Killing Them Softly

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“A uniquely gifted writer … who does at least as well by the Hogarthian Boston he knows as Raymond Chandler once did for Southern California.”

—The New York Times

“Superb … Higgins is a complete novelist. His work will be read when the work of competing writers has been forgotten.”

—Chicago Daily News

“Brilliant … Higgins is a master stylist.”

—New York Post

“George V. Higgins’s mastery of the patois of the Boston criminal class is legendary.”

—San Jose Mercury News

AMATO IN A GRAY SUIT with a muted red stripe, textured pink shirt with his initials on the left French cuff, a maroon and gold tie, sat at the kidney-shaped, walnut veneer desk and stared. “I got to give it to you,” he said, “you’re a great-looking couple of guys. Come in here about four hours late, you look like shit and you stink. The fuck, you look like you just got out of jail or something.”

“His fault,” the first one said. “He was late. I stood around there and I waited for him.”

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