Pander wore dark glasses and fancy suspenders and he moved into the San Pietro rackets like a sandblaster gone berserk. Fell, the boss, was mysteriously away, and Pander grabbed the chance to bury his... This description may be from another edition of this product.
I beg to differ with the other reviewers. The book is clinical, that part is true, but I definitely wouldn't call it cold, or monotonous for that matter. More like minimalist.The novel is intelligent, poignant and, in it's own way, moving. What Rabe does is to acknowledge the hard-boiled cliches that are expected of him, strip most of them away, as they would have otherwise stood in the way of him telling the story, and then use what is left of the gangster novel/roman noir vernacular to communicate directly with the reader in the clearest and most succint way imaginable. That way lies transcendence.
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