4.4
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14,098 ratings
INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER One of Barack Obama's Recommended Reads for Summer • New York Times Notable Book • NPR’s Best Books of 2021 • Washington Post’s Best Thriller and Mystery Books of the Year • TIME Magazine’s 100 Must-Read Books of 2021 • New York Public Library’s Best Books of the Year • Goodreads Choice Award Nominee • Book of the Month’s Book of the Year Finalist
“Provocative, violent ― beautiful and moving, too.” ―Washington Post
“Superb...Cuts right to the heart of the most important questions of our times.” ―Michael Connelly
“A tour de force – poignant, action-packed, and profound.” ―Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
A Black father. A white father. Two murdered sons. A quest for vengeance.
Ike Randolph has been out of jail for fifteen years, with not so much as a speeding ticket in all that time. But a Black man with cops at the door knows to be afraid.
The last thing he expects to hear is that his son Isiah has been murdered, along with Isiah’s white husband, Derek. Ike had never fully accepted his son but is devastated by his loss.
Derek’s father Buddy Lee was almost as ashamed of Derek for being gay as Derek was ashamed of his father's criminal record. Buddy Lee still has contacts in the underworld, though, and he wants to know who killed his boy.
Ike and Buddy Lee, two ex-cons with little else in common other than a criminal past and a love for their dead sons, band together in their desperate desire for revenge. In their quest to do better for their sons in death than they did in life, hardened men Ike and Buddy Lee will confront their own prejudices about their sons and each other, as they rain down vengeance upon those who hurt their boys.
Provocative and fast-paced, S. A. Cosby's Razorblade Tears is a story of bloody retribution, heartfelt change - and maybe even redemption.
“A visceral full-body experience, a sharp jolt to the heart, and a treat for the senses…Cosby's moody southern thriller marries the skillful action and plotting of Lee Child with the atmosphere and insight of Attica Locke.” ―NPR
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ISBN-10
1250252717
ISBN-13
978-1250252715
Print length
336 pages
Language
English
Publisher
Flatiron Books
Publication date
April 04, 2022
Dimensions
5.35 x 0.85 x 8.2 inches
Item weight
2.31 pounds
Human beings were wired to get used to just about anything. That didn’t make you hard. It made you indoctrinated.
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It didn’t seem fair for a man to mourn someone abundantly that he had loved so miserly.
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This is who I am. I can’t change. I don’t want to, really. But for once I’m gonna put this devil inside me to good use.
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B08FGVMHNG
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4701 KB
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Supported
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Enabled
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Enabled
“Cosby’s prose is vibrant and inventive, his action exuberant and relentless…You may come for the setup, but you’ll stay for the storytelling. Cosby writes in a spirit of generous abundance and gleeful abandon.” ―New York Times Book Review
“S.A. Cosby’s new crime novel is provocative, violent ― beautiful and moving, too…Elmore Leonard, wherever you are, you’ve got competition…S.A. Cosby has reappeared as one of the most muscular, distinctive, grab-you-by-both-ears voices in American crime fiction.” ―Washington Post
“Razorblade Tears is superb. No doubt, S. A. Cosby is not only the future of crime fiction but of any fiction where the words are strong, the characters are strong and the story has a resonance that cuts right to the heart of the most important questions of our times.” ―Michael Connelly, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“A tour de force – poignant, action-packed, and profound.” ―Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“A visceral full-body experience, a sharp jolt to the heart, and a treat for the senses…Cosby's moody southern thriller marries the skillful action and plotting of Lee Child with the atmosphere and insight of Attica Locke.” ―NPR
