Category: Books

I inherited the hardback edition of this book from my aunt, whose first anniversary of her death is coming up next week. As I continue reading these books, part of her remains with me, but fortunately it’s her taste in books and not her unrelenting fury in the form of possessed books. Because man, that would be creepy, and if my books rose up against me, I would be in trouble, as I’m outnumbered several thousand to one.

But onto Christine. As anyone alive through the 1980s knows, Christine is a possessed old car. Since I’d only seen a single scene from the movie version, that’s about all I knew. The story is more than a rehash of The Car, as it begins with a pair of friends who spot the car on the way home form work one day. As the more nerdesque of the two takes possession of the car, it takes possession of him, and it begins killing those who offended him.

It’s a Stephen King, so it moves quickly as his masterful foreshadowing pulls you along. The story combines growing up with terror as many of his books do, and it’s worth a read if you’re one of the other fifteen fourteen other readers alive in the eighties who has not yet read it.

I bought this book at the Seasonal 80% Publisher Price Store in Springfield. Suddenly, it occurs to me that it wasn’t last autumn….it was two years ago. Wow. I paid $4.00 for the book by the unknown-to-me author because I was in an orgy of spending.

Within the text, Sheriff Bill Gaston of Posados County, New Mexico, is enjoying the night air of his county when a car full of drunk teens strikes his parked car. The driver takes off across the scrub, but Gaston and his undersheriff–who’s standing for election the following week–know where the boy lives, as he’s the undersheriff’s cousin. But the boy tries to flee again when the sheriff apprehends him at home later, and the boy dies as he falls into the path of a truck while escaping. Gastner wonders why the boy is running so hard to get away from the police for an accident that hurt no one.

The book definitively takes a retrospective, somber tone, as Gastner’s planning to retire and this book might represent a conclusion to the Sheriff Bill Gastner series. I came late to it–this was the first I’ve read–and don’t know the characters that well, but that didn’t really hurt my experience. However, its meandering tone reflected a lot of time on the reminiscing and very little on the investigation of the crime. Perhaps the book is looking to be serious fiction with a crime in it, but it shouldn’t be a series mystery then.

But it wasn’t a bad book. It’s one of several I’ve read this year set in the southwest (Killing Raven, Cyber Way, Appaloosa, and so on), so I’m beginning to want to travel down there and see how the books have captured the flavor.

Apparently, this book is only available in hardcover on Amazon for $55, but I bought my copy at the Carondolet YMCA bok fair for $1. So if I wanted to resell it, I could list it on Amazon for an exhorbitant amount, pay whatever monthly fees Amazon offers, and not sell it.

I read the first Book of Lists in high school, and I’ve always enjoyed the mixture of trivia and somewhat wry commentary; however, some decade after I read the Book of Lists 2 and The People’s Almanac, I’ve noticed more acutely the leftward lean of the authors. I mean, I know they did The People’s Almanac and its red cover in paperback should have been a tip-off, but I was a boy then and I’m a libertive now, so I’m probably more aware of it. Published in 1982, it’s chock full of Reagan-is-evilism, and one must recognize that the book was written when Reagan had been in office under two years and had spent part of that time recovering from a gunshot wound. The book includes lists for the first things the environmentalists would ban if they could, for crying out loud. Blech.

Still, it’s a good enough read as it contains enough trivia to help me keep ahead of the regular Trivial Pursuit adversaries and it allows for synthetic thought (Alcatraz closed in 1963? That’s only 13 years before The Enforcer, which means the memory of Alcatraz would have been fresher to contemporary movie viewers than grunge is to current pop culture….).

I inherited this book from my aunt. She might have read it, she might not have. Almost a year after her death, I cannot remember whether she particularly liked Stephen King amongst her reading within the horror genre.

This book chronicles the story of a nine-year-old girl who gets lost in the Maine Woods and is stalked by something called the God of the Lost. She has only her wits–inflated through the magic of fiction–and Tom Gordon, her hallucinated rendition of the Boston Red Sox reliever.

Pretty much, that’s it. It’s a short story for King–a mere 210 pages–but it moves along quickly and draws the reader along with its simple Girl against Nature (and Girl against Supernatural, or maybe Girl against Herself) conflict and its long paragraph descriptions. King could probably write a shopping list and make it compelling and enjoyable reading. As it stands, his hike one day inspired a story that kept me preoccupied a couple of nights.

