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Walter Mosley - When the Thrill Is Gone

Here you can read online Walter Mosley - When the Thrill Is Gone full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2011, publisher: Riverhead Books, genre: Detective and thriller. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

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Walter Mosley When the Thrill Is Gone

When the Thrill Is Gone: summary, description and annotation

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Leonid McGill is back, in the third-and most enthralling and ambitious-installment in Walter Mosleys latest New York Times- bestselling series. The economy has hit the private-investigator business hard, even for the detective designated as a more than worthy successor to Philip Marlowe (The Boston Globe) and the perfect heir to Easy Rawlins (Toronto Globe and Mail). Lately, Leonid McGill is getting job offers only from the criminals hes worked so hard to leave behind. Meanwhile, his life grows ever more complicated: his favorite stepson, Twill, drops out of school for mysteriously lucrative pursuits; his best friend, Gordo, is diagnosed with cancer and is living on Leonids couch; his wife takes a new lover, infuriating the old one and endangering the McGill family; and Leonids girlfriend, Aura, is back but intent on some serious conversations... So how can he say no to the beautiful young woman who walks into his office with a stack of cash? Shes an artist, she tells him, whos escaped from poverty via marriage to a rich collector who keeps her on a stipend. But she says she fears for her life, and needs Leonids help. Though Leonid knows better than to believe every word, this isnt a job he can afford to turn away, even as he senses that-if his familys misadventures dont kill him first-sorting out the womans crooked tale will bring him straight to deaths door.

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ALSO BY WALTER MOSLEY
LEONID McGILL MYSTERIES
The Long Fall
Known to Evil

EASY RAWLINS MYSTERIES
Blonde Faith
Cinnamon Kiss
Little Scarlet
Six Easy Pieces
Bad Boy Brawly Brown
A Little Yellow Dog
Black Betty
Gone Fishin
White Butterfly
A Red Death
Devil in a Blue Dress

OTHER FICTION
The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey
The Tempest Tales
Diablerie
Killing Johnny Fry
The Man in My Basement
Fear of the Dark
Fortunate Son
The Wave
Fear Itself
Futureland
Fearless Jones
Walkin the Dog
Blue Light
Always Outnumbered,
Always Outgunned
RLs Dream
47
The Right Mistake

NONFICTION
This Year You Write Your Novel
What Next: A Memoir
Toward World Peace
Life Out of Context
Workin on the Chain Gang
ALSO BY WALTER MOSLEY
LEONID McGILL MYSTERIES
The Long Fall
Known to Evil

EASY RAWLINS MYSTERIES
Blonde Faith
Cinnamon Kiss
Little Scarlet
Six Easy Pieces
Bad Boy Brawly Brown
A Little Yellow Dog
Black Betty
Gone Fishin
White Butterfly
A Red Death
Devil in a Blue Dress

OTHER FICTION
The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey
The Tempest Tales
Diablerie
Killing Johnny Fry
The Man in My Basement
Fear of the Dark
Fortunate Son
The Wave
Fear Itself
Futureland
Fearless Jones
Walkin the Dog
Blue Light
Always Outnumbered,
Always Outgunned
RLs Dream
47
The Right Mistake

NONFICTION
This Year You Write Your Novel
What Next: A Memoir
Toward World Peace
Life Out of Context
Workin on the Chain Gang
SOMEWHERE BEYOND my line of sight a man groaned, pathetically. It sounded as if he had reached the end of his reserves and was now about to die.
But I couldnt stop to see what the problem was. I was too deep into the rhythm of working the hard belly of the speed bag. That air-filled leather bladder was hitting its suspension plate faster than any basketball the NBA could imagine. Nothing in the world is more harmonizing than hitting the speed bag at three in the afternoon when most other workers are sitting in cubicles, dreaming of retirement, praying for Saturday, or finding themselves crammed-in down underground on subway cars, hurtling toward destinations they never bargained for.
Battling the speed bag, first with the heels of your gloved fists and then with a straight punch peppered in for variety, you hone the ability to go all the way, as far as you can; getting in close but never allowing the bag to slap you in the face. Then, after that hard leather sack is moving more rapidly than the eye can follow, your hips and thighs, neck and head begin to move quickly, unexpectedly, like water, unerring in its headlong rush over and around any obstacle, wearing down your imagined opponent with the inevitability of time.
And, as any boxer can tell you, time is always running out.
Anybody you get in the ring with you is bigger and stronger, the worst problem you evah had in your lazy life, Gordo would say when I was a young man, sweating hard and thinking that I might be a professional boxer one day. The only chance you got is to wear him down, them fists like pistons and your head a movin target. You use your skull and shoulders, stomach and spit, anything you can to keep him off balance. And the whole time your fists is at him, they dont even know how to stop.
Give me four more. The words came, and then a whining groan of agony.
I cant, the bodiless voice pleaded.
Four more!
The strain audible in the ensuing grunt sounded like a man vomiting up his guts.
My chest! he cried. It hurts!
You wont die, the torturer promised. It was more like a pledge of vengeance than any assurance of survival.
Without looking in their direction, I lowered my shuddering arms and headed for the showers. Pain is of no consequence in a gladiatorial gym; neither is blood or bruises, broken noses or concussions, unconsciousness, or even, now and thendeath.

OF LATE I had been taking three ice-cold showers a day. Only that restorative chill, along with working the speed bag and a daily counting of breaths, kept me from going crazy. At fifty-five, I found that as life went on, the problems mounted and their solutions only served to make things worse.
I didnt have a case at that moment, which meant that no money was coming in. When I did get a job, that just meant somebody was going to come to harm, one way or the othermaybe both. And even then I might not collect my detectives fee.
A good friend was dying in my eleventh-floor apartment. My wife was having an affair with a man half her age. And those were just the devils I knew.

AFTER THE SHOWER I was so spent that it was all I could do to sit upright and naked on the little oak stool that had somehow made its way into the locker room. The groaning from the gym was constant as my muscles still quivered from the exertions of the midday workout session.
Rising to my feet was an act of faith. I had the feeling of being the last man left standing after a lifelong battle in a meaningless war.

THE CHUBBY, caf au lait-colored young man was in the middle of failing at executing a sit-up. He looked like a giant drunken grub that had lost its sense of balance, writhing and then falling back with the impact of a heavy mattress on the concrete floor.
Three more and youre through, Iran Shelfly said.
Tiny Bateman, dressed in a gray T-shirt and shiny aqua trunks, let his arms fall to the side looking to the world like a fat drunk lowered to the ground on the curb in front of his favorite bar. Above him stood a well-built copper-skinned young man with a shaved head and a perpetual grin on his lips. His mirth seemed more predatory than happy, but Iran was really trying to help Tiny out.
Three more, Iran commanded.
Thats enough, I said.
Tiny sighed in relief.
He only been at it a half-hour, boss, Iran complained.
Tomorrow hell make thirty-one minutes, I said. Isnt that right, Bug?
I held out a hand and Tiny Bug Bateman grabbed for it twice before making contact. I pulled him to his feet and he genuflected, putting his hands on his knees, blowing hard.
Hit the showers, young man, I said to him but it was all he could do to keep upright and gasp.
So I turned to Iran.
The thirty-two-year-old had on navy sweatpants and a white T-shirt that molded his well-defined physique like melted wax. This was the body that a stint in prison sculpted for you: either you were ready to kick ass or you got it kicked. He was five tenfour and half inches over meand tense in spite of his lying grin.
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