By Don Winslow
Sometime scholar and ever-reluctant detective Neal Carey may otherwise be completing a lifeless doctoral thesis than staring down the nostril of a loaded gun-- yet his new task does not sound risky. All he is acquired to do is pull off the final word makeover: flip Polly Paget-- a gum-chewing, foul-mouthed, big-haried broad-- right into a ideal girl in time to testify in a rape case opposed to Jack Landis, head of the relatives Cable community and America's such a lot cherished relatives guy. yet Polly isn't really cooperating, and everyone-- together with a former FBI agent, and an obsessive-compulsive hitman, the Mafia, a porn prince, and a slew of tabloid reporters-- is on her path turning Neal's "simple" project right into a lethal video game of duck-duck-goose.
In a hellish and hilarious escapade that takes him from the deserts of Nevada to the intense lighting fixtures of Las Vegas, and eventually to a hair-raising climax in a shoddily outfitted amusment park, Neal attempts to flee the mob's significant weapons whereas taking a slippery stroll up the world's greatest water slide.
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Additional resources for A Long Walk Up the Waterslide: A Neal Carey Mystery
Withers didn’t want to tell them that he had seen Top Drawer magazine maybe twice and it had just depressed him. It had been twenty years since he had gone to bed with a woman who looked anything like Ms. Haber and he knew he wasn’t going to have that pleasure if he lived another twenty, which was unlikely. So looking at the pictures was like being broke and hungry and standing outside the Carnegie Deli with one’s nose pressed to the window. “Certainly,” Withers said. He vaguely recalled some punch line about “not recognizing you with your clothes on” but didn’t chance it.
I’ll take my offer elsewhere. I think Ms. ” Speaking of speaking in an authoritative voice. “Wait,” Scarpelli said quickly. ” “Please,” Ms. Haber echoed. Withers sat down. He pulled his old Dunhill cigarette case from his jacket pocket. Ms. Haber quickly produced a lighter and an ashtray. “I’ll pay her half a million dollars,” Scarpelli said. Withers held out the case. Scarpelli shook his head and Ms. Haber leaned forward to light his cigarette. “I will require a ten percent finder’s fee,” Withers said.
She’s married. ” She looked like money. From the gloss of her black hair pulled tightly back to the perfect pale skin, the health-club figure, the clothes. ” Scarpelli asked. “Certainly,” Withers said, flipping through his mental index cards for the name. “She’s Ms. Haber, your personal assistant. She escorted me in, offered me water …” Walter thought wistfully of the days when one would be offered a civilized martini at any decent office in midtown. Scarpelli beamed. ” I can’t seem to recall last Thursday and he’s playing memory games from two years ago.