Présentation de l'éditeur DON’T MISS BRIDGE OF CLAY, MARKUS ZUSAK’S FIRST NOVEL SINCE THE BOOK THIEF AND AN UNFORGETTABLE AND SWEEPING FAMILY SAGA. From the author of the extraordinary #1 New York Times bestseller The Book Thief, I Am the Messenger is an acclaimed novel filled with laughter, fists, and love. A MICHAEL L. PRINTZ HONOR BOOK FIVE STARRED REVIEWS Ed Kennedy is an underage cabdriver without much of a future. He's pathetic at playing cards, hopelessly in love with his best friend, Audrey, and utterly devoted to his coffee-drinking dog, the Doorman. His life is one of peaceful routine and incompetence until he inadvertently stops a bank robbery. That's when the first ace arrives in the mail. That's when Ed becomes the messenger. Chosen to care, he makes his way through town helping and hurting (when necessary) until only one question remains: Who's behind Ed's mission? Extrait the holdup The gunman is useless. I know it. He knows it. The whole bank knows it. Even my best mate, Marvin, knows it, and he's more useless than the gunman. The worst part about the whole thing is that Marv's car is standing outside in a fifteen-minute parking zone. We're all facedown on the floor, and the car's only got a few minutes left on it. "I wish this bloke'd hurry up," I mention. "I know," Marv whispers back. "This is outrageous." His voice rises from the depths of the floor. "I'll be getting a fine because of this useless bastard. I can't afford another fine, Ed." "The car's not even worth it." "What?" Marv looks over at me now. I can sense he's getting uptight. Offended. If there's one thing Marv doesn't tolerate, it's someone putting shit on his car. He repeats the question. "What did you say, Ed?" "I said," I whisper, "it isn't even worth the fine, Marv." "Look," he says, "I'll take a lot of things, Ed, but . . ." I tune out of what he's saying because, quite frankly, once Marv gets going about his car, it's downright pain-in-the-arse material. He goes on and on, like a kid, and he's just turned twenty, for Jesus' sake. He goes on for another minute or so, until I have to cut him off. "Marv," I point out, "the car's an embarrassment, okay? It doesn't even have a hand brake--it's sitting out there with two bricks behind the back wheels." I'm trying to keep my voice as quiet as possible. "Half the time you don't even bother locking it. You're probably hoping someone'll flog it so you can collect the insurance." "It isn't insured." "Exactly." "NRMA said it wasn't worth it." "It's understandable." That's when the gunman turns around and shouts, "Who's talkin' back there?" Marv doesn't care. He's worked up about the car. "You don't complain when I give you a lift to work, Ed, you miserable upstart." "Upstart? What the hell's an upstart?" "I said shut up back there!" the gunman shouts again. "Hurry up then!" Marv roars back at him. He's in no mood now. No mood at all. He's facedown on the floor of the bank. The bank's being robbed. It's abnormally hot for spring. The air-conditioning's broken down. His car's just been insulted. Old Marv's at the end of his tether, or his wit's end. Whatever you want to call it--he's got the shits something terrible. We remain flattened on the worn-out, dusty blue carpet of the bank, and Marv and I are looking at each other with eyes that argue. Our mate Ritchie's over at the Lego table, half under it, lying among all the pieces that scattered when the gunman came in yelling, screaming, and shaking. Audrey's just behind me. Her foot's on my leg, making it go numb. The gunman's gun is pointed at the nose of some poor girl behind the counter. Her name tag says Misha. Poor Misha. She's shivering nearly as bad as the gunman as she waits for some zitty twenty-nine-year-old fella with a tie and sweat patches under his arms to fill the bag with money. "I wish this bloke'd hurry up," Marv speaks. "I said that already," I tell him. "So what?