Donald E. Westlake
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The Mystery Writers of America's 1993 Grand Master offers an off-the-wall, delightfully funny mystery about the tobacco industry's attempt to catch a particularly elusive spy before he goes up in smoke. National ad/promo. Tour.
Heimhocker were lovers. They were also medical researchers, both forty-three years of age, currently funded by the American Tobacco Research Institute to do blue-sky cancer research. Their work, reports of which looked good in tobacco-company annual reports, and references to which invariably formed a part of tobacco-industry spokespeople’s testimony before congressional committees, was sincere, intelligent, and well funded. (Even the alarm system had been paid for with tobacco money.) David and
happening, three bulky men in brown uniforms came out of the building, paused to lock the front gate, then clambered into the little car and drove away. Peg didn’t wait for a signal from Freddie. She knew that place down there was empty, she knew he was in there dismantling the alarm system, she knew it would be only a very few minutes before he came out with a white towel or a roll of fax paper or something to wave at her, so she started the van and eased it slowly forward, through and beyond
at the Perrier and said, “Letting it all hang out, eh, Counselor?” Leethe glowered at Barney’s reflection in the mirror, then turned his head just enough to give him the full treatment from those bleak eyes. “You wouldn’t want me to let it all hang out, Barney,” he said. By God, and that was true, wasn’t it? “Keep it buttoned, then,” Barney advised, and turned his attention to the fourteen-year-old barman with the black pencil mustache. “Beer,” he said. “Yes, sir?” “Imported. In a bottle.”
distributed, honor maintained, the law obeyed, and the family upheld. “And so we say, from the deepest bottom part of ourselves, good-bye, Jack. We are all better men—and of course better women, and better children, too—for having known you. You enriched our lives, in so many ways: Jack. Farewell. Please bow your heads.” The sidewalk was covered by a lumpy layer of cigarette butts. The mourners, if that’s the word, crunched over all those filters on their way to the cars, many of them lighting
through one of those?” “I don’t wanna know about it.” Picking up her toast and coffee, she said, “I think we don’t eat together anymore. I’ll be in the living room. When you come in, be one of those fellas, okay?” “Okay, Peg.” Freddie sighed again. “Being an invisible guy,” he said, “is kind of a lonely job, isn’t it?” Taking pity on him, Peg said, “Maybe it’ll go away pretty soon.” “Maybe.” “Or we’ll adapt, we’ll get used to it.” “You think so?” “Eat your breakfast, if you can find your