By Lawrence Block
"Right up there with Mr. Block's best....A DROP OF THE demanding STUFF retains us guessing."--Tom Nolan, Wall road Journal
Facing his demons in his first yr of sobriety, Matthew Scudder unearths himself at the path of a killer. whilst Scudder's youth buddy Jack Ellery is murdered, possibly whereas trying to compensate for earlier sins, Scudder reluctantly starts his personal research, with only one lead: Ellery's Alcoholics nameless checklist of individuals he wronged. considered one of them could be a killer, yet that is not inevitably Scudder's maximum probability. Immersing himself in Ellery's international could lead on him correct again to the bar stool.
In a singular largely celebrated by means of critics and readers, Lawrence Block circle again to the way it all started, reestablishing the Matthew Scudder sequence as one of many pinnacles of yank detective fiction.
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Extra info for A Drop of the Hard Stuff (Matthew Scudder)
It appeared to me that, with somewhat attempt, i'll take into account what it tasted like. i didn't personal a pitcher like this. I owned a number of water tumblers. One had a kind of bell form to it, of the sort within which drugstores offered Coca-Cola while drugstores nonetheless had soda fountains. the opposite wasn’t strictly conversing a tumbler in any respect, in that it used to be produced from plastic, in order that it wouldn’t shatter while I dropped it at the toilet ground. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass. I’d had glasses of that dimension and form while I lived with Anita and the men in Syosset. like all right suburbanite, I’d had a completely outfitted bar within the den, with all of the glasses one could be referred to as upon to supply for one’s site visitors. And, whereas no one had ever requested me to combine up a batch of old-fashioneds, that used to be the glass of selection for serving a drink at the rocks. This wasn’t one of many glasses from that set, which i may in simple terms presume have been nonetheless within the comprehensive basement of the Syosset condominium, however it was once that sort. but i'll swear I well-known the glass. It used to be simply the kind within which Jimmy Armstrong served beverages at the rocks. Or a double bourbon, directly up, no ice, if that used to be your excitement. This glass, this glass on my table, was once stuffed to inside might be a part inch of its brim with a transparent amber liquid. i used to be in a position to establish it as a bourbon known as Maker’s Mark. there is proficient humans who can have made that identity at the foundation of the colour and aroma by myself, yet i'm really not one in all them. i didn't realize the emblem quite a bit as I deduced it, and that i dependent my deduction at the presence of the bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon that stood on my table quite a few inches from the glass. I couldn’t movement. I couldn’t glance wherever yet the place i used to be looking—at the table, on the glass and the bottle. innovations speeding at me, one by one: It used to be a hallucination. there has been no bottle, no glass, no scent of whiskey. It was once a dream. I’d come domestic, I’d lain down for a snooze, and now i used to be having an impossibly vibrant inebriated dream. It used to be my sobriety that was once the semblance, the hallucination. I’d been chipping round for months, having a drink right here and a drink there, telling myself and everybody I knew that I didn’t drink anymore. however it was once all a lie, a 364-day lie, and the facts lay earlier than me, simply because I’d poured a drink sooner than I left my room that morning and there it was once, watching for me on my go back. I blinked, and it used to be nonetheless there. I pressured myself to seem away, after which seemed again, and it was once nonetheless there. I felt myself drawn towards it. i needed to technique it, to not decide it up, God no, to not contact it, yet to one way or the other make it depart. I needed to make it depart. I couldn’t allow it remain there. I don’t know the way lengthy I stood there, neither coming near near the table nor strolling clear of it. Then eventually I wrenched myself away, yanked the door open, slammed it close, locked the whiskey away in the back of it. I rushed down the corridor, didn’t even ring for the elevator. I dashed down the steps and out into the road. XXXIX in the course of MY ingesting DAYS, there have been worse issues than hangovers.