By Walter Mosley
New York Times bestselling writer Walter Mosley introduces an "astonishing character" (Los Angeles occasions ebook Review) during this acclaimed selection of entwined stories. Meet Socrates Fortlow, a tricky ex-con looking fact and redemption in South important la -- and discovering the miracle of survival.
"I both devoted against the law or had a criminal offense performed to me on a daily basis i used to be in prison. when you visit criminal you belong there." Socrates Fortlow has performed his time: twenty-seven years for homicide and rape, acts cast by way of his large, rock-breaking palms. Now, he has come domestic to a brand new form of criminal: battered rooms in an deserted development in Watts. operating for the Bounty grocery store, and relocating perilously with reference to invisibility, it's Socrates who throws a lifeline to a drowning guy: younger Darryl, whose shaky direction is already bloodstained and fearsome. In a spot of violence and hopelessness, Socrates bargains up his personal battle-scarred knowledge that may flip the realm round.
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Extra resources for Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned
She moved her head in a peculiar gesture of the neck, deliberately forcing her injury on me. She paused when she reached the doorway, waiting for me to step out of her way. I looked down at the scar tissue on her face, a seam left by an invisible zip three inches long, running from the corner of her right eye to the apex of her mouth. With the naso-labial fold this new line formed an image like the palm-lines of a sensitive and elusive hand. Reading an imaginary biography into this history of the skin, I visualized her as a glamorous but overworked medical student, breaking out of a long adolescence when she qualified as a doctor into a series of uncertain sexual affairs, happily climaxed by a deep emotional and genital union with her engineer husband, each ransacking the other's body like Crusoe stripping his ship.
His hand had struck some rigid object as he was hurled from his seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by his dying circulation into a huge blood-blister - the triton signature of my radiator emblem. Supported by her diagonal seat belt, his wife sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her handsome face, topped by a broad, intelligent forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins.
This bogus commiseration over the dead man irritated me, merely an excuse for an exercise in moral gymnastics. The brusqueness of the young nurses was part of the same pantomime of regret. I had thought for hours about the dead man, visualizing the effects of his death on his wife and family. I had thought of his last moments alive, frantic milliseconds of pain and violence in which he had been catapulted from a pleasant domestic interlude into a concertina of metallized death. These feelings existed within my relationship with the dead man, within the reality of the wounds on my chest and legs, and within the unforgettable collision between my own body and the interior of my car.