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Synopsis
The floorboards in our office always vibrated at 4:30 AM. That was when the industrial mixers in Rosie's Panaderia downstairs kicked into high gear. To anyone else, it was just the sound of breakfast being born. To Pablo and me, it was the start of the shift. We'd sit there in the dark, the room smelling of yeast and old cigarette smoke, watching the early commuters on Whittier Boulevard through the slats of the Venetian blinds. We weren't the guys who made the bread. We were the guys who watched the people who bought it. Being a detective in East L.A. in 1994 wasn't about high-speed chases or cinematic shootouts. It was about knowing which delivery trucks were running heavy, which shipping containers at the harbor weren't on the manifest, and why a "construction site accident" at the new Montebello Plaza looked a lot more like a professional execution. The city was changing. You could feel it in the air, the ozone of the coming digital age clashing with the salt of the old harbor. People were talking about the "information superhighway," but they didn't realize that every highway needs a toll booth. I looked down at my desk, at the photograph of my uncle standing in front of this very building in 1978. He'd been a driver for the wrong people, a man who got lost in a paper trail that ended at the bottom of the Port of Los Angeles. Pablo tossed a cigarette into the tin tray and pointed at the street. A black Suburban was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon "OPEN" sign from the bakery. "The delivery is early," Pablo said, his voice grating like gravel. "It's not a delivery," I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. "It's an audit." I didn't know it yet, but the bill in my pocket, a banknote that technically wouldn't exist for another two years, was about to turn our second-story office into the front line of a war for the soul of the dollar. The mixers downstairs kept humming, heavy and rhythmic, unaware that the foundation of the building was sitting on a secret that was about to blow the neighborhood wide open.
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À propos de l'auteur
About Robert Nerbovig:
I have been married for 59 years to my wife Pat. I am a former active duty Marine as are my 2 sons. We live in the mountains of Arizona. I have been programming computers for business
since 1970 and designing and developing web pages since 1996. I am familiar with computer viruses and the havoc they wreak. I am the 26th great great grandson of King Olaf of Norway.(Saint Olaf)
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
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Turbo and Pablo - Detectives in East L.A. During the 1990s - The Mall Murders (Paperback)
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Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The floorboards in our office always vibrated at 4:30 AM.That was when the industrial mixers in Rosie's Panaderia downstairskicked into high gear. To anyone else, it was just the sound of breakfast beingborn. To Pablo and me, it was the start of the shift. We'd sit there in thedark, the room smelling of yeast and old cigarette smoke, watching the earlycommuters on Whittier Boulevard through the slats of the Venetian blinds.We weren't the guys who made the bread. We were the guys who watched the peoplewho bought it.Being a detective in East L.A. in 1994 wasn't about high-speed chases orcinematic shootouts. It was about knowing which delivery trucks were runningheavy, which shipping containers at the harbor weren't onthe manifest, and why a "construction site accident" at the new Montebello Plazalooked a lot more like a professional execution.The city was changing. You could feel it in the air, the ozone of the comingdigital age clashing with the salt of the old harbor. People were talking aboutthe "information superhighway," but they didn't realize that every highway needsa toll booth.I looked down at my desk, at the photograph of my uncle standing in front ofthis very building in 1978. He'd been a driver for the wrong people, a man whogot lost in a paper trail that ended at the bottom of the Port of Los Angeles.Pablo tossed a cigarette into the tin tray and pointed at the street. A blackSuburban was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon "OPEN"sign from the bakery."The delivery is early," Pablo said, his voice grating like gravel."It's not a delivery," I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. "It's anaudit."I didn't know it yet, but the bill in my pocket, a banknote that technicallywouldn't exist for another two years, was about to turn our second-story officeinto the front line of a war for the soul of the dollar. The mixers downstairskept humming, heavy and rhythmic, unaware that the foundation of the buildingwas sitting on a secret that was about to blow the neighborhood wide open. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9798233765841
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Turbo and Pablo - Detectives in East L.A. During the 1990s - The Mall Murders (Turbo Detective Stories)
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Turbo and Pablo - Detectives in East L.A. During the 1990s - The Mall Murders (Paperback)
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Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The floorboards in our office always vibrated at 4:30 AM.That was when the industrial mixers in Rosie's Panaderia downstairskicked into high gear. To anyone else, it was just the sound of breakfast beingborn. To Pablo and me, it was the start of the shift. We'd sit there in thedark, the room smelling of yeast and old cigarette smoke, watching the earlycommuters on Whittier Boulevard through the slats of the Venetian blinds.We weren't the guys who made the bread. We were the guys who watched the peoplewho bought it.Being a detective in East L.A. in 1994 wasn't about high-speed chases orcinematic shootouts. It was about knowing which delivery trucks were runningheavy, which shipping containers at the harbor weren't onthe manifest, and why a "construction site accident" at the new Montebello Plazalooked a lot more like a professional execution.The