Don't Call Tonight a.k.a. End of a Call Girl (William Campbell Gault, 1958)

Had a pretty shitty streak of book choices lately, ranging from an ultra boring and annoying Perry Mason to a couple of old British spy thrillers, so I just wanted to get back on track with some classic PI stuff. I had read Gault's "Million Dollar Tramp" not long ago, so I knew what to expect with this one.

And I did get the classical detective stuff that I'd wanted. However, unfortunately, except for my favourite type of opening (a PI hired by a damsel in distress in his shabby office), there's nothing really positive to report about this one.

The biggest problem is our protagonist. He's simply not very imaginative and totally lacks initiative. At times he gets so lost that instead of doing proper gumshoeing, he reads Western paperbacks (btw - approved) or goes playing golf (not fucking cool). He simply goes out on a stakeout on one occasion because "I had nothing else to do"?!? And even though he works with the police, he gets most of the information from newspapers and radio.

It gets worse. Or maybe it's better since it's a bit comical. When he finally gets a hold of the suspect, who might be able to give him some useful clues, our man Joe fucks up the interrogation and subsequently gets so frustrated that he beats this poor schmuck so hard that the guy ends up in a hospital. Not exactly Marlowe-esque, right? Therefore, due to his inefficient techniques, it takes him over 150 pages to obtain a vital clue. He goes for lunch and accidentally runs into one of his fellow sleuthing colleagues who investigated one of Joe's current suspects in a totally unrelated case. During the chat, he then opens Joe's eyes to information that both he and the police have somehow overlooked. Eureka! And again - not exactly Marlowe-esque...

A bit amateurish but still bearable. In a way, it is even amusing. But coupled with a corny romance involving one of his suspects and topped with some lame self-pitying midlife crisis philosophy, it proved to be too much for me.

Not good, not bad, just another formulaic novel. I think I'm probably a bit pissed off and mean towards Joe because of the climax. You see, the twist has to do with homosexuality. I'm certainly no prude, don't care much about political correctness and try not to judge old books from the modern perspective, but at the same time, reading about the queers, degenerates, and half-people,... did leave a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. I mean, for fuck's sake - half people!?

Okay, if you were reading Perry Mason before this one, but otherwise...

2.5/5

Facts:

Hero:
"My name is Puma," I said.
She stood in the doorway of her apartment and looked at me without interest. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?"

Location:
L.A.

Body count: 

2

Dames:
Jean Talsman, the call girl. Her madame Mrs Dora Diggert. Her flatmate (and Joe's playmate) is Mary Cefalu, the model. Mrs Rafferty, the red-headed secretary with a shady past.

Blackouts:
Redness flooded my brain, but I was still conscious as I went down, conscious and powerless. As soon as I went prone, they began to kick me.
The last thing I heard, before a shoe caught my chin and brought oblivion, was the voice of the man whose throat I had held.
"God-damned snooping shamus," he was muttering.

Title: 
I have no idea where the "calling tonight" business came from. There was no fatal phone call in this one. The original American title "End of a Call Girl" is a bit more appropriate and accurate. The call girl in question survives this one, but she's now engaged to be married, so that would make the end of her as a call girl.

Edition:
Mayflower B-39, 1962

Cover:
Nice colours and lovely Kim Novak lookalike blonde. The original one with the Marilyn Monroe lookalike doesn't look bad, either.

Cool lines: 

/

Dolls are Deadly (Brett Halliday, 1960)

Pretty cool opening. Shayne is in his office nursing a glass of his Hennessy cognac, working on the dilemma of putting out his cigarette. He opts for the hardest of the three available choices by swinging his long legs to the floor and thumbing it out in an ashtray. And then the trouble comes knocking on his office door. Only this time, the trouble isn't shaped as some beautiful damsel in distress. The distressed one is a muscle man of the local loan shark, and there are two reasons for his disturbed mental state. Someone has sent him a couple of voodoo dolls!

After a mere five pages (of pretty large print), our shamus throws the big man out and reminds his secretary (who stopped typing and looked up reproachfully):

"I draw the line, Lucy, at keeping a professional murderer from being murdered. I know the law doesn't, but I have a code of ethics which I don't think it would hurt the law to embrace."

And then off he goes fishing with his Cuban friend Sylvester!