I bought this book at a garage sale some aeons ago, and it languished in my eleven boxes of eBayable books that I’d held in reserve in case I accidentally opened a book store. As I prepared to divest myself of these investments, I picked over the collection one final time for books I might want to read, and I settled upon this book and probably several dozen others. Because at my pace, I am scheduled to run out of reading material on my shelves sometime in 2009, and we can’t have that.

Whenever I go on vacation, I fill up the bag with quick read paperbacks. When we went to NYC last weekend, I packed this one, and it didn’t disappoint. Short chapters filled with Peanuts cartoons make for a quick but interesting read.

The book contrasts the Peanuts gang with the kids today–from 1968, remember–and finds the kids today lacking. The Peanuts kids respect their elders, go to church, recognize the value of education, and love their families; kids today just want to get high and paint their bodies in San Francisco parks. So I thought I was looking into a book describing the epistemology of Peanuts, and I end up with a pre-Hannity conservative tome. Not that I am complaining; it’s an interesting historical document for starters, and also an accessible book that relates art to philosophy in a non-scholarly way.

Perhaps the book proved more accessible to me than it would to someone of today’s generation; I had a Snoopy electric toothbrush and remember wwatching seasonal animated television specials featuring Charlie Brown. Have newspaper comics faded in the contemporary age? Dilbert remains popular, The Boondocks remains controversial (but popular? Hmm…), and Day by Day gets blog attention, but who even reads the comics in the newspapers today? Pardon me while I project.

Also, the book sharpened some dulling trivia about the Peanuts gang. I mean, I’d forgotten Violet, but she was an important foil to Charlie Brown. And I know the ages of the kids–five years old or thereabouts. Any book that provides useful trivia is a good book, especially when it costs a quarter or less and takes a little more than a three hour flight to read.

All These Condemned is very similar to A Man of Affairs; both deal with business affairs and backstabbing that go on in luxurious locations and someone ends up dead. In this case, it’s a wealthy cosmetic company diva who enjoys toying with and manipulating her friends and employees.

MacDonald did something a little different with this book, wherein each chapter comprises the action leading up to or following the murder as seen through the eyes of one of the people at the lake resort of Wilma Ferris. With no single voice and the recursive nature of the storytelling–as each person retells a portion of it–the book becomes a cipher, hard to get into and almost plodding in its slow build-up to the climax.

Still, it’s interesting to see MacDonald riffing with characters, timeline, and whatnot. But I don’t recommend the book highly.

I inherited this book from my aunt; she paid fifty cents for it at a yard sale, probably to resell on eBay. She would have gotten a pretty good deal on a common thriller had she been inclined to read it. Hey, I liked it well enough. As some of you know, John Lutz is a St. Louis writer who sets his Thomas Horn novels in New York City. I thought it would be a fitting read for a St. Louis writer visiting New York City.

Thomas Horn has to come back to the force to investigate a serial killer who kills young, attractive, single women in high rise apartments by coming in through their windows. That’s the plot, and it’s a serviceable book. But I not only read this book for the enjoyment, but also the do nots I can apply to my own writing, and I picked up a big set from this book:

• Do not spend a lot of time, or start the book, with an intimate profile of victims. Their problems and frustrations will ultimately prove meaningless as they’re killed imaginatively. Now, I have a lot of problems and frustrations, and I don’t need the perspective that they’re all meaningless because I might be killed imaginatively. Also, I think the trick wastes space and the reader’s time.
• Avoid describing characters by saying they look like celebrities. That’s a cheap shortcut. Who cares if the problematic and frustrated by (allegedly) attractive young woman looks like Helen Hunt? In a couple of pages she’ll be deader than Helen Hunt’s career.
• The psycho super Special Forces/black ops antagonist. Come on, that’s been low-hanging fruit since World War I or World War II and accelerated by Viet Nam. How about a couple psycho super special vegans for once?
• Grafting on a Part II as an afterthought so to involve the rest of a special forces team who murder to cover for the psycho? Don’t do it.

Even with those lessons, it’s a decent enough book. If you’re into suspense or St. Louis authors, you could do worse.

I bought this book from the 80% off book store last autumn and found that it had migrated to the second rank of my to-read bookshelves, which means I buy too many books over the course of the year.

