When Frank Behr’s friend and mentor is murdered without any apparent motive, he thirsts for answers and retaliation. But before he can make headway in the dead-end investigation, a private firm approaches him with a delicate proposition: two of its detectives have gone missing, and the firm wants Behr to find out what happened to them. The search for the missing detectives takes Behr into the recesses of Indianapolis’s underworld, a place rife with brutality and vice where Behr uncovers a shocking thread connecting the missing detectives to his friend’s brutal murder, and, in the process, an ominous, deadly new breed of crime family.

From legendary cult writer Jerry Stahl comes Plainclothes Naked, a breakout novel that jacks up crime fiction to new heights of twisted, sexy, mind-blowing brilliance. With searing wit and devastating detail, Stahl -- whose work, Jim Carroll has written, "fills the gap in American literature left void since the death of the late, great Terry Southern " -- takes us deep into the minds of addicts and detectives, fetishists and killers. It's a vision of American misfits in a world of violent crime, official corruption, drug-addled scheming, and -- perhaps strangest of all -- genuine, up-from-the-toes true love. In a wildly careening plot that can only be described as crack noir, two pipe-heads accidentally steal a photo of George W. Bush's presidential package with a happy face tattooed on it and decide to blackmail the Republican Party. Before the crack-crazed thieves can follow through, however, a gorgeous, whip-smart young nurse absconds with the goods. But Nurse Tina's got her own problems -- she's just offed her online "money swami" husband with a bowl of Drano-laced Lucky Charms. When Manny Rubert, a scarred ex-junkie turned codeine-popping detective, is called in to investigate the "foamer" hubby's untimely demise, love hits him like a wrench to the head. Soon Manny and Tina are making plans of their own for the presidential pic -- and for their future together. But the meddling police chiefs and motel room sex-change surgeons of the world just won't leave them alone. And then there are those killer crackheads, still out there and closing in... At once a scathing tale of contemporary insanity and a no-holds-barred, tour de force thriller, Plainclothes Naked forges violence and comedy into a criminal love story as shocking as it is transcendent.

An unidentifiable body is found in an Indianapolis park, deliberately arranged so that police know it's not just a random crime. Former cop Frank Behr, now a P.I. with no cases, no money and no options, finds himself chasing down the disappearance of a wayward young woman who's been missing for months in a futile attempt to collect a reward. With assistance from his few remaining contacts on the force, Behr follows the tenuous thread of his case into the world of small-time prostitution-and discovers a possible connection to the body in the park. When another murder victim turns up, it's clear there's a serial killer at work, but this predator seems to be invisible, camouflaged by his perfectly normal-looking life. Behr's relentless quest for the missing girl and his parallel pursuit of the killer become entangled with the official police investigation. Ultimately, Behr's obsession with the truth will lead him into the darkest places, and force him to make an unavoidable and devastating decision.

"Wine is the latest in an unbroken line of popular private eyes?molded by Dashiell Hammett in the ?20s, psychoanalyzed by Ross Macdonald in the ?50s and ?60s and now dragged kicking and screaming by Simon to face a new decade's cultural crunch . . . Here, obviously, is a mystery writer to reckon with. And a private eye Los Angeles can be proud to call its very own." Los Angeles Times Book Review A year has passed since Moses Wine solved his first major case in The Big Fix, and with it has come a certain amount of celebrity: articles about him and interviews with him have appeared in Newsweek and Esquire. He's even made the cover of Rolling Stone. None of that, however, means squat to guerilla journalist Dr. Gunther Thomas, who shows up at Moses? front door with a challenge: to clear bestselling author Jock Hecht of the murder of ABC anchorwoman Deborah Frank; Thomas, meanwhile, will document the investigation for Rolling Stone. But then the proverbial monkey wrench is thrown into the works when Hecht dies. Of course, there are always a few people Moses rubs the wrong way?like an old gangster named Meyer Greenglass, who seems to be pulling a lot of strings from his prison cell on Terminal Island. Not to mention a group of angry Cuban exiles who constantly trail the private eye on his search for clues. And what in the world is the Sexual Liberation League, and what connection does it have with Hecht's last book?a study of sexual mores in America? Waist-deep in questions that seem to have no answers, Moses must find a way to solve the unsolvable without further weakening the frail relationship he has with his two sons . . . or being portrayed as a jerk in a nationalmagazine.

Recently discovered and never before published, these two short novels were written in the early 1970s, at the beginning of Kathy Acker's writing career. Rip-off Red reads as a kind of Raymond Chandler for bad girls, as Acker's typical literary playfulness transforms the genre conventions of detective fiction into a book that is simultaneously a mystery and a personal, raunchy, and politically astute account of life in New York City. The Burning Bombing of America is a dystopian vision of the destruction of America, combining crypto-Socialist class critique with the visceral surreality of the Book of Revelation.