Pretty funny, I liked it. But in the very next chapter, things start to go downhill a bit. His little Cuban captain is being exploited by three shady characters, and it doesn't take long before he ends up under his ship tied to an anchor. Which is not that good. I mean, obviously, it's pretty fucking bad for Sylvester, but what bothered me was that personal crap got involved, and I don't like that in P.I. stories. However, on a positive note, at least it's not family crap which is the worst kind of personal crap.

But I'm digressing. So, we have two unrelated cases that our sleuth needs to solve. It won't be much of a spoiler to reveal that it turns out they are not unrelated. Nothing unusual, of course, about that. It follows well-established and proven formulas, and we read such stuff all the time. What is worth mentioning is that these two affairs are linked by sheer coincidence. Protagonists of both sub-plots simply attend to Madame Swoboda's mystic seances.

Unlike coincidences combined with personal/family shit is usually a recipe for disaster (sometimes for laughter), but it still works in this one. The story is quite complex, and it culminates in a cool twist, reminiscent of a Ross Macdonald-esque tragedy.

I also liked the style. This is one of the first Shayne novels that were ghostwritten (according to this website by Walter Ryerson Johnson). The writer attempted to capture the original style of the 1940s and succeeded remarkably well (check out the 'dames' and 'cool lines' in the facts below). But at the same time, it also feels like it was penned out pretty quickly without much reviewing and/or rewriting. Some scenes simply don't make much sense and feel like leftover ideas that the author forgot to drop when trying to reach his word count before the deadline. Why would Shayne take his secretary to an interview with his client and then leave her waiting in his car?

Charming. The coolest Shayne I can remember.

4/5

Facts:

Hero:
"Michael Shayne?" Ed repeated quickly. He looked at Shayne, as did Slim and Vince, from the wheelhouse. "You mean," Ed said with unsteadiness in his voice, "you're Michael Shayne, the private detective?"
"The same," Sylvester said proudly. "My friend, he is famous everywhere."
"Well, I'm damned!" Ed smoothed his angel's halo of graying hair. "Miami's best-known detective on our boat. Wait'll I tell the folks back home."

Bad guys:
It was rumored that he had known Lucky Luciano before Luciano was deported to Italy, and had since visited with the dope and vice czar there. However, as yet no crimes of consequence had been hung on De Luca by local or federal lawmen, for he was cunning and capable as well as ruthless.

Location:
Miami

Body count: 

3

Dames:
There's Clarissa Milford with a smooth golden head... tall, but her bones were light... she gave the impression of delicate fragility... she seemed to be one of those rare feminine creatures without imperfection.

But the real star is the mystic Madame Swoboda. Check out her anatomical details: 

...ample and worldly breasts, extraordinary long lashes, slim fingers, aquiline nose. Her features were regular, her skin clear and fair, her face beautiful and tantalizing. 

Blackouts:

/

Title: 
Someone is sending around voodoo dolls, and some recipients end up dead.

Edition:
Jove Books, May 1989

Cover:
A horribly generic photo, so I'm also including the original McGinnis illustration. 

Cool lines:
In any case, since murder unaccountably was breathing down the necks of some people, a talk with Sylvester was strongly indicated.

Coxman #25: The Penetrator (Troy Conway, 1971)

Who's Afraid of The Big Bad Russian Wolf?
Certainly not Rod Damon!

Unlike my first two Coxmans, this one doesn't start in his cabinet at Wisconsin College with our stud "studying" the species of the opposite sex and being interrupted by his superior. Instead, the entire opening chapter is dedicated to introducing his soon-to-be adversary, Countess Marie Antoinetta Rubinov. You can read more about her in the facts below, but for now - just to keep your interest - let me add that she has had over seventeen thousand men and was "mounted" by a heat-crazed horse on her tenth birthday! Yes - welcome to the crazy and sexed world of Troy Conway!

She is briefed about her assignment while being fucked with a dildo for several hours. The whole thing (I mean the assignment, of course) is a bit odd, but it involves a British super-spy called Penetrator. I think she is supposed to track him down and use her female charms to convince him to change sides. Or something like that.

It's somewhat unclear, and although amusing, it doesn't significantly advance the plot. So, Mr Avallone switches over to a proven formula. In the second chapter, we find Rod in his Wisconsin University cabinet, working on one of his sex theories with the assistance of his student Sarena. And being interrupted by Walrus-Moustache - Party-pooper, Killjoy, Bad News and Joe Btsplk Number One.

