By Don Winslow
Edgar and Shamus Award-nominee Don Winslow combines breathless suspense, zany wit, and whiplash motion in his most modern novel that includes grad student/private eye Neal Carey. Now Neal's assigned to escort monkeyish octogenarian Natty Silver domestic from Las Vegas to Palm Springs. Natty, as soon as a burlesque best banana, has a nonstop barrage of corny jokes, a watch for an getting older cocktail waitress, and a protracted disappearing act.
When Neal catches up with him, he can see why Natty doesn't are looking to pass domestic. Sole witness to a criminal offense, he's now the quarry of hard-faced fits, a fascist con artist, and a career-track murderer. And bodyguard Neal-scorching during the trackless wilderness at eighty mph, brooding on his internal baby by way of freezing starlight, and searching down the barrel of 1 gun too many-is quickly dodging vultures and close to a shock watery grave.
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Additional resources for While Drowning in the Desert
Example text
Er was één ding waar ik vanavond geen zin in had. Ik wilde er niet bij zijn wanneer Serge Lohman door de restauranthouder of dienstdoende gerant als een oude kennis zou worden begroet; hoe hij door de serveersters naar het mooiste tafeltje aan de tuinzijde zou worden begeleid, en hoe Serge zelf zou doen of het allemaal niks te betekenen had, dat hij diep in zijn hart altijd een gewone jongen was gebleven en zich daarom vooral op zijn gemak voelde tussen andere gewone mensen. Daarom had ik tegen hem gezegd dat we elkaar wel in het restaurant zouden zien en niet, zoals hij had voorgesteld, in het café om de hoek.
Omdat het goed was iets over dieren te leren – om iets van het zorgen voor dieren te leren, vermoed ik. Of de blaadjes die wij ’s ochtends door de tralies heen duwden van veldsla waren, weet ik niet meer, het leek er in elk geval sterk op. De hamster of marmot kauwde met zijn snelle tandjes op de sla en zat de rest van de dag stil in een hoekje van zijn kooi. Op een ochtend was hij dood, net als het schildpadje, twee witte muizen en de wandelende takken, die hem waren voorgegaan. Wat wij van dit hoge sterftecijfer zouden kunnen leren, werd in de klas niet behandeld.
Zei ik. ’ Ik moest Claire niet aankijken, wij kenden elkaar te goed, mijn ogen zouden me verraden. Daarom deed ik of ik het café rondkeek, of ik buitengewoon geboeid was door het schouwspel van de in levendige gesprekken verwikkelde gewone mensen. Ik was blij dat ik voet bij stuk had gehouden en dat we pas in het restaurant met de Lohmans hadden afgesproken; in gedachten zag ik Serge door de klapdeurtjes komen, zijn grijns die de gewone mensen zou aansporen om toch vooral door te gaan met waar ze mee bezig waren en niet op hem te letten.