“Stunningly poignant and brutally profound…Cosby gives readers a unique take on a revenge narrative, one propelled by furious action and two incredibly authentic and compelling main characters.” ―Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Utterly unique…Cosby wisely tweaks the formula, mixing in biting humor and frank confrontations about race and sexuality amid the mayhem…Riding shotgun with the violence, though, is also great beauty ― in descriptions of the grief of a community, in the fathers’ stirring awareness of the true meaning of love and even in Cosby’s reverence for the vibrant natural world (a sunset “dipping lower than a ballroom dancer”).” ―Los Angeles Times
“Cosby has crossed Elmore Leonard with Walter Mosley to produce the thrill ride of the summer…Sounds like the perfect vehicle for a Will Smith/Bradley Cooper summer blockbuster…Cosby’s writing is cinematic, with action-movie sequences and dialogue that’s more buddy movie than noir…Razorblade Tears is an instant classic.” ―Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“An action-packed story that starts strong and accelerates, Razorblade Tears also is an insightful story about racism, homophobia, parenting, classism, squandered chances and seized opportunities…Razorblade Tears combines the best of thought-provoking fiction, character studies and hard-charging action.” ―South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“[A] powerful thriller…Equal parts a bloody Tarantino film ― think “Kill Bill” ― and a saga of redemption by fire, both men needing to avenge their boys’ deaths to atone for failing them in life…I agree with the hype. Razorblade Tears may run only 300 or so pages, but it’s an epic.” ―Washington Independent Review of Books
“Following Blacktop Wasteland was one hell of a challenge, but S. A. Cosby doesn't merely deliver, he ups his game with Razorblade Tears, a story that addresses the big questions while never losing sight of the characters at its core. Taut, tense, and thoughtful, Razorblade Tears confirms Cosby as one of the most important new voices in contemporary fiction, period.” ―Michael Koryta, New York Times bestselling author of Those Who Wish Me Dead
“A violent noir revenge story you can't stop reading. One of my favorite books of the summer.” ―R. L. Stine, bestselling author
"A powerful blend of pulsing action, sensitive and subtle character interaction, and uncompromising but highly nuanced reflection on racism and homophobia…Few novels marry tough and tender, head-banging and coming-of-age, as seamlessly as this one does, but that's no surprise from a supremely talented writer who keeps getting better.” ―Booklist, starred review
“A lean, mean crime story...Fast on its feet, by turns lethal and tender…This is a bloody good yarn with two compelling antiheroes you’ll root for from the start.” ―Kirkus, starred review
“Simultaneously a contemplative mystery and a stunning thrill ride. A master of his craft, Cosby balances incredibly complicated characters with enveloping suspense and some of the most captivatingly violent scenes that you will ever read…Cosby’s writing is both fearless and sympathetic, exhibiting his formidable intellect alongside vivid imagery, sharp wit and intricate plot lines." ―BookPage, starred review
“[Cosby’s] story of fathers and sons, of men learning to respect others’ lives, has an unexpected depth for such a violent, confrontational book. This powerful book should be in every library.” ―Library Journal, starred review
“A double-barreled action saga that brings to mind the mayhem of early Dashiell Hammett and the bedlam of vintage Sam Peckinpah. Leavening the violence is the salty banter of two bereaved fathers who turn out to be, for better and worse, much more alike than they suspected.” ―Wall Street Journal
“S.A. Cosby blew us away with last year’s searing heist thriller/rural noir Blacktop Wasteland, and with Razorblade Tears he’s done it again. In a heartbreaking tale of love, murder, vengeance, and acceptance, two ex-cons, one Black and one white, team up to find those responsible for the death of their sons, who were married to each other…Shattering and beautiful, this is a must-read for genre and literary fiction fans alike.” ―CrimeReads
“S. A. Cosby is a once-in-a-generation storyteller ― and he's only getting started. In Razorblade Tears, Cosby delivers a jaw-dropping thriller of vengeance, cruelty, and heart. His iconic voice, cinematic prose, and brilliant plotting will have you hearing an 80-piece orchestra at full crescendo as you race towards an ending so explosive, you'll literally duck for cover. This book is far more than a work of art; it's the gold standard.” ―P. J. Vernon, author of Bath Haus