This book might have been written too early; it serves as the fictional memoir that tracks the rise of a William Safire/George Will syndicated newspaper columnist from his humble beginnings at a college newspaper in the late 1950s to the stagnation of his career and life in the 1980s. As it was written before the rise of the blogosphere, one can only speculate about how it would have played out if all the cool bloggers had read it.

I enjoyed the book, although not without qualification. Brandon Sladder is an oblivious user of people, obnoxious and socially climbing. He crosses women, he backstabs his employees, he alienates his “friends” and describes them in his memoir as too busy to confab with him. But we can laugh at his obliviousness and wonder if perhaps he does know but is putting a good face on it.

But as the book turns the final corner into the finish line, we discover that both of his wives have cheated on Sladder, who’s a clod but cloddishness doesn’t excuse adultery except to certain elements from amoral cosmpolitan areas. The final sex scandal, tacked on, seems too much, and the downfall of Brandon Sladder seems abrupt. Of course, given the voice of the book, it would have to be abrupt and inexplicable, but it shouldn’t actually seem that way to readers of the novel.

And although Brandon Sladder, at the end, almost achieves self-awareness, he does not, and Jeffrey Frank does not yield any sort of redemption. So at the end, Brandon Sladder is as self-absorbed and oblivious as at the beginning of the book. Ultimately, that strips the book of its humor, as all along we weren’t laughing with a character recounting his past flaws, but laughing at a lesser person. The end completely changes the tenor of all that came before it and ultimately made the book completely disappoint me.

I inherited this book, whuch collects three novellas from Rod Serling, whom we among the wise ancients remember as the man behind the Twilight Zone, from my aunt. I read it rapidly, as its writing is thicker than R.L. Stine; because the writing is richer, it engages the reader more and pulled me along better than a series of simple declarative sentences and frags that presented numerous opportunities for me to insert my own thoughts (mostly damn, this Stine book sux) into the narrative. But I disliked that book so badly, I’m ripping on it here and am failing to give Serling’s book a fair hearing.

The book includes three novellas, as I mentioned, and all are of the Twilight Zone fantasy genre. In the first, a former Nazi officer hiding in Argentina desperately dodges Israeli agents and deals with his own aging and possible madness. In the second, a racial rabble rouser in 1960s Mississippi makes his living, livelihood, and gets his chicks by fanning the flames of racial hatred and inciting riots. In the third, a wealthy blind woman finds someone willing to sacrifice his eyes to give her 12 hours of sight.

In retrospect, none of the main characters of the stories represent true protagonists, as each is relatively subevil in their own way. However, Serling presents them in such a fashion that we can sometimes feel the emotions they do and almost sympathize with them that way, and we’re certainly interested in what happens to them. The third story, “Eyes”, represents the weakest of the three, though, and really doesn’t make one connect to any of the characters, but one still wants to know how the events turned out.

So I enjoyed and appreciated the book. I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s probably the best book ever dedicated to Sammy Davis, Jr.

I inherited this book from my aunt; I don’t know if she read it, but I do know she bought it from a yard sale for fifty cents. Perhaps she enjoyed it, or perhaps she merely was hoping to sell it for more on eBay after I suckered her into the used book racket. The book’s worth what she paid for it, but not what I gave up to get this book, but that goes without saying.

It’s the second book I’ve read in the last two months dealing with Indian reservations in the southwest (Cyber Way was the first), and it’s the best. It’s a murder mystery set on an Arapaho reservation. A man’s body is found near the local necking spot, and the investigators have to determine whether its related to the new reservation casino. Did one of the aggressive protestors pull the trigger? Or an organized crime figure?

An important aspect to the book is the dynamic between the main characters: a mission priest and the independent Arapaho lawyer with whom he shares a strong attraction upon which neither of them can act. As they go about their investigation through separate paths, the book handles their multiple points of view and their unrequited love very well.

Unlike some of the other series books I’ve read of late, I think I’d like to read more of this author and her series. The locale is exotic enough and the characters are real enough to merit further attention. Even a couple of bucks.

Trust me, I am doing you a favor:

THE HUNKY IRISH PROFESSOR IS INHABITED BY THE ‘DEMONS OF SUPERSTITION’ WHO, IF HE DOES NOT ADHERE TO ALL SUPERSTITIOUS RITUALS, BURST FORTH FROM HIM AND KILL PEOPLE GRUESOMELY. TO FREE HIMSELF, HE MEETS, CHARMS, MARRIES, AND IMPREGNATES A GRAD STUDENT SO THEIR MALE OFFSPRING WILL INSTEAD BEAR THE BURDEN OF THE DEMON INFESTATION. ALSO, THE ‘SISTER’ HE LIVES WITH IS ACTUALLY HIS FIRST WIFE, SO HE’S NOT ONLY A DEMON-INFESTED USER OF INNOCENT WOMEN, HE’S ALSO A BIGAMIST.

