Fifty-to-One (Hard Case Crime Novels)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
CELEBRATING 50 YEARS OF HARD CASE CRIME!
Okay, not really. But what if, instead of having been founded 50 books ago, Hard Case Crime had been founded 50 years ago, by a rascal out to make a quick buck off the popularity of pulp fiction? Such a fellow might make a few enemies – especially after publishing a supposed non-fiction account of a heist at a Mob-run nightclub, actually penned by an 18-year-old showgirl. With both the cops and the crooks after them, our heroes are about to learn that reading and writing pulp novels is a lot more fun than living them...
enjoy killing you both, I wouldn’t pay millions of dollars for the pleasure.” “ ‘Kill the sister,’ ” Coral said. “I heard you three times.” “Clearly the situation has changed.” “Yeah,” Coral said, “it’s changed because I’ve got a gun. How about you put your guns—” The boat lurched before she could get the rest of her thought out. Tricia felt the engines turn on belowdeck and over the side she saw the water churning as they got underway. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I don’t know,” Coral
in a First World War uniform leaping into a trench; the woman was a resolute doughboy this time, bayonet fixed to spit the Boche when he landed. Each showed the pair from a different angle, of course, depending on where the painter was standing; no editor, art director, or reader would ever know the paintings came from a single sitting. But meanwhile the painters got to split one modeling fee, Tricia supposed. Erin stopped, finally, beside a bear of a man in a denim smock, the pocket in the
available again, have her call me. We’ll work it out. Maybe the three of us can get together for a drink sometime—” He must’ve felt the barrel of the gun poking into his gut then, through the fabric of her dress pocket, because his face fell. He looked confused first and then fear crept into his expression. “Are you serious?” he said, his voice low. “You think you can pull a gun on me in my own place?” “I don’t think anything,” Tricia said. “I’ve done it. Now take me to locker 22, Paulie, or I
she was covering a bruise on the side of her face with foundation “—and Marlene—” a dour-looking teenager raised one hand to her forehead in a sort of salute “—and, um, and...” Erin snapped her fingers twice, trying to remember the last girl’s name. “Joyce,” the girl said, coming forward. She was almost six feet tall barefoot and had golden hair that poured halfway down her back. She was smoking a Pall Mall and held the pack out to Erin, who took one. “Who’s this?” “She calls herself Trixie,”
“Tschah,” Magliocco said, or something to that effect. “Just make the drinks.” And to Tricia: “It’s up to each girl what she’s willing to do. There’s no house limit here, each girl sets her own limits. So, you know, whatever you’re comfortable doing, where you draw the line, that says how much money you can make. We got rooms in the back, you want to use them—but a good dancer like you, you could make decent dough without even taking none of your clothes off, probably.” “Mr. Magliocco,” Tricia