“The mystery community has been raving about Blacktop Wasteland, in my mind, the best novel of last year. Believe it or not, this book is even better...This book is not only an exciting thriller, there is much depth to the writing, as well. Race, LGBT, class structure is all covered here…The plot is totally compelling and the pacing is relentless, overall. I could not put it down...Highly, highly recommended.” ―Deadly Pleasure Magazine
“The very definition of a white-knuckle ride…don’t know when I last read such a bruising book about bruised people.” ―Ian Rankin, New York Times bestselling author
“A harrowing portrait of two fathers grappling with their messy pasts amid a violent present in the American South.” ―TIME
“Buckets of blood are spilled, but in a volume that's proportional to the amount of soul-searching going on and the number of jokes being cracked…Razorblade Tears ups the ante by introducing characters forced to grapple with their thoughts on homosexuality and interracial love while Confederate flags fly around the...S. A. Cosby's terrific follow-up to Blacktop Wasteland is another rustic noir centered on a Black man with a checkered past who feels forced to jeopardize his straight-arrow status.” ―Shelf Awareness, starred review
“Gripping and fast-paced, this is an immensely entertaining read. The laconic protagonists, on a mission to avenge their sons’ murders and make amends for their own shortcomings as fathers, meet some fantastically nasty bad guys, and the results are deeply satisfying. There is a real humanity in the storytelling which elevates this thriller to another league. Highly recommended.” ―Alex George, bestselling author of The Paris Hours
“If you prefer your summer reads to be grab-you-by-the-throat sort, be sure to check out Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby...Cosby’s deft blue-collar characterization and powerful, high-octane prose will thrill fans of Dennis Lehane, Walter Mosely and Don Winslow.” ―Shawnee Mission Post
“Fast-paced but moving thriller…The exuberant but choreographed violence in Razorblade Tears might remind you of Quentin Tarantino’s films...like [Elmore Leonard], Cosby can create a vivid character sketch in a few lines and knows how to counter the darkest situations with humor…His voice is his own, his characters engaging and surprising, his narrative skill impressive.” ―Tampa Bay Times
“Graphic, explosive, cinematic story-telling at its finest… Razorblade Tears is crime fiction as raw, gutsy and hardcore as it comes . . . definitely not for the faint of heart… Highly recommended for fans of hardcore crime fiction and great, heartfelt storytelling everywhere.” ―mysteryandsuspense.com
“Cosby’s talents for pungent dialogue and Chandler-esque phrase-making…[are] evident again in this pulsating follow-up, which oddly but fruitfully combines progressive values…with the mayhem-packed chronicle of an atavistic pursuit of revenge.” ―Times of London
“A nuanced take on contemporary race and LGBTQ issues of a type not commonly found in crime fiction. Chalk up another winner to Cosby.” ―Publishers Weekly
“A vivid, tense thriller...reminiscent of another superlative black American writer, Attica Locke…Ferociously gripping.” ―Financial Times (UK)
“It’s a rare trick to combine violence with social commentary, but Cosby pulls it off.” ―Daily Mail
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ONE
Ike tried to remember a time when men with badges coming to his door early in the morning brought anything other than heartache and misery, but try as he might, nothing came to mind.
The two men stood side by side on the small concrete landing of his front step with their hands on their belts near their badges and their guns. The morning sun made the badges glimmer like gold nuggets. The two cops were a study in contrast. One was a tall but wiry Asian man. He was all sharp angles and hard edges. The other, a florid-faced white man, was built like a powerlifter with a massive head sitting atop a wide neck. They both wore white dress shirts with clip-on ties. The powerlifter had sweat stains spreading down from his armpits that vaguely resembled maps of England and Ireland respectively.
Ike’s queasy stomach began to do somersaults. He was fifteen years removed from Coldwater State Penitentiary. He had bucked the recidivism statistics ever since he’d walked out of that festering wound. Not so much as a speeding ticket in all those years. Yet here he was with his tongue dry and the back of his throat burning as the two cops stared down at him. It was bad enough being a Black man in the good ol’ US of A and talking to the cops. You always felt like you were on the edge of some imaginary precipice during any interaction with an officer of the law. If you were an ex-con, it felt like the precipice was covered in bacon grease.
