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Benny Tapkow has worked as a crime boss Pendleton's chauffeur for seven years, but he's itching to get ahead. He feels like he serves a piece of the action, but Pendleton won't budge. So Benny strikes a deal with Big Al Alverato to kidnap Pendleton's daughter Pat to get him in with the rival gang. But the snatch doesn't come off as planned, and now Benny is stuck with Pat, a hellion with a temper and plenty of mood swings. Pendelton's men are after him and he has to dope her just to keep her in line. The last thing he figured on was falling in love.
Waler Lippit makes music all over town. He owns the juke boxes that play the tunes that keep the bars and the diners hopping. Jack St. Louis works for Lippit, smoothing the customers and keeping the nickels coming. But then along comes Benotti and the Chicago syndicate to louse up the operation. It's everything Jack can do to stay one step ahead. One step ahead of Benotti's gang, Lippit, and Lippit's willing wife Patty, who wants to be a singer and is convinced that Jack can make that happen too. And maybe he can. It's all in a week's work.
She was a gorgeous - and mysterious - girl from New York, who had taken a low-paying job in a small-town night club.When they fished her out of the local river she had nothing on. It didn't matter. She was past caring.Johnny Liddell cared, though. The girl was his client and it didn't make sense. Why would she strip, pile her clothes neatly on the pier, and then take the plunge?A waste, Liddell thought mournfully. A great waste.Then he cheered up. Any case that began with a killer and a naked woman was bound to produce more of the same . . .
ONE-The redheaded secretary lay crumpled on the office floor, her blouse ripped to the waist. Blood trickled from her mouth.TWO-The redheaded divorcee sprawled across the bed, the black silk sheet baring her lovely body - and her gaping throat.THREE-The black-haired B-girl lay broken across the steering wheel of the bomb-shattered car. Her open eyes stared sightlessly at the tilted floor.AND OUT!Each had walked into a trap meant for private eye Johnny Liddell, set by the crime syndicate out to get him. Each was a score Johnny had to settle - if he could live long enough to see the end of three brutal bouts with murder!
She was as pretty a mantrap as Liddell had ever set up. Five-feet-six. Black hair. One hundred and twenty-eight lusciously distributed pounds. Very, very nice . . .Liddell looked at his watch. The rackets boss was late in coming. Liddell didn't mind. Let Frankie Capolla be as late as he wanted. Liddell knew a very good way of passing the time . . .
When Private Eye Johnny Liddell moves his base of operations to Hollywood, he uncovers more dirt than a gossip columnist on a party line.First there's a movie mogul's adopted son, with plenty of money, but living in constant fear of death.Then there's a bevy of beauties, all connected with the unlucky lad, but perfectly willing to play the scene with Johnny as well.Then there's murder - raw and ugly - that forces Liddell to walk the tightrope between the killers and the cops.It all adds up to another fast, smooth job by Frank Kane.
They were grandstand observers, living the free and easy life:Charley Martins, ex-pug turned remittance man, whose apartment was wired against intruders;Pascale, 18, ash-blonde, better looking than Bardot, a sex-kitten who worked in her father's café and played with Americans only;Gil Fletcher, tall, emotional, a painter in love with Simone;Ed Jones, an ex-loser who, with his Daniele, made a scrubby living as a street photographer.Each of them was happy, until an American writer arrived in Nice and destroyed their lovely illusions.
It wasn't his case . . . his girl . . . or his problem . . . but Johnny Liddell had a personal interest in this little caper.He didn't ask to be the Feds' ''receiver'' on a pass of inside info on the smuggling racket, but he was. He didn't ask to have a couple of hoods beat the living daylights out of him to get the info back, but they did. As a matter of fact, for the first time in his life, Johnny Liddell wasn't asking for trouble.But when a lovely doll invited him to see her later, and murder turned later into never again, Johnny asked in - in to the bloody end.
Two Women Too ManyTo otherwise conservative Professor Bradley Cannon, women were a definite problem.Take Cornelia - and he did - one twitch of her lush, ripe body and he was lost.Take his favorite student, Maggie - and he did - one provocative leer and the chase was on.Take his wife, Madelaine - and he wished someone would - she left him cold, but the million dollars she owned generated a certain heat of their own.It was obvious that Peermont College would not tolerate Prof. Bradley's attempt to corner the woman market, so two of them had to go.That posed the question: How could he keep Maggie - she was the only one who could really satisfy his passions - and get rid of Cornelia and Madelaine, without losing the million dollars and without creating a scandal that would rock the college to its foundations?