Rod's briefing is more conventional, and his assignment also includes the mysterious Penetrator, but there's another problem he must deal with. He needs to find out as much as possible about the "cobalt special - a granddaddy of all bombs".

Rod is now promptly off to Moscow, and this is where the plot ends before it has even really begun. For the following hundred pages or so, there's nothing but fucking. And it's cool, but it does get repetitive. There are several attempts to revive the story (dead spy, assassination attempt). However, they don't amount to much, so Mr Avallone just wraps the whole thing up with a couple of surprising twists (for lack of a better expression) and a little reminder that this is not a spy story anyway.

And also tells us in his unique way to go fuck ourselves in case we expected one:

Spying just isn't all that it's cracked up to be.
But sex is.
And it's the only crack in the world that I, Rod Damon, will ever be interested in.
Local Russian spy rings, please copy!
And why you're at, go screw yourselves.
Da, da!

Da, da?

3/5

Facts:

Hero:
You see, I'm kind of the male Rubinov of the West when you get right down to it. A pure born satyr, first class. Only thing is I'm not sick about it. It's no hang-up.
More a hang-down, you could say. Ahem.

Bad guys:
"And who is the General?"
Him I hadn't heard of. Aside from Motors, Electric, etcetera.
Walrus-Moustache smiled at me almost fondly.
"I hope you never meet him, Damon. Few people that we know have. And lived to tell the tale. A man of mystery. A physical giant of over six feet six. Handsome as a statue, older than time itself. He drove a tank in World War I and led armies in World War II. And now he is the head of anything Russian that requires violence, liquidation and aggressive action. He is their executioner, as it were.

Driving tanks and leading the armies, but only a few people have seen him?

Location: 
"Go ahead. Hit me with it. Tibet? Nope, Alaska? The moon-" 
"No, Damon. Russia."
I opened my eyes and in spite of myself, I felt a quickening of interest. You see, lately I've been on a Russian kick. Culturally, I'm kind of stuck on Redland. What with the Moiseyev Ballet, their opera, all those great-looking ballerinas and busty peasant dolls - in fact, I'd been toying with doing a thesis on Russian females. You know - Better Bed Than Red - or something like that.

Body count: 2
Not counting the dead CIA spy William Watts and a bunch of scientists that crashed down in Russian foothills in some deluxe private charter jet. But none of this has anything to do with the operation Penetrator. At least I couldn't make a connection.

Anyway. As usual, let's instead go through Rod's sexual conquests. More fun.

Sarena #1
As mentioned, his student Sarena is the first one. He deflowers her, and she comes back the very same night for more action (she couldn't study after THE experience). But she's not that inexperienced (she was natural) because she starts the foreplay by sticking her tongue in Rod's ass! Once finished, she concludes, "You are not to be believed! I thought you were a mirage!"

Nosha 
Upon his arrival in Moscow, the commies send a call girl, Nosha, to his room. This "steamrolling female tank" fucks him savagely, but then he gives her the complete treatment (I reamed it, steamed it and dry-cleaned it.) that includes a couple of his famous "sex ploys". And this is where we get the only Avallone LOL/WTF trademark moment. Check this:

Things got so worked up I once mistook her right ear for the natural target but she didn't howl or pull back but considered it another innovation until I explained my muscular mistake to her.[The Coolest!]

Do you get it!? I almost missed it the first time and had to reread and decipher it. Anyway, after they are finished, she just utters, "You are not bad, Comrade. Not bad at all. In  fact, you are in a class by yourself."

Orgy at the Smirnski School of Psychology with "the finest scholastic specimens"
Rod is undercover in Russia as a visiting professor at Smirnski School of Psychology, where he teaches cadets of the Cosmonaut Space Agency his "Sex and Weightlessness" seminar. You know, to make sure they know how to fuck in outer space. In the very first lecture, there's a brief introduction (8 Ivans and 4 quintessential babes) that ends with:

"All right! Now, select your partners. Two males to one female. And let's go. Fornicate! As best or however you can. And I warn you - I'm watching - I'm taking notes - and I'll ask questions later."

Ina the Ballerina
On his way back to the hotel, he runs into Ina (torrid tomato)... who btw is the only Russian person he knows... and they end up doing the Wanton Waltz the whole night:

"Ah, Rodski - " she murmured happily as we careened around her bedroom floor. "You are Nijinsky, Nureyev - with something extra added - what drive you have! What extension!"