If you had any inclination to read the book, I hope I’ve spoiled it for you.

I bought this book for $2.50 at the Y book fair a month or so back because I’ve read more horror in the last few years (see also my reviews of King and Koontz). I knew R.L. Stine’s name as a young adult horror writer and thought he’d be worth a try in adult fiction. Blech, was I wrong.

What’s wrong with the book?

• Stupid, ill-drawn, underused characters, many of whom are included for no reason. Why does the book spend so much time on the small town cop in over his head? No freaking reason.
• Sex scenes that are graphic, but pointless, and are also ill-drawn. Matter of fact, Sara eats an orange, Sara has the best sex in the world with Liam. How do you know? The third person, limited omniscient narrator tells you so!
• Sing-song narrative voice.
• Pointless details. Whole chapters that could have been and should have been cut because
• Repetition. It’s
  Chip’s hand.
  Chip’s hand.
  Chip’s hand.

  If you don’t get the point from this startling stylistic device at the end of the chapter in which the hand being Chip’s hand is revealed, on the first page of the next chapter, we get those same three sentences:

  Chip’s hand.
  Chip’s hand.
  Chip’s hand.

  To spice it up, a couple paragraphs later, it’s

  Chip’s hand, Chip’s hand, Chip’s hand.

  We get the freaking point.

• Meaningless cliffhangers that–surprise!–turn out not to be what accompanies the crashing mental chord imagined by Stine as he ended each chapter. The man, falling from gunshot wounds? Playing a joke. The hot-breathed beast with red eyes that leaps out of the darkness? A golden retriever whose owner insists he’s never done that before, nor will it again, because it only exists as the segue between one overblown, mostly meaningless chapter and the next.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hate this book. I merely feel contempt for it. I read several passages to my beautiful wife as I was reading it, and the threats she made frightened me much more than anything within this book. As a matter of fact, the book is only tolerable because it’s so bad and because it didn’t take that long to read once I actually forced myself to sit down and read more of it.

I paid $4.95 for this book at Downtown Books in Milwaukee one weekend when I accumulated a number of biographical pieces about Raymond Chandler. (See also my report on Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe earlier this year.)

Perhaps this book could better be called The England of Raymond Chandler; twenty years after his death, it collects a few essays but a number of interviews and memories from people who met him in England in the year or so before he died. Perhaps I only think that because the book’s longest piece, “His Own Long Goodbye” by Natasha Spender, chronicles in excruciating detail the shape he was in in London in the late 1950s and how the writer of the piece and her friends helped him survive England. All right, it’s probably accurate in its detail of his failing health, his end-of-life melancholy and suicidal tendencies, but it’s not what I wanted to dwell on about Chandler.

Some of the essays do discuss Marlowe and the evolution of Chandler’s writing and his storied past, so it’s worth it if you’re a big fan of the man, but to the casual reader who likes hard-boiled mysteries, it’s a bust.

I read this book, its ninth printing from 1960, starting in February. I got bogged down around the time where Mr. Kennan began discussing what to do about the Soviet Union since I know how it turned out, but I buckled down and finished it last week.

The book starts with a brief recap of some of America’s oversights and missteps in foreign policy in the first half of the twentieth century, including the Spanish American War, missteps in China and the Orient (which is what they called Asia until 1960 or so), World War I, and World War II. It also proffers some plans for how to deal with the Soviet Union, including a brief history of Russian communism and its relationship to the native population.

Wow, it’s an intelligent book written by someone with a slightly different point of view, but I never felt like throwing the book. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time in the contemporary slums of political thought, but at no point did Kennan offend me with his politics. He explains his logic and frames his arguments on historical fact and his interpretation of him. One suspects one could have a discussion about the policies of containment versus confrontation without raising one’s voice–or maybe one could, if one remembered how gentlemen did it.