She was everything, and most of all she was the earth's most tempting woman in a way that was peculiarly her own . . . but I could hear her rich, provocative voice saying softly that everything would be so very simple if only the man named Kirby would die . . . and as that summer grew, in desire and in terror, my world no longer had the familiar features of a fine and comforting thing, but the strange remnants of an ugly, threatened place . . . . . . and the root of it all lay hidden in the secret of The Brass Bed.
Terrified, she rolled over on the sand and sat up, not even trying to cover her body.''Tell you what,'' the strange man said. ''We'll play a little game. You try to remember me and I'll tell you when you're getting warm.''She watched him slowly unwrap an oilcloth package. ''You hid in that shack,'' she said, ''so you could catch me alone . . .''''And violate your fair white body? No, Edith. I've been there and back. I can't make that scene again.''''Damn you!'' she cried. ''You come on like an old lover, but I can't remember!''''You aren't trying,'' he said softly. ''Think of me without the beard, without the scars, a married man with a wife and kid. You destroyed it, Edith. You wiped me clean. Remember?''He opened the package then and Edith saw the gleam of the gun.''See, Edith? I brought it two thousand miles. Nobody knows I'm here, so they'll just have to assume that the sharks got you . . .''
Ten million dollars to be divided equitably among the departed Grandfather Hunter's remaining family, with a proviso being, in proper legal terms, that the entire ten million dollars was to be held in trust for the exclusive use of Senorita Fogarty her lifetime, and for the lifetime of her pups (Senorita Fogarty being a Chihuahua of questionable breeding) and for the lifetime of her pup's pups, etc., etc. Only upon the death of Senorita Fogarty and her pups (if any) would the inheritance go to the family.'Tis plain to see that the life of Senorita Fogarty wasn't worth two cents, much less ten million dollars. But to the rescue! Our senorita is to be protected by the Crumps, Grandfather Hunter's trusted servants. And did we forget to mention that the erstwhile heirs are a rather bungling, ineffectual lot?Will Senorita Fogarty outwit the scheming Hunter family? Will the Hunters regain the birthright that is undeniably theirs (all ten million dollars' worth)? Will the Crumps . . . oh, forget it - just read the book!
Brock Callahan doesn't have many fans left from his glory days on the gridiron. As a matter of fact, Warren Temple Lund III may be the last one. So how can Callahan refuse his request for help? It doesn't matter that Warren is not quite twelve with assets totaling thirty-two dollars.Callahan may have a soft spot for kids, but when he sets out to find his client's missing father, things get nasty indeed. Nobody - not the local police, the rich mother, nor her live-in-love - wants Callahan mixing in. And if he doesn't watch his step, Callahan may find himself in a county morgue with a tag tied to his big toe . . .
So it's come to this. Brock "the Rock" Callahan, former gridiron star turned private eye - peeping in bedroom windows. It's a dirty job, and not the kind Brock would normally take on. If he had a choice.But an old teammate asked him for a favor: following a stray wife. And what begins as a dirty job, gets worse, much worse. Brock becomes a hunted man -- and the prime suspect in a savage murder.
Brock 'the Rock' Callahan might just be in over his head. Someone's killed one of the last of Hollywood's grand dames, and Callahan's hired to find out who and why.The case takes Callahan right into the celluloid heart of the movie business. He's surrounded by fools, thieves, has-beens, and never-weres. It's a high-rent shark tank that makes his career on the L.A. Rams defensive line look like a cakewalk. But Callahan's determined to find out who snuffed the old doll, even if it means rattling a few of those gilded cages in the Hollywood Hills.
Don't Mention MurderIt was a vulgar word in the swank millionaire town of San Valdesto. But knocking off a few citizens here and there seemed more than a grave social error to a tough-minded detective like Joe Puma.It made him sore when he discovered the natives would rather protect a well-bred killer than put up with a low-brow private eye.So he taught them a lesson and his red-blooded tactics set the town's blue blood to boiling.The Wayward Widow. . . another mad whirl on a murder-go round with that damsel-chasing knight in amour - Joe Puma.
Stripped for MurderShe was a night club stripper, a black-haired, white-skinned beauty, an all-out performer few men could resist. When she came on, wolf whistles drowned out the music.And she was the kind of gal who loved her work. Something had to be wrong when she didn't show one night. In fact, she didn't show her face - or anything else - for quite a while.She had good reason to hide. Because she'd beat it from a shady, hot-pillow motel, where the other occupant of her bedroom was a dead man!
One slut deserves anotherWhile her husband was away, Rita Sharpe would play. Sometimes with her stupid but strong gardener. More often with slick Norman Williams. Yet she was no worse than bosomy Sandra Thomas! Sandra slyly cheated with practically every man who came along . . . not excepting Rita's own rugged spouse . . .His name was Fred, and he was perfectly willing to make the most of a wife - anybody's wife. He could not foresee that thanks to smooth Norman, the cozy situation would explode into a frenzy of hate and wild brutality. In the end Fred was forced to deny both Rita and Sandra - and gamble his life on the sinful need of still another unfaithful woman!
