The Paperback Show Murders Read Free

reported by the garbage men as a loiterer.
    â€œAfter a rough night fending off boozers and Bolshies in the 69 th Precinct clink, the private dick returned to A.A. the next morning—Day 17—and pounded on the door.
    â€œNo one answered, but the weathered slab of lemon-stained wood slowly swung open into the stifling steamy stench of an urban Hell.
    â€œâ€˜Hello?’ McDirk whispered as he tiptoed through the opening. Then he stumbled over the outstretched bare leg of…either Glen or Glenda!
    â€œâ€˜My God! It’s a female fatal!’ he exclaimed.
    â€œBut was it really?”
    â€”Female Fatal ,
    by Hoggy Garfinkel (1954)
    That afternoon, the show closed its exhibit area an hour early at five o’clock. Since the rooms would be locked for the night, we covered our less expensive stock with sheets, and took with us just our cash and a few small boxes of la crème de la crème , the latter of which we stashed temporarily in the lock box of our van. Then we drove to dinner.
    Bunyan’s Dive-In was a hole-in-the-wall café slathered along the south side of Division Street in “San Verdoo.” It wasn’t much for looks, save for the oversized, psychedelic painting of Paul and Babe plastered on the outside side wall, but the great eats trumped the rube décor .
    You could get a huge stack of eggs, waffles, hash browns, and Polish sausages any time of the day or night, or munch on the Blue Ox Burger (three patties interlayered with bleu cheese, bacon strips, hot garlic sauce, onions, and ’shrooms), or try to scarf down the “Axe Me No Questions” triple-thick prime steak smothered with sautéed scallions, portabellas, and jalapeño peppers, or—well, you get the picture. No one went home hungry from Bunyan’s, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see ole Guy Fieri himself slumming at one of the communal benches, demonstrating his signature “hunch.”
    Instead, we promptly spotted a group of con attendees—the feminist book dealer, Lissa Boaz; the well-known western writer, Ferdinand Bartholomew; the “Generation XYZ” horror writer, Brody Richard “The O-Man” Dameen; the latter’s new girlfriend, Gully Foyle; the nursie romance author, Kitty Gaylord; Kitty’s SF writer partner, Cole Spayze—all sitting there waiting for us like a panel of self-satisfied judges.
    â€œWell,” Ferd said in his over-loud, condescending voice, “here comes one of them bookmonger folks. I guess we’ll have to be careful what we say.”
    â€œThat would be a first,” Margie hissed in my ear, and I nearly laughed out loud.
    I looked around, but the place was packed, as usual, and the only open seats were just down the row from where our “friends” were lurking.
    â€œYou want to go somewhere else?” I asked my partner.
    â€œWe’re already here,” she said, “and the food’s pretty good. We might as well eke it out.”
    I ordered the “small” chickie-in-the-drink (just half the bird, fried as an entire unit in hot oil!), with smashed spuds drenched in gravy, and green beans sprinkled with slivered almonds, plus a cup of the spicy “’Fredo Soup”; and Margie picked the Chef Salad, piled high with arugula, spinach greens, lettuce, strips of ham, chicken, beef, and turkey, several kinds of diced cheese, and a mix of chopped fresh veggies, all drizzled with a shower of the house balsamic vinaigrette. (I’d covered the place in my book with J. Howard Beeks, Our Favorite Eats in the Inland Empire .)
    â€œSo, Lissa,” I offered, as I sipped from my kiwi iced tea and munched on the restaurant’s signature Bunyan Bread (double-sized rolls) and Pterodactyl Pretzels, “have you found a buyer yet for Castle Dred ?”
    â€œOh, I do think so!” she said, almost gushing in her enthusiasm, fiddling with the ends of the obscene boa draped