He was a tall, cleanly attractive young man, the kind you'd like to have for a neighbor. Press the wrong button and he'd mow you down with the ruthlessness of a Sherman tank. His name was Daniel Port. He was a gangster, the brain and spirit behind the machine that milked the dirty pennies from the city. Now Port wanted out. He had a bellyful of corruption, a one-way ticket to New York, and a dark, shining girl to go along with it. The problem was to get there alive, because the one way out for Daniel Port was over his own freshly dug grave...

DANGER IN PARADISE Jeff Cape has been kicking around Indonesia as an oil geologist, but he s on his way home. But before his boat sails from Bali, he stops in for a drink where he meets Nicole Balashov, a bewitching White Russian trying to smuggle information out to the U.S. Cape agrees to take it with him but after she leaves, Cape sees a large, bald man rush out after her. Alarmed for her safely, he takes off after the man and misses his boat. Now every shady character on the island seems to be after him, including Mr. Chu and his mysterious serindit bird. Regina Williams, a seductive American woman. And the fat man himself, Apollo Fry, who will certainly kill anyone who gets in his way. All Cape wants to find again is Nicole before it s too late! MALAY WOMAN Jock Hamilton is on the run from Singapore. His unfaithful wife Eden has been found murdered and Jock is the only suspect. Stowing away in a ship bound for Kuala Tang, he overhears a plot to kill a young woman named Kay Allison, the widowed owner of a rubber plantation. Jock tries to warn her. But the task is anything but a simple one, because Jock finds himself immediately attracted to her yet he can't tell her who he is. When the ship lands, matters only become more complicated when he decides to hide out at the home of his best friend, Gabriel Wing. Jock soon finds out that Gabb's restless wife Monique has plans of her own for him!

Vera Caspary, the famed author of Laura , gives us another gripping crime drama, told through shifting points of view. John Ansell, young and idealistic editor of Truth and Crime magazine, wants to breathe new life into the stale and formulaic publication. Instead of rehashing a story that's already been proven popular elsewhere, he finds a fresh one: the murder of Warren G. Wilson, famed figurehead of a correspondence course. The murder itself isn't too remarkable--just a bullet in the back--but the victim is another case, as it becomes apparent that despite having a household name, nothing is known about him. Perhaps even more peculiar is how Ansell's boss absolutely refuses to run the story and, soon thereafter, Ansell is poisoned. Caspary masterfully allows the truth to slowly untangle in this incredibly woven mystery, finally available as an ebook.

Pander wore dark glasses and fancy suspenders and he moved into the San Pietro rackets like a sandblaster gone berserk. Fell, the boss, was mysteriously away, and Pander grabbed the chance to bury his hands in the heavy money. Then Fell came back. At his side was Cripp, the human adding machine with the beautiful face and the twisted leg. With them came murder... wholesale.

Charley's Rope was about frayed out. The caribinieri were after him, he had a bullet in his hip and no goddamn passport. Charley needed a passport bad. He needed that intricate piece of paper--signed, sealed, and innocent looking--the way only a G.I. in italy could need one. A G.I. deserter with a sweet fortune in blackmail lire and the carabinieri lusting to lay hands on him...

The Big Fix by Ed Lacy Author of the 1958 Edgar Award-winning novel Room to Swing! On the night Irish Tommy Cork's murder was planned, nothing very much out of the ordinary happened. Tommy was in the ring, taking a pasting-as usual. Back to the ropes, almost sitting on the second strand, Tommy crouched, gloved hands up in front of his face like a leather fence. He was fighting a strong youngster who was now whaling away with both hands in a moment of wild enthusiasm. Most of his blows were blocked, or ducked by Tommy's weaving head, but those few that didn't miss landed with loud thud sounds on the kidneys, head, or in the stomach, visibly shaking up the pale "old man."

Hardcover book.

THE MEN FROM THE BOYS Marty Bond had been a famous cop in New York. But that was before he was "retired" from the force. Now he's a house dick at a crummy hotel, pimping, rousting, drinking too much. His stomach is killing him, and it comes as no surprise when the doctor says it might be a tumor. Knowing he must have cancer, Marty starts to plan a quicker exit. That's when his stepson comes to him. An auxiliary cop working the streets, Lawrence thinks there was something fishy in a meat seller who cries robbery one minute, then changes his mind the next. Marty tells him to forget about it. But the kid investigates anyway, and is almost beaten to death. Now Marty figures it's time to take Lawrence's suspicions seriously. But what can an ex-cop on the skids do when all he has left are a few old skills, a cynical heart, and the little time remaining?

