By Raymond Chandler
Marlowe is employed by means of an influential legal professional he's by no means herd of to tail a beautiful redhead, yet comes to a decision he prefers to assist out the redhead. She's been acquitted of her alcoholic husband's homicide, yet her better half's father prefers to not take the court's notice for it.
"Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of la with a romantic presence:" -- Ross Macdonald
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Extra resources for Playback (Philip Marlowe Series, Book 7)
Sample text
C’mon,” I said, leading him into my office suite, otherwise known as my dining room. “Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the dining table. Howard started for a chair, and I screeched in dismay. “Hey! ” I scooped my cat Prozac off the chair Howard was about to sit in and tossed her in the kitchen. She glared at me balefully, then got revenge by leaping on top of the dryer, onto a pile of freshly folded laundry. I turned to Howard and smiled my most encouraging smile. “So. ” He blinked, as if hearing this news for the first time.
Finally, I flipped to the news—just in time to see a skinny guy with a bobbing Adam’s apple being taken into police custody. Wait a minute. I knew that skinny guy. It was Howard Murdoch. I sat up straight in bed. What the heck was Howard doing in police custody? The TV reporter obligingly filled me in. My mild-mannered client, a guy so timid he was probably afraid of Count Chocula, was being arrested for the grisly murder of Westside aerobics instructor Stacy Lawrence. ” I sat across from Howard in the visitors’ room of the county jail, a stark, fluorescent-lit cavern that smelled like old oatmeal.
1622 Bentley. ” Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer. Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing?