"Anything else?" Ray unable to hear this shit.

"Other? Well, yeah, I had this T-shirt thing goin' on, you know, bought shirts in bulk, designed my own logo, hooked up with this printer did silk-screening on a delayed payment schedule but that's all on financial hold for the time being, and I was also working on a comic book I wanted to publish, called Dawgs of War, about the future, when America wages war on the Republic of Nubia and it was gonna focus on one platoon of guys from the hood, how they get educated over there, you know, come to understand that they're fighting...you know, that they're on the wrong side..."

"Per se," "inspirational," "on financial hold for the time being" — all of this is exact. But the acronym and, especially, the question mark after "so-called society" betray the hand of the master.

Children are prominent in all of Price's novels, and the only novelist I can think of who shows a comparable understanding of the species is Richard Hughes, in A High Wind to Jamaica. Price's children aren't the precocious wiseasses of sitcoms, or Spielbergian tuning forks who, quivering to the music of the spheres, always sense the truth and can't persuade the cold-hearted adults to believe them. They're children — half-formed, amoral savages struggling to become adults.

Samaritan, like its predecessors Clockers and Freedomland, is a police thriller. A crime is committed early on, the perp is unknown, and the story ends approximately when the investigating officer, always a major character, discovers who did it. (The legal machinations are always omitted. Price likes cops but seems to have no use for lawyers.)

Although the plotting is always handled competently, and the identity of the perpetrator is always difficult to guess, Price's real interests lie with motive. His novels are whydunits more than whodunits, which I guess you could say about all good novels. They are mysteries because human motives are mysterious.

In Samaritan the victim is Ray Mitchell, a former high school teacher and cabdriver turned television writer who, at loose ends, decides to move back to his own neighborhood and do good. Mitchell is assaulted and seriously injured. He knows who did it but refuses to talk. An old acquaintance of his from the neighborhood, Nerese Ammons, a twenty-year veteran with six months to retirement, winds up investigating the crime. The novel alternates chapters, to impressive effect, between the events leading up the assault and its aftermath.

Mitchell spreads his money around — pays for one woman's funeral, underwrites another man's T-shirt business — learning the hard way the truth of John Jacob Astor's remark: "Why does that man hate me? I never lent him money." It buys him first bemusement, then solicitation, and finally enmity and a serious whack upside the head. "Ray thinks he wants to make a dent," his ex-wife says, "when he really only wants to make a splash." Nerese, too, questions her own motives in bothering with this case when she could just ride out the last few months to her pension.