Blonde on the Rocks (Carter Brown, 1963)

Let's stay on the rocks for another review, moving from the murder to a blonde. And yes, it's Carter Brown, so we can expect a new dosage of infantile and cryptic humour. Luckily, this one is from his Rick Holman series and not from the farcical and, in my opinion, much inferior Al Wheeler or Danny Boyd series.

The setup was quite original, and I liked it a lot. It opens with a famous actress hiring our troubleshooter to find out who had killed her! Obviously, not literally (even Carter Brown is now whacky enough for something like that), but killing in Hollywood can also mean blacklisting, which is precisely what happened to unfortunate Della. She hires Holman to discover who and why "put her on the ice".

Rick Holman discovers all that by the end of the next chapter. We are still only at page 30.

Holman keeps digging because there are some shady circumstances surrounding the incidental (yeah, right!) demise of Della's lover in a car accident. But he's pretty inefficient and will only be able to muster a grand total of three suspects by the time the book finishes. One of them turns out to be insane and gets incarcerated in an asylum, so the prospect of some big final roundup looks less and less likely. You don't need to take my word for it; such an idea sounds "childish and stupid" even to our main guy...

Fortunately for him, there will be no mandatory suspects roundup in this one as the murderer storms into Rick's house and tries to settle everything with a bit of a gunfight. Cool! And there's even a nice twist with body-swapping that I didn't see coming. Even cooler!

That covers the beginning and the end, but what happens in the middle? In one word: women! There are pages and pages of superlatives about the number of beauties that Holman encounters. The whole thing is so idiotic and over the top that it actually becomes funny to read. Check out the "dames" section below, and you'll see what I mean. 

Peasant-rich curves? Delicate ankles? With all due respect, Mr Brown,... but come on!?!!

3/5

Facts:

Hero:

You've gotten to be a real big man in your own line, right? These days anybody in the whole goddamned business has got troubles, what do they do? Right away they send for Rick Holman!

The bad guy(s):

Erik Stanger strode into the office, looking like something Wagner composed on an off day.

Dames: 

I liked them all! Witty and delightfully amoral.

Let's start with Della August, the titular blonde and one of the three top actresses in Hollywood. In the opening scene, our hero is struck by "the impact of the swelling curve of her jutting breasts and the long line of her lovely legs."

Not to mention that "her negligee is merely a silken sheath that hides her peasant-rich curves from his always vulgar gaze."

Then there's the bad guy's wife, Mrs Monica King:

It was like nature had made a big joke when it made her - by giving her about the most sexually appealing body of any woman I had ever seen in my whole life.

The brief black bikini only emphasised the magnetic nudity of that glorious abundance of flowing curves and spheres. Her breasts flowed outward with the majesty of a tidal river, until they culminated in a deeep fulfilment that made your whole body ache with desire at first glance. Her waist was a fragile, incredibly small bridge that merged into the swelling curves of her hips, which looked like they had been machine-turned, with a tolerance close to a ten-thousandth of an inch, into erotic perfection. Her legs were equal parts perfect, with rounded thighs, slender calves, and delicate ankles.

My favourite one would definitely be Eugenie St. Clair:

A tall, lithe brunette. Large, luminous dark eyes. High, exquisitely molded cheekbones. Both lips full and invitingly soft. A beautiful face, an intelligent face.

I figured that predatory was the word I wanted, maybe.

It has to be said that she has absolutely no role in this book, but I didn't really mind. How could I, as long as she came up with crazy stuff like this:

"Tell me more, Mr. Holman?" she whispered huskily. "Do you find my face beautiful? Is that why your vocal cords were paralyzed all that time? Or perhaps the deep sorrow that overshadows my life shows in my face - to a kindly man of the world gifted with acute perception, such as yourself?"

Location:

Tinseltown

Body count:

2

The object of desire:

"Why would they do this to you?" I asked.

She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know why, that's what I want you to find out, Rick. They started out to kill me, and in six months they've almost done it. I feel like a ghost already, with no work, no offers even, no nothing!

Blackouts:

We have one, and it's a bit unconventional. Holman is in a regular fistfight, but when he receives a punch in the solar plexus, he plunges into "a soaring whirlpool of blinding colors, alternating with Stygian darkness".

Luckily, we don't need to wait long for the explanation:

"Ah! You are back with us now? It hurt, but it was even worse in your mind, yes? That is because I was very scientific when I hit you. No permanent damage, but a temporary and partial paralysis of the diaphragm."

Title:

Della is blonde and has been "put on ice (rocks?) with all the studios". 

Edition:

Signet G2328, First Printing, July 1963

Cover:

Beautiful and sexy, by McGinnis. I'm adding the second edition's cover as it is equally great. Looks like they both came from the same photoshoot.

Cool lines:

"Oh, of course!" She giggled again. "I am stupid, aren't I?"
"Yes," I said simply.

