Ed Lacy

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Two gritty New York mysteries, the first involving a young cop who sets out to solve a murder that everyone else thinks is just a random killing, and the second the story of an unlikely detective who is hired to look into a strange street shooting.

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 place seemed to be filling up with uniformed cops. I felt trapped. I shrugged and headed for the door. Suddenly I wasn't as much angry as plain tired. All I wanted was to get out of this rat trap, return to Rose and our boat; get the hell back to Ansel's island where the only problem was whether we'd sleep all day or go underwater fishing. I don't know, maybe I was nuts. Or everybody else was." Originally published in 1959.

Clayton Biner had it all-swimming pools in California, haciendas in Mexico, blue evenings on the French Riviera, all the women he could use. But he wanted more. And he got it when he became involved with a vicious syndicate peddling heroin-the big H, the white "Horse." Now he was really in the big money-a three-million-dollar bundle of danger and death. Ed Lacy is one of America's all-time best selling authors, with sales of his famous, nerve-chilling books in the millions. Shoot It Again is a powerful, haunting novel of an international crime syndicate and a man trapped by his own greed and passion.

I'm George Jackson. And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, "How corny can you get?" "How great can one be?" and the like. I know it sounds insane now, but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own good.

If you're Toussaint Moore, a private investigator from New York City, and a Negro, framed in your own city for a white man's murder, you are going to find it tricky sledding in a small Ohio town, close to the Kentucky border. But the small town was where Moore felt he had to be, to try to find proof for the police that he was innocent of the killing. Moore's problems had started in New York, when the publicity woman from a television show called You-Detective came to ask him to shadow a man. The idea of the show was that the viewers were given information about a wanted man, and the first viewer to find the man and report him to the police won a reward. In short, it was a combination adventure and give-away show. Ed Lacy has written his most unusual story-a very exciting one, and one which handles with exceptional insight a Negro's experiences in a large northern city and a small, bordering-on-the-South town.

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....

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 my first day in Paris but the feeling was still with me: like I was getting ready to explode, as if my guts were a lit fuse racing up to my brain. Being cooped up gets me that way, although I was camped in a big room in this swank hotel. Twelve bucks a night and it was the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I'd docked at Le Havre the afternoon before, came straight to this fancy joint from Gare St. Lazare, like they told me to. I had a swell suit of clothes, an expensive big suitcase, and looked like ready money-except I had exactly forty-seven bucks on me. All I had to do was wait for a call, yet I was jumpy. I'd promoted a deal with one of the biggest guys in the American fight racket, and I was in Paris to put the cap on it-the deal I'd been sucking around on for over a half year. And when you got to butter up a goon like Slats, your nose is scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel.

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.