By Robert Bloch
A one-eyed detective and a blackmailer locate themselves neck-deep in homicide and deception after they discover the seamy underbelly of Hollywood. entire novels – either released for the 1st time in 50+ years!
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I took a deep drag and let the smoke out slowly. “But I was in the hospital when it happened. ” “That’s all anyone knows about it,” Bannock said. “I want the facts. ” “Ryan was murdered,” I told him. “There was a big scandal. The police investigated but they couldn’t pin it on anybody. That was six months ago, and now you show up and ask me to solve it. ” Bannock grinned. ” I shook my head. “I don’t buy that. ” “Then what do you care? He got his name smeared in the news, but it’s all over with now, and forgotten.
I picked up the pages, bent my head, then jerked erect. The door opened. He stood there, big and bluff and blond, bulking in the narrow doorway so that his tweeded shoulders almost touched either side of the frame. His eyes and teeth and rings sparkled and he said, “Hello, Mark. ” “Harry Bannock! ” The big man walked over and pumped my hand. First he looked at me and then he looked down. They all do if they haven’t seen the eye-patch before. “Great to see you! You’re looking great. ” “Great,” I told him.
I knew all about him and he knew all about me. Maybe I didn’t approve of my own reflection but, who knows, perhaps my reflection didn’t approve of me, either. We were even on that score. Maybe my reflection remembered the days when I had two eyes. The days before the hair started to turn gray and the collars began to fray a little at the edges. The days when I was Mark Clayburn Literary Agency, with an office on the Strip. Well, I remembered those days, too. Perhaps that’s why my eye got bloodshot—from too much remembering, from drinking too many toasts to the past.