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Muscle MemoryReviews"Mystery lovers
will throroughly enjoy Brady and the other characters that Tapply creates.
They are sharply etched and, together with a deft narrative, make Tapply
one of the best in this genre. The plot is carefully drawn and the description
and scenes are vivid.'" "Readers will
find Tapply's Muscle Memory a pleasure. . . . Tapply integrates
Coyne's personal travails and his professional obligations, marking this
novel as a model addition in a mature series: smoothly written, accessible
to new readers, and solidly plotted. Picking up the latest Brady Coyne
novel could easily become a muscle memory--that is, for those to whom
it's not one already." "Well told and
compelling. . . . Tapply keeps you guessing right to the end." |
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Excerpted from
the Prologue to Muscle Memory: Beside me I heard Mick growl "Sonofabitch," and the next thing I knew he was looming directly behind Patsy and Paulie. He grabbed each of them by the scruff of the neck, hauled them backwards off their barstools, and dragged them toward the door. "Hey, Brady," said Mick. His voice was calm, but fury blazed in his eyes. "Gimme a hand here. Help me take out the trash." I got up, went to the door, and opened it. Patsy and Paulie were both full- grown men, but Mick stood about six-seven and weighed close to 280, and in his grasp they looked like a pair of plucked chickens being taken to slaughter by a big red-faced butcher. His huge paws nearly encircled their necks. They were gasping and flapping their arms in the helpless, doomed way a freshly- caught trout flops his tail in the bottom of a canoe. Mick flung them outside one at a time. First went Patsy, who landed on his feet, staggered across the narrow alley, and smashed against the brick wall. Paulie followed, skidding on his knees and then sprawling face-down on the hard, dirty old snowbank. Patsy stood there rubbing his neck, sucking in deep breaths, and trying to look fierce. "You donšt know who you're fuckin' with," he said. "Yeah," said Mick. "Actually I do. A couple pieces a shit, that's what." "Man," said Patsy, "you are dead fuckin' meat, pal." Paulie slowly stood up, brushed off his pants, and turned to Mick. "You know who our boss is?" "Sure," said Mick. "I'm not impressed." "Big mistake, pal," said Paulie. "You'll be hearin' from our lawyer." Mick grinned. "You know where to find me." He stepped inside, took two camelhair topcoats off the coatrack, pretended to sniff them, then threw them out into the alley. "These must be yours," he said. "Same stink." He slammed the door shut and returned to his barstool. I followed him. Skeeter came over rubbing the back of his neck. "You shouldn'ta done that, Mick. You know who those guys are?" Mick nodded. "Sure I know. Fuck 'em." "Well, I don't know," said Molly, the brunette loan officer. "Who are they? "Couple of Vinnie Russo's boys," said Mick. "Wait a minute," she said. "You mean the Vinnie Russo? That godfather guy from the North End?"
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