“Yes?” Ike said.
“Sir, I’m Detective LaPlata. This is my partner, Detective Robbins. May we come in?”
“What for?” Ike asked. LaPlata sighed. It came out low and long like the bottom note in a blues song. Ike tensed. LaPlata glanced at Robbins. Robbins shrugged. LaPlata’s head dipped down, then he raised it again. Ike had learned to pick up on body language when he was inside. There was no aggression in their stances. At least not any more than what most cops exuded on a normal twelve-hour shift. The way LaPlata’s head had dropped was almost … sad.
“Do you have a son named Isiah Randolph?” he said finally.
That was when he knew. He knew it like he knew when a fight was about to break out in the yard. Like he knew when a crackhead was going to try to stab him for a bag back in the day. Like he knew, just knew in his gut, that his homeboy Luther had seen his last sunset that night he’d gone home with that girl from the Satellite Bar.
It was like a sixth sense. A preternatural ability to sense a tragedy seconds before it became a reality.
“What’s happened to my son, Detective LaPlata?” Ike asked, already knowing the answer. Knowing it in his bones. Knowing his life would never be the same.
TWO
It was a beautiful day for a funeral.
Snow white clouds rolled across an azure sky. Despite it being the first week of April the air was still crisp and cool. Of course, since this was Virginia, it could be raining buckets in the next ten minutes, then hot as the devil’s backside an hour later.
A sage-green tent covered the remaining mourners and two caskets. The minister grabbed a handful of dirt from the pile that sat just outside the tent. The pile was covered by a weathered artificial grass rug. He moved to the head of the caskets.
“Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.” The minister’s voice echoed through the cemetery as he sprinkled dirt on both caskets. He skipped the part about the general resurrection and the last days. The funeral director stepped forward. He was a short chubby man with a charcoal complexion that matched his suit. Despite the mild conditions, his face was slick with sweat. It was as if his body were responding to the calendar and not the thermometer.
“This concludes the services for Derek Jenkins and Isiah Randolph. The family thanks you for your attendance. You may go in peace,” he said. His voice didn’t have the same theatricality as the minister’s. It barely carried beyond the tent.
Ike Randolph let go of his wife’s hand. She slumped against him. Ike stared down at his hands. His empty hands. Hands that had held his boy when he was barely ten minutes old. The hands that had shown him how to tie his shoes. The hands that had rubbed salve on his chest when he’d had the flu. That had waved goodbye to him in court with shackles tight around his wrists. Rough callused hands that he hid in his pockets when Isiah’s husband had offered to shake them.
Ike dropped his chin to his chest.
The little girl sitting in her lap played with Mya’s braids. Ike looked at the girl. Skin the color of honey with hair to match. Arianna had just turned three the week before her parents died. Did she have any inkling of what was happening? When Mya had told her that her daddies were asleep, she seemed to accept it without too much trouble. He envied the elasticity of her mind. She could wrap her head around this in a way that he couldn’t.
“Ike, that’s our boy in there. That’s our baby,” Mya wailed. He flinched when she spoke. It was like hearing a rabbit scream in a trap. Ike heard the folding chairs squeak and whine as people rose and headed to the parking lot. He felt hands flutter against his back and shoulders. Words of encouragement were mumbled with half-hearted sincerity. It wasn’t that folks didn’t care. It was that they knew those words did little to soothe the wound in his soul. Speaking those platitudes and clichéd homilies seemed disingenuous, but what else could they do? It was what you did when someone died. It was as axiomatic as bringing a casserole to the repast.
The crowd was thin, and it didn’t take long for the chairs to empty. In less than five minutes the only people in the cemetery were Ike, Mya, Arianna, the gravediggers, and a man Ike vaguely recognized as Derek’s father. A lot of Ike’s family hadn’t shown up for the service. As far as he could tell, only a few of Derek’s people had bothered to attend. Most of the mourners were Isiah and Derek’s friends. Ike noticed Derek’s family members. They stood out among the bearded hipsters and androgynous ladies that made up Derek and Isiah’s social circle. Lean wiry men and women with hard flinty eyes and sun-worn faces. They wore blue collars around their red necks. As the sermon neared the thirty-minute mark, he’d watched their faces begin to bloom with crimson. That was when the minister mentioned how no sin was unforgivable. Even abominable sins could be forgiven by a benevolent God.