In limbo
Rod is just waiting for something to happen over the next three days and keeps his rod busy, spending his days with students and his nights with Nosha.

Six Three
This idle period ends with the appearance of Six Three, his contact agent. Who has a little anatomical problem:
"I am very large down there, you see, It takes a big man to fill me, As you will see should you take on my problem."

He, of course, takes her problem on sooner as he can say Shostakovitch, and two pages later, we are treated with this unforgettable line:  
IT FITS! GREAT JUMPING TROTSKY - IT FITS!". 

To which he replies with yet another one of those inner monologues spoken in Avallone language: 
"Of course, it did. Pooh-pooh and tut-tut."

And the scene ends with her simple:
"Comrade Demon - I love you - "

Rod-Manya history-maker
Everything until this moment was just a build-up to Rod's encounter with the Countess, aka the Silver Hair, aka Manya. So when this historic moment arrives, it is first adequately introduced:

BOOMMMMMMMMMM!
No, that's not an elephant breaking wind.
That's the sound of Rod Damon and Silver Hair meeting on even ground in the dark of a bedroom. A Rod-Manya history-maker.
A most historic occasion in the annals of the Coxman.

Then it goes on for several pages in such a manner:
"- ohmylenintrotskymarxgodddd - " you are a man among men - truly, you are a might bull - ohmylord - againagain - and againagainagainagainagainagainagainagainnnnnnnaaahhhhh!"
"You're repeating yourself, Manya."
"Of course I am! And I want you to repeat yourself! A dozen times over - oh, Comrade - a whole troop of infantrymen have never given me so much pleasure - you are a marvel!"
"Thank you."
"You are welcome - come - do that once more - I tingle all over - and the itch is driving me insannnnnnnnnnne!"

But it suddenly totally anticlimaxes when Rod realises that she's, in fact, a nymphomaniac. He's appalled (She was sick for the stick, all right. And those are the worst kind!) and even gets pretty fucking mean to her:
"My baby shivers," she murmured. "Is Manya hurting him?"
"Not a chance, baby. Shut up and suck!"

Tumultuous orgy
The next day, he's half-dead after being ravaged the whole night by Three Six and Countess, so Comrade Professor's lecture at the institute is about reviving a dead man with sex. Tumultuous orgy follows.

Manya's punishment
And it was there, I swear by all I hold dear, that I perpetrated the most incredible love act of my life.
...Even Fay Wray got a better break than she did

In short: he fucks her to death.

Sarena #2
Similar to Had any Lately?, this one also finishes with the same girl he started with. Once he's back in the States, she demonstrates what she has learned from his books while he was away.

Dames:
Marie Antoinetta Rubinov. In a (very) condensed summary: the swingingest lady this side of a Playboy centerfold,... the most rapacious Russian nymphomaniac since Catherine the Great put a whole regiment of Cossacks through their nighttime paces,... Vavavavoom!... some mad artist's horniest fantasy...even a bishop with his Bible would burn with a fervor not precisely religious... a body of creamy white sculpture that Michelangelo might have chipped out of pure Carrara marble if he hadn't been one of the wrong kinds of boys... big, beautiful breasts with scarlet nipples that look like a bloody sacrifice on the snowy white mounds they adorn... perfect Venus... 

And so on and on... And on and fucking on. But if you still haven't grasped the idea, there's her whole dossier on page 9 (interesting reading). In essence, Marie Antoinetta Rubinov, nymphomaniac extraordinaire, was the greatest spy in Russia's history.

And there's a reference to some fantastic beauty specialising in sadomasochism named (check this!!!) Legget E. Split from "Coxman #9: The Man-Eater". I guess I know now which Coxeman book to pick up next.

Blackouts:
He blacks out during the bomb blast when he's about to join the orgy #1.

Title: 
"Ahhhhhhh, Boris," Marie cooed, "and what is my assignment, pet?" She kept grinding away with her thighs, like a coffee-maker.
"Stop The Penetrator!" Boris panted, exerting himself mightily behind his artificial manhood.
..."- And who is that - Rod Damon of America?"
As you can see, my fame precedes me. The world knows me...

"No, no, Manya - not he, though he is bad enough - this is a British superspy. The Penetrator -"...born in London... raised in America... has a fluent command of most Russian dialects... has been able to penetrate the deepest Russian military secrets for M2 of Britain and the CIA... genius... 

