The jarring uncertainty of that “or not” and the rat-a-tat-tat, connect-the-dots, present-tense prose are the hard-boiled tattoos that mark–and sometimes disfigure–Charles Bowden’s “Down by the River.” Bowden, whose work on this book resulted in at least one contract on his head (or not), is superb at capturing the gauzy, surreally violent nature of the drug trade. And, with the war on terror eclipsing the war on drugs as this country’s leading rhetorical battleground, Bowden’s book is all the more vital as a reminder of the failure and the hypocrisy of many of America’s drug policies.
Bowden, a modern-day Edward Abbey of the American Southwest (and the drug culture), has long delighted in boring into subjects the mainstream media blow through. In “River,” numbing compendiums of murder, money and corruption contrast starkly with the heartbreaking story of Phil Jordan, whom Bowden trailed for years. By the end of the book, he’s unemployed and heavily in debt, desperately plugging in the birth dates of his alien-ated loved ones on lottery tickets, hoping for that one big score.
“Down by the River” will be lapped up by Bowden’s eager fans, who’ve come to love his persona as much as his prose. Despite the occasional mannerisms, it deserves to be read by everyone else, too.