Arianna pulled one of Mya’s braids.
“Stop it, girl!” Mya said. It came out sharp. Arianna was silent for a moment. Ike knew what was coming next. That pregnant pause was the prelude to the waterworks. Isiah used to do the same thing.
Arianna began to howl. Her screams pierced the quiet contemplativeness of the funeral and rang in Ike’s ears. Mya tried to soothe her. She apologized and brushed her forehead. Arianna took a deep breath, then began to scream louder.
“Take her to the car. I’ll be there in a minute,” Ike said.
“Ike, I ain’t going nowhere. Not yet,” Mya snapped. Ike stood.
“Please Mya. Take her to the car. Just give me a few minutes, then I’ll come and watch her and you can come back,” Ike said. His voice almost cracked. Mya stood. She pulled Arianna close to her chest.
“You say what you gotta say.” She turned and headed for the car. Arianna’s cries withered to whimpers as they walked away. Ike put his hand on the black casket with the gold trim. His boy was in there. His son was in this rectangular container. Packed and preserved like some cured meat. The breeze picked up, making the tassels hanging from the edge of the tent flap like the wings of a dying bird. Derek was in the silver casket with the black trim. Isiah was being buried next to his husband. They’d died together and now they’d rest together.
Derek’s father rose from his seat. He was a lean and weathered piece of work with a shock of shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. He walked up to the foot of the caskets and stood next to Ike. The gravediggers busied themselves with shovel inspections as they waited for these two men, the last of the mourners, to leave. The lean man scratched at his chin. A gray shadow of a beard covered the bottom half of his face. He coughed, cleared his throat, then coughed again. When he got that under control, he turned toward Ike.
“Buddy Lee Jenkins. Derek’s father. I don’t think we ever officially met, ” Buddy Lee said. He held out his hand.
“Ike Randolph.” He took Buddy Lee’s hand and pumped it up and down twice, then let it go. They stood at the foot of the coffins, silent as stones. Buddy Lee coughed again.
“Was you at the wedding reception?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike shook his head.
“Me neither,” Buddy Lee said.
“I think I saw you at their girl’s birthday party last year,” Ike said.
“Yeah, I was there but I didn’t stay long.” Buddy Lee sucked his teeth as he adjusted his sport coat. “Derek was ashamed of me. Can’t say I much blame him,” Buddy Lee said. Ike didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.
“I just wanna thank you and your wife for getting everything straight. I couldn’t afford to put them away this nice. And Derek’s mama couldn’t be bothered,” Buddy Lee said.
“Wasn’t us. They had things already taken care of. They’d set up some kind of prepaid funeral package. We just had to sign some papers,” Ike said.
“Man. Was you setting up funeral arrangements at twenty-seven? I know I sure wasn’t. Hell, I couldn’t set up a fucking paper route at twenty-seven,” Buddy Lee said. Ike ran his hand over his son’s casket. Whatever moment he had imagined having was ruined now.
“That tat on your hand, that’s Black God’s ink, ain’t it?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike studied his hands. The indistinct drawings of a lion with two scimitars above its head on his right hand and the word RIOT on his left had been his silent companions since his second year in Coldwater State Penitentiary.
Ike put his hands in his pockets.
“That was a long time ago,” Ike said. Buddy Lee sucked his teeth again.
“Where’d you do your time? I did a nickel at Red Onion. Some hard fellas out that way. Met a few BG boys out there.”
“I don’t mean no harm, but it ain’t really something I like to talk about,” Ike said.