However, as a lifelong diplomat (and future ambassador to the Soviet Union), Kennan’s approach sees diplomacy as the end-all, be-all of international relations. As such, he would prefer that military force only be used at the behest of the diplomats and only as a sort of mailed-gauntlet slap at an international cocktail party. Undoubtedly, he would fit into the sort of philosophy that perplexes Mark Helprin:

If you must go to war, do not do so hesitantly, with half a heart.

Instead, the stiffening of sinews and making like tigers might offend Kennan’s sensibilities or protocols of restraint, but that’s the nature of war. It is a last resort, it is very bad, and it must be prosecuted to its end.

Kennan argues passionately for engagement and containment with the Soviet Union, which ultimately worked to end communism. However, one must ask upon reviewing Kennan’s lessons from this book, originally a series of lectures, can we apply these lessons and these techniques to current rivals or enemies–China and non-stated organizations formed around radical Islam and other aggrieved groups. I would hesitate in trying, for the Soviet Union was a Western power, based in Western thought and philosophy, which we can easily understand. Modern and future opponents are not.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, I bought the book for a quarter at some yard sale or estate sale in the midterm past (probably after 2000). Occasionally I do try to elevate myself through reading, and this book helped.

If future archeologists unearth a copy of this tome, they will undoubtedly think that the 1970s were a repressed period. I mean, this book collects some jokes that might have been considered dirty circa 1948, but in the 1970s, mildly off color words weren’t shocking enough to cause startled laughter in joke listeners, much less joke readers.

This book was originally published in 1976, but I purchased a special 1979 printing at the YMCA for a buck. Let that be your guide. I bought it at a fundraiser at the Young Man’s Christian Association in 2005. Jeez, I knew better dirty jokes in 1979, and I was in elementary school.

It’s hard to belive that only a couple of years later, local radio personality Frank O. Pinion released the definitive dirty joke book–which I read surrepitiously during my middle school years. The book featured the famous Willy Nelson joke, which I remember and can recite to this day. But the contents of this book–The World’s Best Dirty Jokes, I remind you, gentle reader–I have already forgotten.

I bought this book at the Carondolet YMCA book fair. I spent a $1.00 on it, but I justified it on these factors:

• It’s a stated first edition.
• It’s a signed stated first edition, with the inscription “To Stevie – My favorite stud-puppy–bend over! Love, Judy Tenuta”.
• In the late 1980s, I thought Judy Tenuta was kinda hot.

So I picked this book as my most recent nonfiction reading material. It’s 212 pages, but those pages make judicious use of white space, drawings, and photography that proved that Judy Tenuta was kinda hot in 1991, in a disturbed sort of way. Hey, I was in my late teens. Disturbed but hot would continue to feed my tastes for another half decade yet. She’s also got another luminary of the era, Emo Phillips, in some of the photos. Hey, where did he go? You know, I thought he had a cult following when I was clicking through Hot or Not profiles and saw a lot of chicks born in 1985 continued to appreciate emo. But I digress.

The book, coupled with the last book by a comedienne I thought was hot in 1990 (Rita Rudner, Naked Beneath My Clothes), defines the difference between humor and shtick. Judy Tenuta, with her Love Goddess persona and accordion, represent one, and Rita Rudner, with her musings on life and pointed pauses with lips pursed, represents the other. One translates well to books, and the other doesn’t. One ages well, and one does not–I cannot imagine Judy Tenuta running around with the same observations and act now that she’s about to trip 50; however, Ms. Rudner can continue with her observations and pursed lips without missing a beat.

I also thought Judy Tenuta was kinda amusing ca. 1990, too, but come to think of it, I don’t know I ever saw any extended performance. I think I saw some promos for MTV or VH1 featuring her, but no specials. Otherwise I might have skipped this particular purchase, which depicts how one should worship her and participate in her religion, Judyism. She inserts observations and jokes about commoners and celebrities as they relate to her, but ultimately, it’s only one note played on a variety of instruments and called a symponme.

Not to say that the book was totally meritless, as its value as an artifact of history and my personal life (remember 1991 B.C.–before Clinton?). Still, nothing in the book made me laugh out loud or really chuckle. I didn’t rush to my beautiful wife to tell her what Tenuta said. Nor, probably, will I ever. But she was kinda hot in 1990. For someone almost my mother’s age.

Since I didn’t group it with the Prey novels I inherited from my aunt (Easy Prey, Chosen Prey, and Naked Prey), I overlooked this book until now, and it worked its way to the back of my “to read” bookshelves.