But Rod does know him well:

I knew all about The Penetrator. Someone who made James Bond seem like a kid playing with an erector set. Heard of him? Has the Lone Ranger heard of Tonto? Has Dick heard about Liz? Does Raquel Welch know that every man in the world wants to tag?

Although he's not very impressed a couple of pages later when he's shown Penetrator's photo: 
"He looks like Woody Allen in advanced stages of tuberculosis."

Edition:
Paperback Library 73-125

Cover: 
Rod with some hot Brigitte Bardot look-alike.

Cool lines: 
I'm telling you, you learn something new every day. In every way. With every lay.[The Coolest!]

He said nothing, merely grunting, but he did shove very hard behind her and she felt every delectable inch of that delightful instrument [=dildo] probing deeper into her soul.
"My sainted ass -" she screamed dropping exhausted on the bed, physically spent and battered.

"Shut up," I snarled, "and let's fornicate!"The Coolest!]

Masters of Noir - Volume 1 (1953-1959, published in 2010)

A great collection that starts slowly but gets better with each story.

Identity Unknown (Jonathan Craig, first published in Manhunt, August 1954)

Nice police procedural. All it takes for our detective is a pair of the victim's expensive shoes to establish her identity and, consequently, her killer. I liked its sharp style. There is no need for (too much) drama and emotions in a short story, right?

The Girl behind the Hedge (Mickey Spillane, first published in Manhunt, October 1953)

It seems like a logical decision for the editors of this compilation to shift gears with Spillane to follow up on the fairly plain opening story. You know - throw in a bit of sex and violence. No, sir.

I don't like writing this, and it's slowly beginning to look like I have something against good old Mickey, but this one is truly horrible. Instead of private eyes, cops, gangsters, dolls etc., we have a moral story about a couple of Wall Street brokers. One is good (?), and the other (surprise, surprise) is not so good. A real asshole, in fact, who some time ago stole the good one's fiancé. Hence, the poor sucker masterminded a diabolical revenge plan by making the asshole desperately fall in love with a mentally disabled girl and kill himself upon realising this.

And yes, that's it. Does it ring a bell? I forgot most about the classical adventures I read back in my primary school days, but this resembles one of those Count of Monte Cristo romantic revenge plots. I hope this is the case and that Spillane was fooling around and/or paying homage to some old master. But at least he stayed the classical Spillane as we know - one of his two protagonists calls this unfortunate girl a "hopeless imbecile". Fucking hell, what was this guy's problem??

Carrera's Woman (Ed McBain writing as Richard Marsten, first published in Manhunt, February 1953)

More like a Western, but still pretty cool. A bad guy vs. a good guy, and a woman playing a cat-and-mouse game in the scorching Mexican sun. Memorable for avoiding the obvious twist at the end.

Butcher (Richard S. Prather, first published in Manhunt, June 1954)

Can a good serial killer hunt story be squeezed into a short story? Probably not. But can a mediocre serial killer hunt story full of incredible coincidences be squeezed into a short story? Yes, definitely - this one is living proof. It's not all bad, and there are some okay moments and a decent twist at the end. Also good to see Shell Scott being a tough guy and not just some douchebag babbling about women.

Look Death in the Eye (Lawrence Block, first published in Saturn Web Detective Story Magazine, April 1959)

Another serial killer story! And it took exactly ten minutes to answer the above question and reject my hypothesis. Yes, writing a compelling short story about a serial killer is definitely possible. Although this one is not about the hunt, it is about the hunter instead.

It's Lawrence Block doing his Jill Emerson-ish erotic thing. But this time I was prepared and knew what to expect... and surprisingly I liked it. Liked it a lot, to be honest. Hot, a bit crazy, and also a little nasty! His recent one, The Girl with the deep Blue Eyes is now on my to-do list.

On a Sunday Afternoon (Gil Brewer, first published in Manhunt, January 1957)

A sexually repressed wife and her cowardly (impotent?) husband go to a family picnic after the Sunday mass, where they are attacked by a gang of juvenile delinquents. Cool stuff by the master.

Frame (Frank Kane, first published in Manhunt, December 1954)

Now we are getting somewhere! This one is a proper P.I. mystery with mobsters, dames, stolen loot, and even a decent body count. Great story, too. It kept me guessing right until the end.

Double (Bruno Fischer, first published in Manhunt, June 1954)

My favourite one in the collection. The bitter and woman-hating cop is fixated on the idea that the killer is his cheating ex-wife lookalike. Savage stuff, my only minor complaint would be that the apologies at the end are needless!

