

Everyone’s watching now; the guy, the old-timer, the slot couple, the cocktail waitress. Asshole takes a couple quick sloppy steps toward the bar.

—The fuck, dude? Gonna drink!

Drunk Fuck grabs the tail of his shirt and yanks him back.

—Dude, no, sheck it out.

He drapes an arm over his buddy’s shoulder, spilling a little blue slush down Asshole’s arm, and whispers in his ear. Asshole listens for a second and then busts up.

—Yeah, yeah, dude, tha’sh it!

He straightens up and bows to the bartender.

—Yesh, shir, we will be pleashed to do ash you wish. Fuckin’ A.

He gestures toward the door and Drunk Fuck leads the way. Asshole pushes the door open and they turn into dark silhouettes against the fierce late afternoon sun. Asshole points out the door.

—After yoush.

Drunk Fuck bows.

—Shank yoush.

He takes one step outside and chugs the contents of his cups and throws both empties into the parking lot. He steps back in and holds the door as Asshole steps out and repeats the performance. The girls are laughing and snorting, hanging on to each other to keep from falling down and struggling to keep their tits from popping out of their tops. Asshole steps back in. He wags a finger at them.

—Ladiesh! No fucking drinksh from outshide! Pleash!

He points at the door. One of the girls straightens up, tries to curtsy, almost falls, and weaves out to the sidewalk. She upends one of her cups and gets half of it in her mouth while the other half slops down her chin and neck and into her cleavage. She explodes laughing and the slush that went in her mouth sprays onto the ground. She stuffs a hand inside her top and tries to dig out the blue daiquiri. Asshole wiggles his fingers.

—Allow me.

He tries to jam his fingers between her tits and she slaps his hand, still coughing and choking. Drunk Fuck tries to get into the act and they jostle the girl around, plucking at her top. The other girl steps outside.

—Hey! Hey, assholes! Check this out!

She tilts her head back, holds both cups over her face, opens her mouth wide, and starts to pour. Frozen blueberry daiquiri fills her mouth and overflows down her face. The guys watch, one with his arms wrapped around the waist of the choking girl and one with his hand halfway down her top. The two-cup girl lets about half of each daiquiri pour over her face, then just dumps the remainder over her chest and belly. Asshole and Drunk Fuck abandon Choking Girl and pounce on Two Cups. Asshole kneels in front of her and sucks blue ice from her pierced navel while Drunk Fuck picks up a straw from the pavement, sticks it between her tits and starts to suck on it. Two Cups giggles and screams.

By now the door has swung shut and we are all watching the action as a shadow play taking place beyond the tinted glass front of the Jackalope. Still, we hear it pretty clearly when Choking Girl coughs, gags and begins to vomit blue onto the sidewalk and her friends’ sandaled feet. By then the bartender has come out from behind the bar, crossed to the door and locked it. He walks to the kitchen door and sticks his head inside.

—Jesus!

A Mexican kid in greasy dishwasher whites comes out. The bartender points at the scene outside.

—Clean that shit up.

Jesus stares at the carnage taking place beyond the window and nods.

—Sí.

The bartender walks back to the bar, picks up the remote and turns up the volume on his show; the slot couple punches in another song and “Saturday in the Park” starts playing; the old-timer shakes his head and mutters something about Goddamn fucking college kids; the cocktail waitress goes back to cleaning out the votives that she’ll be setting on the tables soon; the guy knocks back another Jäger and bangs it on the bar. I take a last look out the window just in time to see Two Cups start puking, too. The boys watch, laughing and high-fiving each other.

Then the guy gets up and goes to the bathroom.

Jesus is standing by the glass with a mop bucket, waiting for the kids to leave so he can do his shitty job. I follow the guy into the bathroom so I can do mine.

He’s pissing loudly into one of the urinals. I edge past him into a stall, close the door and pull the handful of tiny coke-filled glassine bags out of my pocket. The urinal flushes and I pinch one of the bags open and drop it along with several others onto the floor, most of them scattering out under the stall partition.

—Shit! Oh, shit!

I slam my shoulder loudly against the stall as I get down on my knees and start scrabbling under the partition for the dropped bags. I peek out and see that the guy has moved to the sink and is washing his hands and ignoring me. I scoop up the bags and flick the open one with my middle finger. It skitters across the tiles, leaving a thin t...

Customer Reviews

"Everyone Who's Helped You is Dead, Yo!"
I'm a huge Charlie Huston fan, and anxiously awaited this finale to the Henry Thompson trilogy. And I wasn't disappointed: Huston is back in all his quirky quotation mark-free dialogue and non-linear storyline glory.

A lot has happened to Henry since "Six Bad Things" - and not much of it good. To keep his parents alive, he's been impressed into service by Russian mobster "David" as a hit man, running under the tutelage of Branko, the stone cold killing pro who is both Henry's mentor and watchdog. In order to protect his identity, Henry's been given some amateur cosmetic surgery, the butchery to his face leaving him in constant pain and effectively addicted to painkillers. Moving from one Las Vegas dive to the next, from one contract kill to another. Until David assigns him to keep a watchful eye over Miguel "Mike" Arenas, number one pick in the Major League baseball draft. See, young Mike is also a gambling addict, and has turned over most of his multi-million dollar signing bonus to the bookie David runs.

If "Caught Stealing" and "Six Bad Things" were dark, "A Dangerous Man" is downright stygian. If you remember Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas", this makes that morose drama seem uplifting - a virtual "Rocky" by comparison. Henry, the flawed but mostly lovable victim of mistaken identity in the first two outings, is less likable this time around. Drugged out, depressed, overweight, and scared, he stumbles through the pages with little energy and less hope. But that is the power of Huston's writing - bleak, gritty, and ultimately as addicting as Henry's Xanax and Dexedrine cocktails. Dark, yeah, but poignant and unsettling - a fitting and unforgettable close to a blockbuster trilogy from today's most talented new author of noir.

A fitting ending to the series!
I'll have to agree with the other reviewer as well. This is an excellent end to the series. So boys and girls, don't start here. Go back to book one first. Now, if you've read the other two, then this one won't disappoint at all. It picks up right from the end of book two and goes full speed ahead.

There's something about Charlie Huston's writing style that is unique as well. You get both the dialog but also a sense of what the character is thinking from a narrative view as well. And it is not hard to follow as you might think.

I'm a fan. Read and enjoy

Talk about an anti-hero!
Henry Thompson was a really nice guy.

The operative word is 'was' because what he has descended to over the course of 'Caught Stealing', 'Six Bad Things', and 'A Dangerous Man' is anything but the life he thought he was going to have. He has a new face, an addiction to several new drugs, and a wide array of people who want to kill him, slowly. Oh yes, and there is the matter of the missing $4,000,000.

Not a good life.

But what a great end to a tremendous series. Huston is a master of non-linear plot lines, crackling dialogue, and constant surprises. The return to New York is welcome, as it was always his best locale. The subplot with the baseball player gives Huston a chance to share his love of the game and the young men who play for our enjoyment.

Although the ending was not what I expected, upon reflection I don't see how he could have ended the series any other way and maintained plausibility. It's a fitting end that ties up virtually every plot line opened up in all three books.

If you're new to Huston, please follow the advice of all the reviewers and read the books in the order they were written. Taking them out of order will really spoil the earlier books for you.

And like a couple of the other reviewers, I also recommend strongly the Joe Pitt books. 'Almost Dead' is a tour de force. You'll never think about vampires the same way again.