"The desert air was bleak. He pulled open the door to the truck and a body slumped over. The man had a bullet hole between his eyes and a shirt wet with blood. Moss shut the door and pulled out his Colt .45."
Like that. I made that up, but it's close. The plot is somewhat difficult to follow because of this bluntness. For a time, I wasn't sure if one of the scenes was a flashback and then there's this voice that interjects now and again in first person, I think it's the Sheriff (played by Tommy Lee Jones in the Coen brother's version); and some twists and turns now and again, like one of the cops being possibly a turncoat hit man (played by Woody Harrelson in the movie--I looked at IMDb). Maybe I'll ask Dan if he wants to rent it at some point--but I want to get to the end to see if the main character lives (Moss).
It's been a while since I've read a straight book--I mean, one that's not just about some sort of mystery or thriller. I don't know why this is. I know I should be reading Lahiri's newest, for example. I don't count Donna Tartt's Goldfinch, partially because it too has kind of a mystery to it, and also, I am stuck on page 200 something. But I just don't have the interest right now in fiction that's about families or like a woman's struggle to discover herself. And it's been that way for a while, though I would also argue that all really good writing is a mystery that you're trying to unravel--and it must have a conflict that propels you forward. And so, I'm revising my claim to not having read enough varied books, because I've managed to get in a few Ian McEwan books now and again, and they are not genre-based.