“Well, I don’t mean no harm, but if you don’t like talking about it, why don’t you get the tat covered up? Shit, from what I hear, they can do that in an hour,” Buddy Lee said. Ike took his hands out of his pockets. He looked down at the black lion on his hand. The lion was standing on a crude map of the state.
“Just because I don’t wanna talk about it doesn’t mean I want to forget about it. It reminds me of why I don’t ever wanna go back,” Ike said. “I’m gonna leave you with your boy now.” He turned and started to walk away.
“You ain’t gotta go. It’s too late for me and him,” Buddy Lee said. “Too late for you and your boy, too.” Ike stopped. He half turned back toward Buddy Lee.
“What you mean by that?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee ignored the question.
“When he was fourteen, I caught Derek kissing another boy down by the creek in the woods behind our trailer. Took off my belt and beat him like a runaway … like he stole something. I called him names. Told him he was a pervert. I whupped him till his legs was covered with welts. He cried and cried. Saying he was sorry. He didn’t know why he was like that. You never got into it with your boy like that? Never? I dunno, maybe you was a better daddy than I was,” Buddy Lee said. Ike adjusted his jaw.
“Why we talking about this?” Ike said. Buddy Lee shrugged.
“If I could just talk to Derek for five minutes, you know what I’d say? ‘I don’t give a damn who you fucking. Not one bit.’ What you think you’d say to your boy?” Buddy Lee said. Ike stared at him. Stared through him. He noticed tears clinging to the corners of the man’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. Ike ground his teeth so hard he thought his molars might crack.
“I’m going,” Ike said. He stomped toward his car.
“You think they gonna catch who did it?” Buddy Lee shouted after him. Ike picked up his pace. When he reached the car, the minister was just leaving the parking lot. Ike watched as he creeped by in a jet-black BMW. Rev. J. T. Johnson’s profile was sharp enough to slice cheese. He never turned his head or acknowledged Ike and Mya at all.
Ike jogged down the driveway. He caught the minister before he turned onto the highway. Ike tapped on his window. Rev. Johnson lowered the glass. Ike dropped to his haunches and extended his hand into the car.
“I guess I should thank you for preaching my son’s funeral,” Ike said. Rev. Johnson grasped Ike’s hand and pumped it up and down a few times.
“No need to thank me, Ike,” Rev. Johnson said. His deep rich baritone rumbled out of his chest like a freight train on greased tracks. He tried to pull his hand away but Ike gripped it tight.
“I’m supposed to thank you but I just can’t.” He gripped Rev. Johnson’s hand tighter. The minister winced. “I just gotta ask you, why did you preach the funeral?”
Rev. Johnson frowned. “Ike, Mya asked—”
“I know Mya asked you to do it. What I’m asking you is why did you do it? Because I can tell you didn’t want to,” Ike said. He tightened his grip on Johnson’s hand.
“Ike, my hand…”
“You kept talking about abominable sin. Over and over. You thought my son was an abomination?” Ike asked.
“Ike, I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. I might just cut grass for a living but I know an insult when I hear it. You think my son was some kind of monster and you made sure everybody at his funeral knew it. My boy was less than five feet away from you, and you couldn’t shut the fuck up about how his sins were forgivable. His abominable sins.”
“Ike, please…” Rev. Johnson said. A line of cars was forming behind the good minister’s BMW.
“You didn’t say nothing about him being a reporter. Or that he graduated top of his class at VCU. You didn’t talk about him winning the state basketball championship in high school. You just kept talking about abominations. I don’t know what you thought he was, but he was just…” Ike paused. The word caught in his throat like a chicken bone.
“Please let go of my hand,” Rev. Johnson gasped.
“My son wasn’t no fucking abomination!” Ike said. His voice was as cold as a mountain stream flowing over river rocks. He gripped Rev. Johnson’s hand tighter. He felt metacarpals grinding to powder. Rev. Johnson groaned.
“Ike, let him go!” Mya said. Ike turned his head to the right. His wife was standing outside their car. The line behind them was ten deep. Ike released Rev. Johnson’s hand. The minister spun tires as he rocketed onto the highway. Ike marveled at how fast the German engineering carried Rev. Johnson away.