city was changing. You could feel it in the air, the ozone of the comingdigital age clashing with the salt of the old harbor. People were talking aboutthe "information superhighway," but they didn't realize that every highway needsa toll booth.I looked down at my desk, at the photograph of my uncle standing in front ofthis very building in 1978. He'd been a driver for the wrong people, a man whogot lost in a paper trail that ended at the bottom of the Port of Los Angeles.Pablo tossed a cigarette into the tin tray and pointed at the street. A blackSuburban was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon "OPEN"sign from the bakery."The delivery is early," Pablo said, his voice grating like gravel."It's not a delivery," I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. "It's anaudit."I didn't know it yet, but the bill in my pocket, a banknote that technicallywouldn't exist for another two years, was about to turn our second-story officeinto the front line of a war for the soul of the dollar. The mixers downstairskept humming, heavy and rhythmic, unaware that the foundation of the buildingwas sitting on a secret that was about to blow the neighborhood wide open. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from our Sydney, NSW warehouse or from our UK or US warehouse, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9798233765841
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Turbo and Pablo - Detectives in East L.A. During the 1990s - The Mall Murders (Paperback)
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Paperback. Etat : new. Paperback. The floorboards in our office always vibrated at 4:30 AM.That was when the industrial mixers in Rosie's Panaderia downstairskicked into high gear. To anyone else, it was just the sound of breakfast beingborn. To Pablo and me, it was the start of the shift. We'd sit there in thedark, the room smelling of yeast and old cigarette smoke, watching the earlycommuters on Whittier Boulevard through the slats of the Venetian blinds.We weren't the guys who made the bread. We were the guys who watched the peoplewho bought it.Being a detective in East L.A. in 1994 wasn't about high-speed chases orcinematic shootouts. It was about knowing which delivery trucks were runningheavy, which shipping containers at the harbor weren't onthe manifest, and why a "construction site accident" at the new Montebello Plazalooked a lot more like a professional execution.The city was changing. You could feel it in the air, the ozone of the comingdigital age clashing with the salt of the old harbor. People were talking aboutthe "information superhighway," but they didn't realize that every highway needsa toll booth.I looked down at my desk, at the photograph of my uncle standing in front ofthis very building in 1978. He'd been a driver for the wrong people, a man whogot lost in a paper trail that ended at the bottom of the Port of Los Angeles.Pablo tossed a cigarette into the tin tray and pointed at the street. A blackSuburban was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon "OPEN"sign from the bakery."The delivery is early," Pablo said, his voice grating like gravel."It's not a delivery," I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. "It's anaudit."I didn't know it yet, but the bill in my pocket, a banknote that technicallywouldn't exist for another two years, was about to turn our second-story officeinto the front line of a war for the soul of the dollar. The mixers downstairskept humming, heavy and rhythmic, unaware that the foundation of the buildingwas sitting on a secret that was about to blow the neighborhood wide open. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from our UK warehouse or from our Australian or US warehouses, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9798233765841
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Turbo and Pablo - Detectives in East L.A. During the 1990s - The Mall Murders
impression à la demandeVendeur : AHA-BUCH GmbH, Einbeck, Allemagne
Évaluation du vendeur 5 sur 5 étoiles
Taschenbuch. Etat : Neu. nach der Bestellung gedruckt Neuware - Printed after ordering - The floorboards in our office always vibrated at 4:30 AM.That was when the industrial mixers in Rosie's Panaderia downstairskicked into high gear. To anyone else, it was just the sound of breakfast beingborn. To Pablo and me, it was the start of the shift. We'd sit there in thedark, the room smelling of yeast and old cigarette smoke, watching the earlycommuters on Whittier Boulevard through the slats of the Venetian blinds.We weren't the guys who made the bread. We were the guys who watched the peoplewho bought it.Being a detective in East L.A. in 1994 wasn't about high-speed chases orcinematic shootouts. It was about knowing which delivery trucks were runningheavy, which shipping containers at the harbor weren't onthe manifest, and why a 'construction site accident' at the new Montebello Plazalooked a lot more like a professional execution.The city was changing. You could feel it in the air, the ozone of the comingdigital age clashing with the salt of the old harbor. People were talking aboutthe 'information superhighway,' but they didn't realize that every highway needsa toll booth.I looked down at my desk, at the photograph of my uncle standing in front ofthis very building in 1978. He'd been a driver for the wrong people, a man whogot lost in a paper trail that ended at the bottom of the Port of Los Angeles.Pablo tossed a cigarette into the tin tray and pointed at the street. A blackSuburban was idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the neon 'OPEN'sign from the bakery.'The delivery is early,' Pablo said, his voice grating like gravel.'It's not a delivery,' I said, reaching for the magnifying glass. 'It's anaudit.'I didn't know it yet, but the bill in my pocket, a banknote that technicallywouldn't exist for another two years, was about to turn our second-story officeinto the front line of a war for the soul of the dollar. The mixers downstairskept humming, heavy and rhythmic, unaware that the foundation of the buildingwas sitting on a secret that was about to blow the neighborhood wide open. N° de réf. du vendeur 9798233765841
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