Raves For the Work of JASON STARR!
“Starr has...a hard-edged style that is clean, cold and extremely chilling.”
—New York Times
“A throwback to the spare, snappy crime writing of Jim Thompson and James M. Cain.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Jason Starr is the first writer of his generation to convincingly update the modern crime novel.”
—Bret Easton Ellis
“A fearless, pitiless writer.”
—Laura Lippman
“The New York sound, the energy, dialog that’s on the beat...Read it and you’ll go hunting for Jason Starr’s other books, I promise.”
—Elmore Leonard
“[A] crackling hot beach read.”
—New York Post
“Diabolically well-plotted.”
—The Literary Review
“Deliciously addictive.”
—Megan Abbott
“Cool, deadpan, a rollercoaster ride to hell.”
—The Guardian
“A hip, white-collar update on the James Cain, Jim Thompson-style novel with a seasoning all its own.”
—Joe R. Lansdale
“His stuff is tough and real and brilliant.”
—Andrew Klavan
“Starr’s got a hip style and an ear for crackling dialogue.”
—Jeffery Deaver
“Bang up to date, but reminiscent of David Goodis and Jim Thompson, Fake I.D. is a powerful novel of the American Dream turning into the American Nightmare that marks Starr out as a writer to follow.”
—Time Out
“An American masterpiece, a piece of great literature while it’s also a great crime novel.”
—Pulpetti
“Demonic, demented, and truly ferocious, and a flat-out joy to read...My book of the year.”
—Ken Bruen
We started to make out again, then she was lying on the couch on her back and I was on top of her. I pulled back and smiled, looking into her eyes, and then we went into the bedroom.
Afterwards, her head was wedged between my arm and my chest. We were naked and sweaty.
“It feels so nice to be with you,” she said.
A few minutes later she was fast asleep.
I noticed the jewelry box on the dresser. I got out of bed and dressed quietly. The light on the night table was still on. In the dim yellow light I saw Janene still facing the other way. A necklace and a bracelet were out next to the jewelry box, but she’d probably notice if they were missing. Instead, I reached inside the box and took out another necklace, some diamond earrings, and a gold bracelet. I put the jewelry in my pocket. Janene was still fast asleep. I tiptoed out of the room and left the apartment...
SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:
SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane
DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins
A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block
MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust
ZERO COOL by John Lange
SHOOTING STAR/SPIDERWEB by Robert Bloch
THE MURDERER VINE by Shepard Rifkin
SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY by Donald E. Westlake
NO HOUSE LIMIT by Steve Fisher
BABY MOLL by John Farris
THE MAX by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
THE FIRST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins
GUN WORK by David J. Schow
FIFTY-TO-ONE by Charles Ardai
KILLING CASTRO by Lawrence Block
THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER by Roger Zelazny
THE CUTIE by Donald E. Westlake
HOUSE DICK by E. Howard Hunt
CASINO MOON by Peter Blauner
FAKE I.D.
by Jason Starr
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-056)
First Hard Case Crime edition: June 2009
For Sandy
One
The gates to Milford Jai-Alai didn’t open for another hour, but instead of driving to some diner to kill time, I figured I’d just hang out in my car, reading the Racing Form.
I had just started going over the daily double at Aqueduct when I heard someone knocking on my passenger-side window. I looked up and saw a short fat guy smiling at me. At first, I had no idea who he was, then he started to look familiar. He had dark eyebrows and a big mole on his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, like he was drunk, but maybe it was because he was squinting against the cold wind. He was wearing one of those black wool winter hats that can make anyone look like a mental patient.
I turned on the ignition and opened the window a few inches. A blast of cold air came into the car.
“How’s it goin’?” the guy asked.
I still couldn’t place him. He looked forty-five, maybe fifty—at least ten years older than me.
“Not bad,” I said.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Your face looks kind of familiar but—”
“Your name’s Danny, right?”
“Tommy,” I said.
“I knew it was something with a Y at the end of it. Remember me? You know, Pete. Pete from Yonkers.”
Now I remembered. A few years ago, I used to go to Yonkers Raceway a few nights a week to bet on the trotters. Pete was one of the regulars.
“I remember,” I said. “It just took me a couple seconds to place your face. How’s it going?”
“Could be better,” he said. “Just came back from Vegas last night. Hit a few things, nothing too big. Shoulda gone to the Cayman Islands. Hear about those racebooks they got down there?”
“With the eight-percent payback.”
“Un-fuckin’-believable. They give you eight percent back on all your action. If you’re a big player you can’t afford not to go there. I mean it might be a good idea to bring a gun with you into some of those joints, you know what I mean? But when you’re playing horses what do you want, a classy time or eight percent back on your action?”
“I’d take the eight percent,” I said.
“Damn fucking right you would,” Pete said, “any serious player would.” He turned away and spat. It was getting cold in the car with the window open.
“Ever been to Vegas?” Pete asked.
I shook my head.
“You’re kiddin’ me? You gotta go to Vegas, man. But casino gambling is a whole different ball game. When you’re gambling in a casino you want class. You go to Vegas, whatever you do, don’t go to Bally’s. You want Bally’s go down to Atlantic City and play at those Mickey Mouse tables they got there. You want a classy joint to spend a weekend, go to Caesar’s Palace. Now that’s a place they’ll treat you like a fucking king. And I’m talkin’ about service, not shows. You want shows you can turn on the fuckin’ TV. You go to A.C.?”