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The Weight

Cover of The Weight

The Weight

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Andrew Vachss returns with a mesmerizing novel about a hard-core thief who's about to embark on a job that will alter his life forever.Sugar is that rarest of commodities: an old-school professional...More
Andrew Vachss returns with a mesmerizing novel about a hard-core thief who's about to embark on a job that will alter his life forever.Sugar is that rarest of commodities: an old-school professional...More
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Description-
  • Andrew Vachss returns with a mesmerizing novel about a hard-core thief who's about to embark on a job that will alter his life forever.

    Sugar is that rarest of commodities: an old-school professional thief, tough and loyal as a pit bull, packing 255 pounds of muscle. When he's picked out of a photo array in a vicious rape case, the cops find his apartment empty. A stakeout catches Sugar when he returns . . . carrying a loaded pistol. The sex-crime cops get nothing from their interrogation, but a streetwise detective figures out why Sugar offers no alibi: at the time of the rape, a holiday-weekend break-in job was being pulled at a jewelry store. The DA offers Sugar two options: give up his partners in the jewelry heist and walk, or plead to the rape he didn't commit--and he'll toss in the gun charge. For Sugar, that's not two options; he takes the weight.

    When Sugar finishes his time, his money is waiting for him, held by Solly, the mastermind behind the jewelry heist. But Solly tells Sugar that one of the heist crew was actually sent by another planner--and that planner has just died. In Sugar's world, all loose threads must be cut. He suspects that there's more to this job than what Solly is telling him. But nothing he suspects or imagines can prepare him for what he finds . . .

    From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts-
  • From the book

    Whatever it was the cops had snatched me up for, they had to believe I was good for it. But not all that good. Otherwise, why go tag-team on me?One of the cops on the second shift was an older guy. He looked the way some people say all cops used to: tall, big hands, straw-colored hair. Back then, they'd say, cops would catch a kid doing something wrong, they'd kick him in the ass, send him home, and go back to walking their beat. They never paid for a meal, but nobody thought that was graft. Some might even take money from bookies or whorehouses. But never from a dope dealer.

    Maybe cops were really like that once. I don't know; I wasn't around then. I only know how they are now.

    I'll say this for the older cop: He dressed like a guy who lived on his paycheck. And he wasn't there to dance. He walked in with his partner, sat down, and threw his Sunday punch: "This one just doesn't look like your line of work, Sugar."

    That told me he was sharp enough to do more than just check me for priors. Not by calling me "Sugar." The first pair, they'd called me that, too. Sliding it out of their mouths like they knew something dirty about me. This cop, he just said it like it was my name.

    The first two cops, I think all they did was scan my record for a "Registered Sex Offender" ticket. When they didn't see one, they were out of gas; it's the only card they know how to play.

    The older cop shook his head, like he was confused about what they'd arrested me for.

    "I got to say, I don't like you for this one at all."

    "Then what am I here for?" I asked him.

    He made his eyes go sad, showing he was disappointed in me. It was a good trick. A guy who's been around as long as him, he prob­ably knew a lot of them.

    We'd already been sitting in the interrogation room for a couple of hours when he did that. Maybe it was part of his act, I don't know. But it was as clear as if somebody wrote the rules on the wall for us all to see: As long as I didn't say the magic words, we were going to play it like men. No disrespect, not in either direction.

    Those magic words could only come out of my mouth. Door Number One: "I want a lawyer." Door Number Two: "Yeah, you got me."

    I tell them I want a lawyer, they'd give me a look like I'd just screwed myself, cuff me back up, and have one of the bluecoats walk me into a holding cell.

    But if I started talking, they'd hold off until they squeezed as much juice out of the lemon as they could. Say I told them I wanted a deal. They'd tell me that I could get damn near whatever I wanted . . . depending on what I had to trade.

    The way they were working me, walking so soft, that was just to stop me from asking for a lawyer. Good cops--I don't mean like they were good guys, just good at their job--they think the same way we do. They know if you get all impatient you can mess every­thing up.

    So they stayed decent and respectful, like I said. Not kissing my ass or anything; making it just three men, talking. The way they'd figure it, so long as they could keep me talking, talking about any­thing, there was always the chance I'd take Door Number Two. Or stumble through it.

    They had to know it was a-thousand-to-one against them get­ting me to confess. And I knew it was even worse odds against me convincing them they'd grabbed the wrong guy.

    A weak hand, sure. Who hits a gutshot straight-flush draw? But I wasn't drawing dead, not yet.

    We each had our reasons for staying with it. They had all the time in the world. And that's how much time I was looking at.

    So I had to stay to see the last...

About the Author-
  • Andrew Vachss is a lawyer who represents children and youths exclusively. His many books include the Burke series and two collections of short stories, and his work has appeared in Parade, Antaeus, Esquire, Playboy, and The New York Times, among other publications. A native New Yorker, he divides his time between the city of his birth and the Pacific Northwest.

    The dedicated website for Andrew Vachss and his work is www.vachss.com.

Reviews-
  • USA Today

    "The hardest-boiled crime fiction this side of Sing Sing."

  • People "Many writers try to cover the same ground as Vachss. A handful are as good. None are better."
  • Playboy "Vachss is red hot and as serious as a punctured lung."
  • The Austin Chronicle "[Vachss writes] some of the cleanest, meanest, stripped-down-and-sparkling prose ever penned."
  • New Orleans Times-Picayune "Vachss's writing is like a dark roller-coaster ride of fear, love, and hate."
  • Detroit Free Press "There's no way to put a [Vachss book] down once you've begun."
  • The Atlanta Journal-Constitution "Andrew Vachss is a contemporary master."
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    Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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  • Copyright Protection (DRM) required by the Publisher may be applied to this title to limit or prohibit printing or copying. File sharing or redistribution is prohibited. Your rights to access this material expire at the end of the lending period. Please see Important Notice about Copyrighted Materials for terms applicable to this content.

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