Thrill HuntersWildwood Acres was a civilized wilderness up-state, playground of crippled, uppercrust Frank Jennings - a man of untamed lust . . . of strange, untrammeled passions . . . of urges to hurt and kill anything and anybody defenseless enough. For his pleasure he collected not only helpless animals, but also an assortment of beautiful women . . .There was summer-hot Kitty, his simmering young wife. There was radiantly blonde Carole, as twisted as Jennings himself. There was jet-haired Joan Keider, who refused to starve for thrills while a guy like Eddie Boyd was in the last neighborhood.Eddie dallied with Joan, and toyed with pretty Kitty. Then even Carole was driven into his arms by Jennings' brutalities. Like the rest of them, Eddie was getting the message - ''You only live once - but you can love plenty of times!''Trapped by luxury, warped by hate, could these brutalized lust-mongers attain a second chance?
In the sterile white corridors of a mental ward - and the unexplored passages of the mind - unfolds a novel of heart-clutching terror, with a cast of characters caught inextricably in its lurking mystery:DAN BOLLINGER - Ex-Vietnam vet drifting on a marijuana cloud. Women came to his wilderness cabin, one after another, and never left. He insisted he never killed them - until terrifying mental images made him realize, with startled horror, that he knew the burial sites of each girl, though their deaths remained shrouded in mystery!ELIZABETH BODAC - Charmed and challenged by Dan's enigmatic, elusive personality and the riddle locked in his brain, she vowed to discover Dan's secret - and save him. But was she trying to save a madman, a murderer, or both?DEBRA BOLLINGER - Dan's twin sister, a brooding eccentric consumed by a long-standing psychic love for her brother - and a smoldering passion for him that yet threatened to erupt.DR. JEFFREY KOSSUTH - Head of the mental hospital, he swore Dan was the killer even as he began to write Dan's 'exclusive' story to sell to the highest bidder. Was he treating a patient, or protecting an investment?With explosive force and pulsing tension, Charles W. Runyon has created a novel combing the dark mysteries of the mind and the breathless excitement of a first-rate thriller.
Lee Kaprelian, the son of an Armenian rug merchant, unwittingly gets involved into a murder plot by a woman no less beautiful than she is mysterious.
In this fascinating, frighteningly realistic novel Maxwell Dent becomes enmeshed in the harrowing world of narcotics. His desperate quest to get to the The Man, to somehow shut off the supply that has hooked lovely, wealthy Helen Ashton takes him into the center of one of the most viciously successful crime syndicates in the world. Before you finish this book, you will now the degradation, the debasement, the lust for just one more fix that drives the junkie into a nether world of living death.
What makes a good girl go bad?How are cute young girls induced to pose for off-color photographs? Why does a pretty miss allow herself to be used for illicit pictures? To give you the answers, this outspoken novel probes the shocking excess of attractive Cherry Gordon - who started as a good kid, but was taught to be bad . . .The temptations of night-club life, and coercion to make her perform at 'stag' affairs - these things might not have ruined her. But then Cherry was pushed, poked, and prodded into the role of star performer in provocative photos. Thereafter her sins became progressively greater, and progressively worse.There might have been hope for Cherry, for one man, although active in the foul racket, truly loved her. By this time, however, she was blunted to ordinary morals, commonplace desires. One day he found Cherry in the arms of a redheaded woman . . .
Sheba - that was her real name - looked innocent as a lamb and twice as cuddly. She happened to be a she-wolf in sheep's clothing. A saleswoman, that is - who used her retching femininity to move merchandise.She had been taught her trade by an expert - the same virile sales executive who had shattered the lamblike innocence once hers, the innocence now worn like a disguise. Maybe it was exactly this virginal aspect of Sheba which encouraged Fred, the man she loved, to brutally ravish her. Why should the sales people have all the fun?The time came when Sheba tired of delivering the goods. But how could she expect help from the operators making her sell her soul for a commission? Or from Fred, who had forced himself upon her. Maybe it would be better, she figured, just to take what she could get - and like it!
Cynthia was just what Bill Masters wanted - at first. But her opulent charms proved a lot more accessible than her equally lush bank account, and after all she would be worth a hundred thousand dollars to him - dead. Besides, there was that pretty redhead, Sherry. And Donna, whom once he had loved and maybe he could love again . . .So Bill, who loved to hunt, set up his guns and his traps. Only this time the victim was human. Cynthia to be exact. Which would have worked out fine except that Sherry caught on. All those attractions of hers - the proud profile, the saucy hips, the slim, silky legs - they were prime bait. It was Bill who was snared now!
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