Ike walked back to his car. Mya got in the passenger seat as he slid in the driver’s side. She crossed her arms over her narrow chest and leaned her head against the window.
“What was all that about?” she asked. Ike turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear.
“You heard what he was saying in his sermon. You know what he was saying about Isiah,” Ike said. Mya sighed.
“Like you haven’t said worse. But now that he’s dead you want to defend him?” Mya asked. Ike gripped the steering wheel.
“I loved him. I did. Just as much as you,” Ike said between clenched teeth.
“Really? Where was this love when he was getting picked on morning, noon, and night in school? Oh, that’s right, you were locked up. He needed your love then. Not now that he’s in the ground,” Mya said. Tears rolled down her face. Ike worked his jaw up and down like he was biting the tension between them.
“That’s why I taught him how to fight when I came home,” Ike said.
“Well, that’s what you know best, ain’t it?” Mya asked. Ike clenched his teeth.
“Do you want to go back over there and—” Ike started to say.
“Just take us home,” Mya sobbed.
He stepped on the gas and pulled out of the cemetery parking lot.
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S.A. Cosby
S.A. Cosby is the New York Times national best selling award-winning author from Southeastern Virginia. His books include MY DARKEST PRAYER, Blacktop Wasteland, Amazon's #1 Mystery and Thriller of the Year and #3 Best Book of 2020 overall, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice, Winner of the LA Times Book Award for Mystery or Thrillers and a Goodreads Choice Awards Semifinalist and the winner of the ITW award for hard cover book of the year, the Macavity for best novel of the year, the Anthony, The Barry , a honorable mention from the ALA Black Caucus and was a finalists for the CWA Golden Dagger. He is also author of the best selling RAZORBLADE TEARS which also won the Anthony, The Barry , The Macivity and The ITW award and The Dashiell Hammett award. His book ALL THE SINNERS BLEED was nominated for The Lefty The Edgar and The LA Times Book award and The ALA book award His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, and his story "Slant-Six" was selected as a Distinguished Story in Best American Mystery Stories for 2016. His short story "The Grass Beneath My Feet" won the Anthony Award for Best Short Story in 2019.his short story NOT MY CROSS TO BEAR won the Anthony in 2022.His writing has been called "gritty and heartbreaking" and "dark, thrilling and tragic" and "raw ,emotional and profound "
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Customer reviews
4.4 out of 5
14,098 global ratings
H. P.
5
I enjoyed Blacktop Wasteland; Razorblade Tears blew me away
Reviewed in the United States on July 22, 2021
Verified Purchase
“This is who I am. I can’t change. I don’t want to, really. But for once I’m gonna put this devil inside me to good use.”
S.A. Cosby impressed me with Blacktop Wasteland. He absolutely blew me away with Razorblade Tears.
A killer premise is always a good start. Ike Randolph and Buddy Lee are plenty different. Ike is black; Buddy Lee is white. Ike built a business from the ground up and employs crews of workers; Buddy Lee’s work history is checkered at best. Ike is a comfortable business and home owner; Buddy Lee lives in a dilapidated single-wide trailer with a window unit that pushes around lukewarm air. Ike is happily married; Buddy Lee hasn’t been in a serious relationship since his son’s mom left him. But they have a few things in common too. Both did time in prison. Both have ample capacity to deal out violence. Neither could accept their son’s homosexuality. Their sons who were married to each other. Who were just murdered.
To paraphrase Solomon Kane, men will die for that.
Ike isn’t quick to go back to that old life, to be Riot Randolph again. He has a lot to lose now—a home, a business, a wife, a granddaughter. He knows the danger of going back to that dark place is more than physical. Buddy Lee feels different, though, and Buddy Lee talks him into it. Ike and Buddy Lee have more than skin color and the rest of the stuff I mentioned above that makes him different. Ike is all about bottling up his ungovernable rage. Buddy Lee is happy-go-lucky with a quip for everything and lets his rage fly freely. Both men have plenty of rage to spread around with the blood.
