Big City, Bad Blood: A Novel by Sean Chercover

By Sean Chercover

A disappointed newspaper reporter became inner most detective, Ray Dudgeon isn't really attempting to keep the realm. He simply desires to do a good activity, and do it good. but if doing a good activity threatens society's strongest and corrupt, Ray's odds for survival make for a sucker's guess. . . . whereas engaged on a film in Chicago, Hollywood destinations supervisor Bob Loniski observed anything he wouldn't have. Now he is a prosecution witness opposed to a suspected member of the Chicago Outfit. Petrified, he involves Ray for cover. Ray's mob contacts insist that they've no real interest in Loniski, so he's taking the bodyguard gig. Then humans commence demise and every little thing is going to hell. Ray's research results in a stash of blackmail records regarding the intercourse exchange, Washington political corruption, and a dangerous strength fight between Chicago's equipped crime bosses—setting the FBI, the Chicago police, and the mob on his tail. He now holds facts opposed to top-ranking police officers and politicians . . . yet with the road among reliable and undesirable blurring, he does not recognize who he can belief. If he does the fitting factor, Ray is certain to die. but when he does not, how can he reside with himself? From the again alleys of Chicago to the man-sions of Beverly Hills to the corridors of energy in Washington, D.C., Sean Chercover's titanic urban, undesirable Blood propels readers relentlessly ahead on a bullet-fast, adrenaline-pumping journey they won't quickly disregard.

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I attached a target to the bulldog clip and wheeled it out along the clothesline-type mechanism to about ten yards. The range was twentyfive yards long but most shootings take place at about ten feet, so ten yards seemed plenty to me. B I G C I T Y, B A D B L O O D 47 I always shoot respectably well but today I had flow, practicing Zen shooting, putting nice, neat holes in the X-ring. I put a new target out there, then walked two lanes over and wheeled out a second target, about six feet past the first.

It was a shame to throw it away but there was always a chance that Booker Washington would swear out a complaint against me. I could afford a new flashlight more than I could afford to lose my detective’s license. While disposing of the evidence, I thought about the message I’d sent. Frank DiMarco may be protected, but I could still damage his business interests. Their pitcher hits one of your batters, you hit one of theirs. That’s the way it works. CHAPTER THREE I entered the lobby of the Richmond Building just before 3:30.

I opened the wine and poured two glasses. “That’s probably not a good idea,” she said. “I’ve been hit in the head before, Jill. ” I went to her and put my arms around her. Her arms went around my waist and we stood there for a while, saying nothing, just holding each other. ” She forced a smile. ” I stood in the shower and the spray felt like little daggers. It removed the coagulated blood from my lip, which started to flow again. I watched the red-stained water run down my body, over my left foot, across the white floor of the tub and into the drain.

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