THE CUT OF THE WHIP Daniel Port is driving through Texas when the other car appears out of nowhere. When Port eventually wakes up, he finds a ministering angel named Jane and her father, Carl Heering, the richest man in town. Heering admits that it was his son, Robert, that ran into Port and that the kid has run off with important business papers. He offers Port an easy grand to bring his son and the papers back. But when Port tracks the kid down, all is not as it seems. The business papers are love letters, the Heering heir is kidnapped, and Port finds he must solve the mystery and rescue Robert before he himself is implicated in the plot and put in prison for kidnapping. BRING ME ANOTHER CORPSE He could go it alone, or he could do it with the knowledge and help of a big organization. He didn't like either alternative because it would be too much like going back, like starting all over in the kind of a life about which he no longer had any illusions ... All those surface satisfactions that used to make life spin around with a speed that made you think, Sure now--you're going someplace. "I'll try it your way," he said to Lubinski, "and I hope it's the fast way out." Lubinski smiled at Port. The smile lasted a second, and then Lubinski opened his briefcase and drew out the usual folder. "It can be fast," he said. "A lot of it is already set up." "Where do I fit?" "You go to Cleveland," said Lubinski, "and you hire out as your own killer..." TIME ENOUGH TO DIE Port thinks he's escaped his problems. Time moves slowly in the Mexican coastal village of Guanadera, and that's just the way he likes it--the sun on his face, a beer in his hand and nothing but Maria on his mind. So when Maria asks him to help her find her missing neighbor, an elderly gent named Kiamoto, he doesn't give the project much thought. How could he know that d'Ortega and his henchman Capo were also looking for Kiamoto? They figure that an American gangster--and why else would Port be living in Guanadera?--must be in on the caper. Because Kiamoto is much more than he seems. And pretty soon there are American agents in on the game. Just when Port thought he was out of the rackets for good, he gets pulled into a crime that might cost him his life.

She was an expensive call girl and spending a night with her came high. But he never figured on a price as high as murder. The photograph did justice to her generous statistics. Any private eye would enjoy tracking her down, and Hal Darling was no exception. Her name was Marion Lodge. She'd put her impressive body to good use as a call girl before she'd dropped out of sight almost a year before. Hal was being paid a fortune to find her. But someone else was also looking for Marion-with a knife. Hal had to get her fast, or the killer would strike first.

It was a few minutes before eleven when I unlocked our door. The dumb lamp we had in the two-by-four "foyer" was on. The lamp looked like a drippy flower and cost fifty-seven bucks strictly because it was imported from Denmark. If all their lamps are like this job they must be blind over there. I could just about make out the couch opened as a bed, was surprised Mary was in the hay so early. I called out softly, "Babes?" She didn't answer.

This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.

Originally published in 1952. An open and shut case of murder! Matt Ranzino had sworn off sleuthing; he'd had a bellyful of violence. But when a beautiful blonde was murdered and Matt was asked to solve the crime, he took the job. When the blonde's husband committed suicide, the cops named him the killer and closed the case. But Matt smelled a put-up job. He knew the real killer -- but why risk his life to prove it? Then he met Mady, the only dame he ever really wanted. Wild, willing, and all woman, she wanted someone who was all man. There was just one hitch: Mady was linked to the murderer....

I sat there, waiting in this dull Bronx back yard, the gun in my right pocket, safety off. It was simple... wait till he was on top of me, one shot in the heart... then run across the lot to the car. Sid had an ordinary looking heap; nobody would notice it, or the license number. The license number-that was one of the chances I had to take-one of the too-many chances. But this would work, if my luck held out. IF... IF... Damn, I hoped to hell he didn't have a wife and kids, looked too young for that, but even if he did-I had a wife and kid, too. God knows I didn't want to kill this detective, but I was caught in this web, had to do it. Had to... No point in thinking about that-more important to think of some way of disposing of the gun. Couldn't pull the same gag about losing it on Tony again. Well, have to work that out, somehow. Sloppy thinking on my part not to plan.... Hell with plans, no time for it. Not like the other one. Marshal Jameson, the promising young sculptor, sitting on his butt in a strange Bronx back yard on a sunny afternoon... carefully planning his second murder. I grinned, a sour, nervous grin-I was damn near bawling. Me, who'd never hurt a fly, waiting with a gun for a... I heard a car stop in front of the house. It was five to three. The dick was on time. I stood up and peered around the corner of the alley. He was alone. I waited: no running from this, no backing out. Or was killing the easy way out for me?