The contrast really works. I can see plenty of myself in both characters, and the characters play off of each other. The conflict of personality between the two helps drive the narrative, along with the conflict conflict and their conflicting emotions toward their sons. They loved their sons but couldn’t accept them. They realize the error of their ways now, but it is too late and men do not change their worldview overnight.
Ike and Buddy Lee set about getting to the bottom of why their sons got killed in what looks like a less-than-random way. Which isn’t to say this is a mystery. Ike and Buddy Lee are killers, not investigators. They lack the skills to find the killers, but start knocking heads around and the killers are liable to come find you. They can handle themselves just fine from there.
One reason I love country noir is how comfortably it sits in the overlap between literary and pulp, often showcasing the best of both worlds. Razorblade Tears is killer from either perspective. The subject matter is heavy and handled with gravity. The character arcs are rich. The prose is elegant and deep. The action comes early and often. The violence is visceral. The revenge is sweet. The pacing is propulsive. Don’t get fooled into thinking people are praising this book because it’s trendy—it’s the real deal, and for all the depth it works completely from a pulp perspective.
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17 people found this helpful
Ms. tiptress
5
Best dad award 💙💚
Reviewed in the United States on June 9, 2024
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I love Ike and Buddy Lee😍. Best dad redemption award ever! These 2 were bad ass! I swear I was watching the punisher! 2 most unlikely characters building a tight bond over the deaths of their gay 🌈 sons. I am in love.
Action was packed, end to end. Even during the times that buddy Lee and Ike were bonding, the action didn't stop. There is so much naked truth in this story. So much pain, grief, love, sorrow, empathy 🥺. I mean I felt all the feels.
Pure satisfaction! Now, I have to find me a buddy Lee truck! 💙💚💙
A happy pride read A fathers day read A must read !
Theme: Love is pure, love is unconditional, love takes time and understanding.
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2 people found this helpful
Scott Semegran
5
A Thrilling Crime Novel With a Deep Emotional Core
Reviewed in the United States on September 8, 2023
Verified Purchase
Razorblade Tears was released in July 2021 and it had been on my TBR list for quite some time. I’m glad I finally got around to reading this blisteringly emotional crime thriller. As the book description states, Ike and Buddy Lee are fathers whose sons were married to each other, yet Ike and Buddy Lee were estranged from their boys. Ike and Buddy Lee didn’t meet each other until their sons’ funerals, after being ruthlessly murdered for unknown reasons. The fathers were reluctant to speak to each other at first. But when Buddy Lee spots a tattoo on Ike’s arm, he realizes they both have a shared past of incarceration. Buddy Lee finds Ike around town and suggest they look for their sons’ killer. Ike hesitates at first, but when the police seemingly do nothing as far as investigating, both fathers come together with the common goal of bringing their sons justice.
Cosby excels at pushing the crime narrative along, the chapters are short and packed with action, bristling with clever metaphors and similes. But where Cosby really shines is his ability to mine the deep emotional trauma and regret from both fathers who realize their shortcomings as parents and husbands and men. Both Ike and Buddy Lee were easily lured into a life of crime when they were young men, both regretting choices they made and the absence in their sons’ lives while being incarcerated. They both also regret not taking the time to understand their sons and their sexuality, knowing that it’s too late to reconcile this with their deceased sons.
Cosby also weaves in discussions about race and class between Ike and Buddy Lee and as they become closer from their shared mission of justice, they begin to understand each other better, realizing they have a lot more in common than they initially thought. But ultimately, this is a crime thriller and this emotional tapestry that Cosby weaves makes their desire to find justice for their sons all the more palpable and provocative, even justifiable. The conclusion is deeply satisfying. I will definitely be reading more of Cosby’s books in the near future.
I really enjoyed this novel and I highly recommend it. I would give this book six stars if I could, but will stick with the usual max of five stars.
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22 people found this helpful
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