“Murder: Chicago-Style” Private Detective Mick Malone, Chicago’s toughest gumshoe, finds himself caught in a war between “Scarface” Al Capone and the Belmont Avenue Gang. Mick’s take-no-prisoner’s style of justice is needed when bullets fly, and the only thing deadlier than a stiletto switchblade is a beautiful dame with her sights set on Chicago’s meanest, sexiest private detective.
Aspen Mountain Press
"Murder: Chicago-Style" is a hard-boiled detective mystery with plenty of sizzle written in a fast-paced style of the old pulp fiction. Mick Malone is a man with a code of conduct that's unassailable, a man who refuses to compromise his beliefs. When he finds himself caught in the crossfire in a war being the Belmont Avenue gang and Al Capone--with two beautiful dames at his side--he uses his guns and his wiles as only he can. This is action-adventure written with plenty of sensuality designed to entertain from beginning to end.
“Go ahead, look for yourself. That’s how private detectives get their kicks, isn’t it? Digging through women’s underwear?” She shook her head slowly, looking upon Mick with abject disgust.
Mick stepped forward, towering over the woman. He guessed her age at somewhere just shy of thirty, but figured she had packed an awful lot of living into a few short years. Her lifestyle didn’t show in a negative way yet, but if she didn’t change, it soon would.
“Sorry, lady,” Mick said as he began carefully moving aside panties and silk stockings, blouses and skirts, dresses and brassieres. “I’ve got to look. Your boyfriend hired me to find you. Said you’d taken off with sixty grand worth of negotiable bonds. They’re just as good as cash.”
On the bottom of the suitcase was a manila envelope. Mick lifted a corner of it with a fingertip. Agatha’s sharp intake of breath told him he’d hit pay dirt. As he eased the thick envelope out from beneath silk panties with his left hand, he reached under his jacket and removed a Colt .38 snub-nose revolver from its holster with his right.
“Nothing personal,” Mick murmured as he pointed to the far side of the bed with the snub-nose. Agatha moved away from him as directed, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. “As a baby my mother didn’t breast feed me long enough, and ever since then I’ve been insecure.”
“You feel more secure with a gun in your hand?”
“What’s in that envelope has nothing to do with you. It’s not negotiable bonds or anything else you’re looking for. Trust me.”
“I’ve never been the trusting type.”
The envelope was tattered with age and use and was held closed with a long strip of ribbon that made a stark red X across the faded brown surface. Mick untied the ribbon and Agatha’s sob got caught in her throat.
“Please don’t,” Agatha begged as Mick caught the bottom edge of the envelope and started shaking out the contents. She suddenly spun on the bed, turning so that her back was to him. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, “It’s not... not what you think.”
“Lady, you don’t know what I think,” Mick growled. He’d been in the private detective business too long to believe softly spoken lies by beautiful women.