As I Lie Dead (Fletcher Flora, first published in Manhunt, February 1953)

It's hot, and two young lovers sit by the lake. She's dreaming about Acapulco, but his mind is elsewhere:

I saw that Grandfather had reached the raft. He was sitting on the far side, his back to us, legs dangling in the water. He’d made it out there in good time. For an old man, damn good time. He was strong, in spite of his fat belly. It didn’t look like he was ever going to die.

Guess what happens next?  You are right - grandfather won't be swimming much in the future. But that is just the beginning of the story. There will be blackmail, and murder, and betrayal. Excellent stuff, a bit depressing, but a great choice for a closing story.

3.5/5

Facts:

Body count: 

1 + 1 (added reluctantly since Wall Street yuppies shouldn't really count, right?) + 1 + 1 with at least 3 victims + 1 with a bunch of other victims (unfortunately, those eyeballs count is not specified) + 0 + 3 + 2 + 4 = 17

Dames:
Linda from "Carrera's Woman" is pretty cool (or should I say hot?):

There was sweetness in her kiss, and an undercurrent of danger, a pulsing emotion that knifed through me like an electric shock. She pressed against me, and her body was soft and womanly, and I forgot the marks of her nails on my arms and face, forgot that she could be as deadly as a grizzly. She was a kitten now, soft and caressing, and her breath was in my ears, and the movement of her body was quick and urgent. I lifted her, the .45 still in my hand, and carried her to the deep shadows of the rocks.

And cousin Cindy from "As I Lie Dead":

She was gold all over in the various shades that gold can take. Even her brown eyes, behind dark glass in white harlequin frames, were flecked with gold.

Edition: eBook

Cool lines: 

From "Carrera's Woman":

I hesitated before answering. “Ten G’s is a lot of money, baby.”
“I’m a lot of woman,” she answered.[Fatale]

From "Frame:

He debated the advisability of walking around back, decided to knock.

He slammed his fist against the big man’s mouth. There was the sound of crunching teeth. The big man went staggering backward and fell across a table.
“You won’t be needing teeth where you’re going.”

From "Double":

I growled, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I?” She got off the chaise longue and ran her hands sensuously over her half-naked body. “Look at me, Gus. Don’t you think I have a right to flatter myself?[Fatale]

From "As I Lie Dead":

I took the gun out of my pocket and pointed it at him, and then I saw what I’d been living to see. I saw the smooth assurance go sick in his eyes and fear come flooding in. When I’d seen that, I’d had everything from him I’d ever want, so I shot him. I shot him where I hated him most. Right in his pretty face. 

“Yes,” I said. “We’ll go away together, honey. I’ve got our tickets right here in the gun. One way and a long way.”[The Coolest!]

Bedroom Boulevard (Jim Dobbins, 1967)

Bought this one in a pack with some other books on eBay. I had no idea who Jim Dobbins was, but I liked the cover and hoped to get some quality sleaze. Surprisingly, it turned out to be quite okay, although totally un-sleazy (btw - is this even the correct expression? Chrome's spellchecker doesn't underline it in red). I hadn't planned to write a post about it, but after reading it, I googled (again, no red underlining?) the name Jim Dobbins, and the search came up with virtually nothing. And it deserves at least a short note that will immortalise Mr (or is/was it Mrs/Miss?) Dobbins on the blogosphere.

The story is built on a straightforward premise. Our hero, the marine on medical leave from Vietnam, comes to LA to recuperate from his arm wound and to have a few cold beers and hot women. The whole novel is pretty short, so it doesn't take him long to get involved with the keeper of the motel where he's staying and also to accidentally bump into his cheating ex-wife. To make things more interesting, there's also a gang of juvenile delinquents led by Lady #1's nephew and the shady husband of Lady #2.

But all this doesn't really matter. The whole thing is just a pretext to throw in as many sex scenes as possible because our Kirk gets lucky in a biblical sense with no less than four different women. With two of them on multiple occasions.

And somehow, a curious thing about it is that I still had a feeling that it was leading somewhere. Even as flawed with inconsistencies and coincidences as the story is, I would still categorise it as a crime/mystery and not (just) sex/romance. Unfortunately, the climax is disappointing.

However, this is also largely irrelevant. The reason why Bedroom Boulevard is memorable is its style. It's incredibly conservative, and it feels like it was written by someone who was assigned to write a fuck novel but was too shy and had opted to write this weird "erotic" stuff instead.

