Lawrence Block, Donald E. Westlake
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Bored with his perfect suburban life, a bitter '60s ad man reconnects with his college sweetheart, a prostitute who enlists him in a spectacular act of international smuggling [Summary] Harvey Christopher is a successful man. After twelve years on Madison Avenue, he owns a suburban palace complete with electric oven, electric icebox, and an electric wife—all of them highly functional but completely unresponsive to his needs. A brush with a college-flame-turned-successful-streetwalker sends him down memory lane—a road that leads straight to her bedroom. She gives him a tumble on the house, and then offers a proposition: a bit of criminal mischief that will take him far from suburbia, and far from his wife—because every ad-man deserves a vacation. This ebook features an illustrated biography of Lawrence Block, including rare photos and never-before-seen documents from his personal collection, and a new afterword written by the author.
I ignored them all, and went back to kicking the door again. That got me the officer’s attention, and when he demanded of me specifically just what the devil was going on, I replied, “You I’ll tell. These rubbernecks here can go to hell for themselves.” “He started it all,” announced a snippy-type woman, pointing at me. I made a gesture at her involving a specific adjustment of the fingers of the right hand, and she looked shocked. “All right,” said the officer, “all right now. Let’s just clear
standing there in the Southern Hemisphere sunshine, and a strange thought went gliding unasked through my mind: I never have liked New York. The lemmings rush to the sea. The bright young humans rush to New York. I think now that the lemmings have the smarter idea. Drowning is so much cleaner a death. We boarded this northern chariot and I withdrew from my pocket the slip of paper and read from it the address, and on the second try the driver comprehended, and we jolted away into traffic.
him.” “The amount he drinks,” I said, “he still does need it for something.” She looked at me unsmiling. “You want some coffee?” “Yes, please.” I followed her back to the living room, where she unexpectedly turned around and said, “Do you really want coffee?” Perhaps brutal honesty was what this woman wanted. “No,” I said. “It isn’t coffee I want.” “What’s your name?” “Harvey.” “Sit down here on the sofa with me, Harvey. Tell me about yourself.” We sat down, and neither of us said a
again. And a teeny tiny voice from far away across the room said, “Mommy.” I was off her like a shot, staring madly around in all directions, and seeing a teeny tiny girl-child, no more than three or four, garbed in cotton pajamas with feet rubbing her little eyes in the doorway to the bedroom. The woman disentangled herself from me, and hurried across the room, her flanks gleaming in the dim light of the room, her half-crouch as she ran, breasts hanging, feral and magnificent. I heard the
huh?” The Great American Dream, suburban div. Love thy neighbor as thyself, and love thy neighbor’s wife even more, and rub her back and kiss her in the kitchen and, when the opportunity arises, take her to bed. I rubbed Bonnie’s back, and I felt how warmly smooth her skin was. And, like a kitten, she purred. “I’m not a tramp,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?” “Of course, Bonnie.” “But you can’t imagine what it’s like. Being married to Harry, I mean. It’s not heaven.” “I can imagine.”