The book centers upon a series character named Kidd who’s a computer hacker. The book is five years old, but it’s weathered fairly well; Sandford keeps the specifics of the technology to a minimum. Ergo, he’s not made laughable mistakes in the world of 2000 which computer people would spot and it prevents early obsolescence of the book. Also, Kidd gets out of the basement and doesn’t spend a whole lot of the book hacking. Instead, he’s social engineering, reconnoitering, and breaking and entering. So it’s more gripping, less dated.

The plot: a former associate of Kidd’s has gotten killed after inadvertently poking into some conspiracy among NSA or near-NSA types, and he left a message for Kidd just in case something were to happen to him. That something does happen, and Kidd’s skeptical. However, Kidd finds himself listed as the member of a non-existent hacker group identified as a high priority target for law enforcement, they force Kidd to investigate and retaliate–not so much out of his sense of vengeance, but his instinct for survival.

It’s a serviceable book, better than the Prey series where the main character, Lucas Davenport, field marshals a team as they deal with political pressures and solve high-profile cases. Still, Kidd depends upon a support network, so he doesn’t fit the lone wolf archetype in suspense novels. He’s also a Democrat, like Davenport, whose political asides tend to run to the sniggering at the Republicans. The asides don’t detract from my enjoyment of the book, but I am aware of them.

So it’s worth a buck or two in the used book store, certainly. Perhaps even five on the remainder table, and perhaps I’ll explore the other books in the series once I get through the hundreds of volumes remaining on the “to read” shelves.

I bought this book at the Carondolet YMCA for $4.00, but it’s in almost new condition, and I hadn’t read this book, and Ed McBain died this summer. So again I set aside my normal reluctance to spend that much money on a book.

Hark! is a Deaf Man book. There’s no other way to put it. Normal crime goes out the window in this book, as the Deaf Man again taunts the boys (and girl) of the 87th Precinct with a set of clues about what he plans to do, knowing that they won’t be able to stop him. Or so he thinks.

As always, these books include a lot of details in the lives of the characters. McBain kept up a tight schedule on publishing these novels, particularly in the last couple of years, so we can forgive him for what might have been an increased serialization of the private lives–although the books always had some of that. Something else striking about this book is that it refers to actual contemporary political figures–Bush and Blair–, contemporary musicians–the John Pizarelli trio–, and contemporary events–the war in Iraq. His earlier books used common nouns or made-up details, which has preserved their longevity and readability into the present. For example, a veteran returning from “the war” proved a relatively malleable archetype: it could have been Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, or the current wars depending upon the decade in which the reader encounters the book. By naming specifics, McBain has limited the future reach of these books.

But one can become as morose as Travis McGee lamenting that not only is the concept of reading books becoming meaningless in man’s blithe march into media-mandated illiteracy and technologically-enabled idiocy, but with Ed McBain’s death, the potential number of 87th Precinct novels (or at least those for which Evan Hunter is responsible) has become finite and the actual number of books I have not read will now slowly tick down to zero, much like life itself.

Man, that’s depressing. I think I’ll while some of that time away mindlessly by playing Civilization.

I paid a whole $3.00 for this book at the Carondolet YMCA Book Fair last weekend. It’s a lot for me to pay for a book, I know, but this one is a stated first edition. So I threw it in my box. As you know, gentle reader, John D. MacDonald is one of my favorite authors, and to get one of his first editions for only three dollars, well, I’d make that purchase any day of the week. Because of my love for JDM, I didn’t evaluate the book coldly, rationally, like a true book collector, otherwise I would have noted the pen scribbling–hopefully by a child–inside the front and back cover and perhaps the slight molding on the spine. But since I’m thrilled to have this first edition for my collection and not for investment purposes, it will do.

An old seafaring acquaintance of Travis McGee commissions the salvage expert to find and return his good name. Captain Van Harder was found passed out aboard the ship he was piloting after its owner fell overboard. Although he battled and conquered drinking demons in his youth, no one believes him that he only had one drink on the job, and his license and livelihood are revoked. McGee travels to the gulf coast of Florida with his friend Meyer to investigate the disappearance of the owner. As his business was on the rocks, could the owner have slipped a mickey to his captain and friend to stage a disappearance to Mexico? It certainly looks that way.

I cannot really say anything bad about this novel without trying very hard, so I won’t bother. I paid $3.00 for a book I’d already ready and might already own and I read it the same week I bought it. Let that guide your thinking about my opinion of the book.