I'll give you an example. Kirk has no problem picking up a girl but is later totally shocked when she gives him a blow job. Nothing kinky, no S&M stuff whatsoever, just a good old plain fellatio in the backseat of the car. Don't get me wrong - he's not appalled or anything. And when she goes down on him for the second time (in two minutes!), he even pulls and twists her hair, but because she doesn't react with a yelp or cry, he concludes that:

How perverted can you get, I wondered. Not only was her sexual desire twisted, she was a damn masochist too.

Huh? Weird stuff, indeed. Puritanic sleaze?

Kind of short but not sweet. Would gladly check Dobbins' other stuff, but apparently, there is none other :)

3/5

Facts:

Hero: 
See front and back covers for detailed (and not very accurate) descriptions. But must say I kind of liked the guy. Just an ordinary kid who is a bit mixed up and keeps confusing love with sex.

Location: 
L.A.

Body count: 

0

Dames: 
Karen, the ex-wife (the devil) and Joyce, the next wife (the saint). 

Blackouts:
He loses his consciousness almost every time he comes. But that poetic (starts went off, just like the fourth of July) crap doesn't count. However, there is one proper blackout when he gets beaten by a gang of juvenile delinquents. Nothing special (they kick him in the balls), but I really liked the way he comes out of it:

But I could see the angel, not clear, but I could see her white robe and long hair. But something was wrong. She couldn't be an angel, because that meant I was in heaven. I just never lived that kind of life, and besides, I had been told too many times to go to hell.

Title: 
See back cover.

Edition:
All Star #127

Cover: 
Nice and exploitative, as we like them, right?

Cool lines: 

/

Too French and Too Deadly (Henry Kane, 1955)

After Peter Chambers, the author, it's now time for Pete Chambers, the protagonist. A year ago, I had mixed feelings about the Death of a Flack, but it was easy to reach a verdict this time around. This one pretty much sucks, I'm afraid.

It starts with an entire page of Chambers' whining about sacrificing his moustache just to impress beautiful and desirable Carlotta with dark and dreamy eyes. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but this was a warning about how things would proceed. From the very first page, every single description of a scene, character or action takes ages... and our sleuth's constant "witty" wisecracking and sexist remarks don't help one bit.

As annoying as all this is, it is still bearable compared to the story. As we all know, the red herring is the most used plot device in mystery novels, but it reaches unprecedented levels in this one. More than once, the sequence of events doesn't make much sense chronologically (unless Chambers has at least one identical twin brother), and occasional introductions of "classical" clues are almost pathetic. Do people really write following-day appointment reminders on matchboxes? Would you compile a short, incriminating list under the Chinese lantern in your living room?

Enough bitching. Anyone could be guilty in this mess, so it's a bit ironic that the actual solution doesn't make sense. Henry Kane was just no Ross Macdonald.

A bit disappointing. I think it will take me at least another year to pick up another Kane novel.

2/5

Facts:

Some of the facts are incomplete because I lost half of my notes. For all the Blogger users out there: do not press Ctrl+Z while editing your posts. It won't undo your last change...

Hero:
"A wise-guy peeper," Frenchie aid. "Yeah, I know him awright. A smart-type guy. Makes with the big words and makes with a lot of them. A sharp-shooter guy."

Bad guys:
Carl Dinello was the upper uppercrust of the undercrust. Carl Dinello was one of the ten most powerful men, without portfolios, in the world. It was open knowledge that Carl Dinello was the remote octopus whose tentacles held control over all illegal gambling in the United States....

And, like everything else, it goes on and on... The amusing thing is that after this introduction, Carl Dinello is not mentioned again. This is probably as well since I think the whole thing is confusing enough without any "remote octopuses".

Location: 

New York

Body count: 

3

The object of desire: 
"Gold," Horace said.
The Lieutenant said, "Pardon?"
I said, "What?"
"Gold," Horace said.

"Gold?" Parker fumed, "Gold? What's gold?"

"This," Horace laid the bar on Parker's desk and pointed a long finger. "Gold."

"This?" Parker shot querulous eyes at me. "This is gold?"

"Gold," Horace said. "Gold ingot."

"Ingot?" I said. "What's ingot?"

"Bullion," Horace said.

"And what's bullion?" Parker barked. "Sounds like soup."

