Raves For the Work of MAX ALLAN COLLINS!
“Max Allan Collins is the closest thing we have to a 21st-century Mickey Spillane and...will please any fan of old-school, hardboiled crime fiction.”
—This Week
“No one can twist you through a maze with as much intensity and suspense as Max Allan Collins.”
—Clive Cussler
“Collins never misses a beat...All the stand-up pleasures of dime-store pulp with a beguiling level of complexity.”
—Booklist
“Collins has an outwardly artless style that conceals a great deal of art.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A suspenseful, wild night’s ride [from] one of the finest writers of crime fiction that the U.S. has produced.”
—Book Reporter
“This book is about as perfect a page turner as you’ll find.”
—Library Journal
“Bristling with suspense and sexuality, this book is a welcome addition to the Hard Case Crime library.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A total delight...fast, surprising, and well-told.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“Strong and compelling reading.”
—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
“Max Allan Collins [is] like no other writer.”
—Andrew Vachss
“Collins breaks out a really good one, knocking over the hard-boiled competition (Parker and Leonard for sure, maybe even Puzo) with a one-two punch: a feisty storyline told bittersweet and wry...nice and taut...the book is unputdownable. Never done better.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Rippling with brutal violence and surprisingly sexuality...I savored every turn.”
—Bookgasm
“Masterful.”
—Jeffrey Deaver
“Collins has a gift for creating low-life believable characters...a sharply focused action story that keeps the reader guessing till the slam-bang ending. A consummate thriller from one of the new masters of the genre.”
—Atlanta Journal Constitution
“For fans of the hardboiled crime novel...this is powerful and highly enjoyable reading, fast moving and very, very tough.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Entertaining...full of colorful characters...a stirring conclusion.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Collins makes it sound as though it really happened.”
—New York Daily News
“An exceptional storyteller.”
—San Diego Union Tribune
“A gift for intricate plotting and cinematically effective action scenes.”
—Jon L. Breen, Twentieth Century Crime and Mystery Writers
“Nobody does it better than Max Allan Collins.”
—John Lutz
Dominique Muerta sat behind a mahogany desk about the size of a sideways BMW. Impeccable in severe though stylish business attire—gray suit, black silk blouse, by some European designer whose work I could neither recognize nor afford—she was a beautiful woman, no question of it, slender and yet strong and so pretty that the mannish severity of her no-doubt-expensive short hairdo took nothing away. The thin lips were a bright red and the almond-shaped eyes were as richly, deeply mahogany as the desk, softened with a touch of lavender eye shadow.
“Michael Tree,” she said, and smiled as she rose. She came around from behind the desk and met me halfway, extending a graceful hand.
As we shook, she said, “This is a long overdue meeting. We have so much in common.”
She did not offer to take my trenchcoat and I left it on, as well as my gloves, purse on its strap over my shoulder.
Indicating the glass coffee table, she said, “Sit, sit.... Cappuccino? Water?...I can have hot or iced tea or regular coffee or a soft drink—”
“No,” I said, sitting on the nearest couch. “Thank you. This won’t take long.”
Dominique sat on the white leather chair across the glass table. Her thin lips formed a razor-edge smile as she opened her hand to display the bullet in her palm.
“Interesting business card,” she said. An eyebrow arched. “Did you mean to scare me, or just get my attention?”
Dominique set the bullet on the coffee table, straight up, as if placing a miniature in a collector’s set. It made a little klik on the glass.
“When I want your attention,” I said with my own smile, “it’ll be traveling faster...”
Deadly BELOVED
by Max Allan Collins
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-038)
For Ken Levin—
Ms. Tree’s Chicago counsel
“Down these mean streets a woman must go who is not herself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.”
RAYMOND CHANDLER,
“THE SIMPLE ART OF MURDER,”
PARAPHRASED
ONE
The woman in the skimpy black bikini on the perfect beach on the too-perfect day was me.
I saw her from a God-like distance, the long legs stretched out, shoulders back accentuating the full bust, black hair brushing tan shoulders with help of a whispery breeze, well-carved handsome features that were almost beautiful taking on a serene cast as blue-green eyes studied the blue-green water that rolled gently to a picture-book tan sand shore.
I watched her taking it all in, as she lounged there on no towel, basking in a sun that seemed to turn the world white and yellow and orange, though the sensation was of warmth, not heat. The green of trees was a backdrop, more perceived than seen, the blue-green of the lake glinting with sun sparkle, and—like the black of the bikini—subservient to the solarizing rays.
Then I was within her.
Inside myself, feeling a sense of repose encouraged by the lapping of the waves and the laughter and splashing of a young couple, happy honeymooners perhaps, cavorting in the water. I watched them for a while, but they were indistinct in the shimmer of sunlight.
To the left of me, a digging sound drew my eyes to a boy around ten, in a yellow swimsuit with orange-red seahorses dancing on it, who was working with a shovel, gaining more raw material for the elaborate sand castle he was constructing, turrets and towers and even a carved-out moat.
The sound of splashing drew my attention back to the happy couple coming up out of the water, hand in hand, stumbling onto the sand to fall onto beach towels, dripping, laughing, kissing.
I smiled a little and gave them privacy they hadn’t requested by casting my eyes back out on the gentle rolling water with its diamond-like glimmer.
Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the world turned shades of blue and gray, and a wind began to blow, kicking up choppy waves. My hair started to whip and a sudden, troubling chill enveloped me, encasing me in goose pimples. I looked around for my own towel, but there wasn’t one, and wound up hugging my legs to myself, a shivering oversized fetus.