The Junkie Is Tall And pale and goofy looking, in a T shirt and bike shorts, and Edward Con-Ion doesn't have a whole lot of obvious sympathy for him―he calls him Big Bird behind his back. Big Bird used to be an electrician till he realized his true calling, namely, shooting smack. A few days ago, one of Big Bird's fellow junkies conked him on the head with a chunk of concrete―the chunk is in Con-Ion's desk, in fact, with blood and hair still on it―and it's Conlon's job to find the guy who did it. Conlon is a detective in New York City's 44th Precinct, in the South Bronx, a few blocks north of Yankee Stadium, not far from the legendary Fort Apache. At 39, he has a bit of that seedy-sexy Chris Noth charm to him―late Chris Noth, more Mr. Big than Detective Logan. But Conlon has another calling too: he's an author. His book, Blue Blood (Riverhead; 562 pages), is a memoir of his first seven years as a New York City cop, and it may be the best account ever written of life behind the badge.
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