“My practice requires a studio, so I will live anywhere I can afford one without having to have two part-time jobs to run it. In the two years I have lived in Montreal, I have made almost as much work as in the previous ten because that is all I have to do here.”—Jessica Eaton in Believer Mag
Then, in a twist that I don’t understand even though I read it three times, the NYC narcotics squad ends up getting the suitcase and Parker barely catches a train out of Grand Central Station alive. But that’s the best thing about books like this. Even if the plots don’t make sense, and they often don’t because they’re written quickly for small amounts of money, the character and the mood can carry you a long way.
My father, who is one of the few Indians who went to Catholic school on purpose, was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by the pound at Dutch’s Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and hospital gift shops. Our house was filled with books. They were stacked in crazy piles in the bathroom, bedrooms and living room. In a fit of unemployment-inspired creative energy, my father built a set of bookshelves and soon filled them with a random assortment of books about the Kennedy assassination, Watergate, the Vietnam War and the entire 23-book series of the Apache westerns. My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well.