Dames:
"A dame, I hear."
"Carlotta Cain. And what a dame. Brains, class, and putting it mildly, gorgeous."

Edie Rogers - Flame-red hair and round brown eyes and a small red mouth that was puckered like a blister. She was small, with quick movements, and a figure that had launched a thousand tips. Her breasts were round, firm, pointed and protruding; her arms full, her hands and feet small.

Once more, it then proceeds for another two paragraphs with all her anatomical details and details about her wardrobe, but I'm sure you've got the picture.

There's also French alcoholic beauty Carlotta (the only cool and interesting character, btw), and let us not forget his "short, squat, ugly and wonderful" secretary Miranda.

Blackouts:  

/

Title: 
A bit of a spoiler.

Edition:
Avon #672, First Edition.

Cover: 
A nice illustration of a damsel in distress. There are two redheads in this one, but since she looks a bit Frenchy, I think she's Carlotta and not Edie.

Cool lines: 

Counsel for the defense was panting like an asthmatic hoofer announcing the next act.

I came up out of my chair like I had a wasp gone waspish in my back pocket.

I was more fatigued than a dealer in Vegas working over-time on New Year's.

I tore out its [car trunk compartment] insides like a taxidermist with a deadline working on the carcass of a buffalo.

Tom Reeves bounced around like a pogo stick that had been crossed with a Mexican jumping bean.

Murder Is For Keeps (Peter Chambers, 1961)

After a needless prologue, this one starts as they all should. With a beautiful dame walking into a P.I.'s office and hiring our hero to do a job. No family crap, no favours for the best friend, no ghosts from the past etc. Which is cool. It's been a while since I've read a straightforward sleuth novel.

And it proceeds in this classical tradition. We have a jazz musician and mobsters (owning illegal gambling joint, of course) together with their ruthless thugs. There's a powerful politician (his widow, to be precise) and an even more powerful billionaire. There are more dames (most of them in distress) and a mandatory police inspector breathing down the neck of our protagonist. Also, a sinister backstory involving heroin and a serial killer. I'm sure you get the idea...

It's okay, but it lacks a bit of a spark. Not that it's dull or (too) predictable. It's flat and too simplistic, with a story that could use a twist or two. And speaking of twists, I think the author actually had one planned but eventually dropped it. I'm referring to Lois and her relationship with Vic. Towards the end, it's established that she's in love with the mobster, but this is dropped and forgotten, and the book even ends with her taking our hero on a romantic weekend to her cottage by a lake. I guess Mr Phillips was nearing his deadline, so he just wrapped it up. And so I'll do the same.

3.5/5

Facts:

Hero: 

Mark Preston, "A Ruthless Private Eye":

"Let me tell you something, Miss Freeman. It may hep you understand. I'm a private investigator-"
"A policeman?" she barged in.
"No. Not a policeman. Private cop. I get a licence but no badge. I have clients. People come to me with things that trouble them. I try to put the things right. You've probably heard of the breed, without having encountered a specimen before. Encounter one now." I tapped myself on the chest importantly.

"On, no," he groaned. "Not you. You know this joker?"
He turned to the first man and indicated me me with his head.
"No, I don't."
"Well take a look and try to remember him in future. The name is Preston. He calls himself a private investigator. With him that means he gets a free hand to meddle in police business and make himself a nuisance all around."

Bad guys: 
Crime is like any other business. The big guys, the winners, have to possess the some kind of ruthless purpose they would need to succeed in a more acceptable profession. You don't get to be a Toreno just by exercise of muscle, there's more to it than that, plenty more.

Location:
The fictional town of Monkton, California. Located south of San Francisco and three hours away from San Diego.

Body count:  
4 + several victims of the "psychotic killer" back on the east coast several years ago.

Dames:

Moira Chase with a full "thrusting figure and dark, luminous eyes". Her stepdaughter jazz-loving Ellen, whose "whole body was just emerging from the schoolgirl into the woman... with the impatient young breasts". And finally, Lois Freeman - "She was beautiful, exciting, self-possessed. She was trouble."

Blackouts: 
A great black blanket floated down and I pulled it over me.

Title: 
A bit silly, isn't it?

Edition:  
Monarch Books #428, April 1964

Cover: 
A bit of a mess. It seems more appropriate for a horror book. Credited to Lou Marchetti

Cool lines: 

I took another sip of the scotch. It was the kind they all pretend they are in the ads.