"Blue Blood" is Conlon's own story, beginning with his rookie days fresh out of the academy with squeaky, shiny equipment. "Dangerously new," as he refers to it. But it also goes back and covers his cop ancestors, his New York Irish bloodline. He doesn't tell it in that dry way that you're probably accustomed to from autobiographical tomes where there's the obligatory "where I came from" chapter(s) that mostly just fills pages. Conlon did research, he looked into what the time period was like, he pulled info from NYPD and FBI files, he talked to people. And when that work was done, he set down the story in language that makes you happy to have found this book.

The same goes for the cop stories that he tells. He has a talent for relating the voice of the street and of individuals and of cops without sacrificing his own.

His writing is so concise�epitomic writing that uses only the words required to tell the story, no more and no less.

For me, even though I want to tear through it, this book is not a fast read. When I read quickly, it's because I can predict the end of a sentence based on the beginning and I can intuitively skim over phrases and clauses that don't contribute much. With Conlon, I can't do that. I'll read a sentence and Conlon will have used a simile or metaphor that's so full of flavor that I stop and read it again, because I want to savor something so good. That's why I'm only on page 68.

I'm also impressed with Conlon because now that Sara is a rookie cop and tells me stories of what the Job (Conlon capitalizes it) is like, I know that Conlon has authentically nailed the experiences and emotions of his own rookie days in a place that has mostly good people infused with a highly problematic population of thugs, thieves, pimps, child molesters, rapists, killers, bums, dealers, etc. I now trust him to do the same as I keep reading on through his years on the Job and advancement to detective.

So, if you like cop stories, crime writing or excellent non-fiction in general, click on the link to the left and buy this book, or do what I did and snatch it up at your public library because it's going to be gone soon if it's not already.

I'll leave you with a couple quotes from the book that illustrate my points.

[It's Conlon's turn to "sit on the DOA," waiting with a body for the ME and morgue crew.]

There was a phone call. I waited, then picked it up, hoping that whatever friends or family he had, whoever cared for him, would not learn of his death by accident, from a stranger.

"Is Mr. Jones at home?"

"No, he isn't."

"Is this...Mrs. Jones?"

"No." But thanks for asking.

"When will he be available?"

"No time soon."

"When should I call back?"

"Can I ask who this is?"

"Mr. Jones had recently expressed an interest in our low-cost insurance policies, and..."

"He's not interested."

"And who, may I ask, is this?"

"The police. Mr. Jones is dead, that's why I'm here."

"Well, do you think�?"

"Dead."

"There may be some�"

"Dead, dead, dead. He's stuck to the floor six feet away from me, guy, no sale."

"Have you considered whether you have all the coverage you need, Officer?"

I hung up and went back to watching television.

�from "Blue Blood" �2004 by Edward Conlon, Riverhead Books

[In a section on his parents]

I think my parents were meant for each other not because theirs was an especially happy marriage�though it was�but because they met through an undertaker called Charlie LaChance. The name of the man had a peculiar music, vaudevillian but haunting, and he lived up to its billing.

[later on the same page]

My mother's name was Elizabeth Trust, and she was known as Betty. Betty Trust is not a musical name, but it has an evocative flair, as sweet and warm and homey as a cake.

�from "Blue Blood" �2004 by Edward Conlon, Riverhead Books

[Conlon talking about getting to know the residents of his beat; this story could easily come from Sara's work day.]

Child Welfare called me because one of their workers had been harassed by a man named Larry during the investigation of a case of child neglect, and I was quick to interrupt, "That would be Crazy Larry." He sometimes dated an enormous drunk woman who had loose custody of her niece's children, and when they were on the outs, he would leave threatening notes under her door. He had somehow obtained stationery from Bronx Lebanon Hospital, but the woman was able to discern that the crude scrawl of "You got the AIDS, Bitch! Fuck you, You got the Clapp!" were not the diagnosis of a qualified physician.

[when Conlon goes to the woman's apartment for the removal of the children]

...when there was a furious pounding on the door. I inquired, "Who is it?"

The reply came: "This is the police! Who are you?"

I said, "This is the police! Who are you? Crazy Larry?"

"No, I'm the police, you're Crazy Larry!"

"No, you're Crazy Larry, I'm the police!"

"Police!"

"Crazy Larry!"

"Police!"

"Larry!"

In the end, I think I won the point because he left first. Moreover, although we both get checks from the City, I still wear a blue uniform while he yells at fire hydrants on 169th Street and Washington Avenue.

�from "Blue Blood" �2004 by Edward Conlon, Riverhead Books

Buy this book.

And you gotta see the photo of this guy on the dust jacket. He's the embodiment of every romance novel's detective who's described as "not handsome in a conventional way" but has a masculine brow, strong jaw and a nose that's maybe been broken once or twice, and these features all combine into a package that makes a girl go "Ungh."

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11