By Victor LaValle
Humans movement to long island trying to find magic and not anything will persuade them it isn't there.
Charles Thomas Tester hustles to place meals at the desk, retain the roof over his father's head, from Harlem to Flushing Meadows to purple Hook. He understands what magic a go well with can solid, the invisibility a guitar case delivers, and the curse written on his pores and skin that draws the attention of rich white fogeys and their law enforcement officials. but if he provides an occult tome to a reclusive sorceress within the center of Queens, Tom opens a door to a deeper realm of magic, and earns the eye of items top left sleeping.
A typhoon that may swallow the realm is construction in Brooklyn. Will Black Tom stay to determine it break?
"LaValle's novella of sorcery and skullduggery in Jazz Age big apple is a powerful instance of what bizarre fiction can and may do."
— Laird Barron, writer of The attractive factor That Awaits Us All
"[LaValle] reinvents superseded literary conventions, fairly the ghettos of style and ethnicity that lengthy divided severe literature from well known fiction."
— compliment for The satan in Silver from Elizabeth Hand, writer of Radiant Days
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Extra info for The Ballad of Black Tom
Honey, why would I want to bring Mr. " She made no answer. " Chris prodded her daughter. " It wasn't a question, but a sullen statement. Chris exploded into a laugh. "Oh, my baby, of course not! What on earth are you talking about? Mr. Dennings? " "I like pizzas, but I wouldn't ever marry one! " "I love your daddy, honey; I'll always love your daddy. Mr. " "You heard what? " Whirling slivers of doubt in the eyes; hesitation; then a shrug of dismissal "I don't know. " "Can I read? " "Sure. " Chris blew her a kiss from the door and them closed it.
I'll show you. " "You do that" Her fingertips on the planchette, Regan stared at the board with eyes drawn tight in concentration. " A second... five... ten... twenty... " More seconds. Chris was surprised. She'd expected her daughter to slide the planchette to the section marked Yes. Oh, for pete's sake, what now? An unconscious hostility? Oh, that's crazy. "Captain Howdy, that's really not very polite," chided Regan. " "C'mon, babe! " Chris stood up. "He's a poop," muttered Regan, then followed her mother up the stairs.
Chris sipped at her coffee. Strange. Strange man. Like Willie, hard-working; very loyal; discreet. And yet something about him made her vaguely uneasy. What was it? His subtle air of arrogance? Defiance? No. Something else. Something hard to pin down. The couple had been with her for almost six years, and yet Karl was a mask--- a talking, breathing, untranslated hieroglyph running her errands on stilted legs. Behind the mask, though, something moved; she could hear his mechanism ticking like a conscience.