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320 pages, Hardcover
First published September 26, 2006
Hanging out with mob guys, Frank thought, was like being frozen in some perpetual junior high school time warp. The conversations were always about sex, food, farts, smells, girls, small dicks, and homos.In Winslow's hands, such guys may be effectively functional as thugs but, overall as people... they're not exactly nuanced personalities.
Frank never bought into any of that 'Apocalypse Now' crap. He never shot any women or children, or massacred any villages, or even saw anyone who did. He just killed enemy soldiers.~and the street-smart details of his 'leave nothing to chance' life are exhaustive, i.e.:
Every prudent professional hit man has a spider hole, and Frank is nothing if not prudent. His is a vacant apartment on Narragansett Street, a little efficiency unit on the second floor of a house that's a ten-minute walk away. It has a separate entrance up a back stairway. He bought it twenty years ago, when property was still pretty cheap, put it up for rent, and never rented it.And it sure comes in handy... for a guy who tends to survive because he's thorough.