I'd rather drop into the nearest cemetery and read the headstones than talk over old times with you.

I'll bet the only shotgun she's ever seen in her life was at her first wedding!

Murder On The Rocks (Robert Dietrich, 1957)

It's bad enough that our hero is a pipe-smoking accountant, but what really kills this one is that he is a self-absorbed, narcissistic snob who has an opinion on everything and everybody. He keeps making idiotic, corny jokes and comments that sometimes border on bizarre.

I'll give you an example: when he notices two teenage girls (heavy-chested!) staring at lurid covers of horror books displayed on the magazine rack, he just can't help himself but bark at them:

"Back to your algebra. When you're a little older it'll be a big help to your husband in figuring a system to beat the ponies."
The girl's eyes popped open. "Huh?"
"Well," I said, "it was a thought for the day." 

I don't know... Am I too literal-minded? Is someone out there who finds this kind of shit even remotely funny? You're welcome to leave the comment below.

Since he's an accountant, it would be unfair to hold his lack of detective skills against him. Like every efficient bureaucrat, he hires a proper private detective and takes over the investigation once he gets a short list of suspects. And I wonder why he takes over because he never misses a chance to explicitly explain to everyone around him that he is not a proper PI and has no intention of getting involved in the case.

The case? The standard story of some missing, insanely expensive diamond, a couple of murders, one junkie, a beautiful night-club singer, two horny sisters throwing themselves at our hero, a sinister mafia guy, incompetent police that is nowhere to be seen, etc. To be honest, it starts all right, but after the first fifty pages or so, it gets stale. Most definitely nothing that we haven't read before. 

So, yes, it's bad, and you may wonder why I even bother writing this review. The reason is simple: it contains the most ludicrous plot device I have ever encountered. And I'm a big Mike Avallone fan! Now check this: Steve narrows down his suspects to just a couple of them because he realises that the culprit is most likely a drug addict. So far, so good. The good old elimination method, right? But the crazy part is that one of his remaining suspects got hooked up on morphine when he was imprisoned in the fucking concentration camp!!!

No need to make tasteless jokes about nazi experiments in death camps, so let's stop right here. 

It's difficult to admit, but I'm beginning to realise that my relationship with our favourite Watergate spy is beyond salvageable. As love affairs often do, ours started a good ten years ago with a bang when I was devouring Hard Case Crime books and read his brilliant House Dick (which, btw, still has my favourite HCC cover!). Since those days, everything just kept going downhill, and I've been through a series of forgettable novels.

This one is at least memorable but for the wrong reasons. Skip it.

2/5

Facts:

Hero:

Steve Bentley, a tax consultant.

You're alert, quick, and highly intelligent. You've proved yourself in the world of business and you have your clients' respect. By any standards you're quite sufficiently cultured to mingle with any social group. You're honest, solid, and you have integrity. And beneath it all you're little bit of a snob. Do I make myself clear?

The bad guy(s):

When Cadena was a tank sergeant on Luzon he had pulled the head off a dead Jap to win a ten-cent bet.

Dames: 

Two daughters of some Banana Republic ambassador: Iris Sewall (with eyelashes bigger than butterflies) and Sara Cutler (The little sister. She looked like a mantrap).

Plus Janice Western, the night club singer: She had the look of a female with plenty in the bank and a private way to get more.

And let's not forget Mrs Bross, his ageing secretary who enjoys shopping during her lunch breaks.

Location:

As for Washington, it has, per capita, more rape, more crimes of violence, more perversion, more politicians, more liquor, more good food, more bad food, more tax collections, more hotels and apartments and more gold toothpicks than any city in the world. A fine place if you have enterprise, durability, money and powerful friends.

Body count:

3

The object of desire:

The Madagascar Green. La Verde de Madagascar. Cleopatra's Emerald. It was too romantic for me, the terms were too large, the menace too heavy.

Blackouts:

/

References:

In his typical condescending style, Steve treats us with a short review of The Teahouse of the August Moon:

The movie was Marlon Brando with gauze tapes slanting his eyelids and a straw coolie hat shaped like a hollow gong, the kind J. Arthur Rank's blacksmith beats in those British films. In the picture Brando spoke a lot of Japanese and some English. The pronunciation of both was bad, but I assume there was artistry behind it all.

Title:

We have some murders, and there's the precious rock of Madagascar Green diamond, so it's close enough. But even the title of this one could be improved; how about something like "Deadly Harvest of Cleopatra's Emerald"?

Edition:

Dell #A141, First edition, first printing - June 1957

Cover:

It's horrible, and unfortunately, it's similar to what we see in bookstores today. Would it be possible that Dell's art director was as unimpressed with the book as I was, so he just threw a sketch of some damsel in distress at the bottom and splashed the title in big letters all over the page? Sloppy and so very un-pulpy.

Cool lines:

/