Dress Her in Indigo: A Travis McGee Novel
John D. MacDonald
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From a beloved master of crime fiction, Dress Her in Indigo is one of many classic novels featuring Travis McGee, the hard-boiled detective who lives on a houseboat.
Travis McGee could never deny his old friend anything. So before Meyer even says please, McGee agrees to accompany him to Mexico to reconstruct the last mysterious months of a young woman’s life—on a fat expense account provided by the father who has lost touch with her. They think she’s fallen in with the usual post-teenage misfits and rebels. What they find is stranger, kinkier, and far more deadly.
“To diggers a thousand years from now, the works of John D. MacDonald would be a treasure on the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.”—Kurt Vonnegut
All Meyer’s friend wants to know is whether his daughter was happy before she died in a car accident south of the border. But when McGee and Meyer step foot in the hippie enclave in Oaxaca that had become Bix Bowie’s last refuge, they get more than they bargained for.
Not only had Bix made a whole group of dangerous, loathsome friends, but she was also mixed up in trafficking heroin into the United States. By the time she died, she was a shell of her former self. And the more McGee looks into things, the less accidental Bix’s death starts to seem.
Features a new Introduction by Lee Child
are supposed to go back to the place where you entered, and then the set is supposed to be sent to Mexico City and filed somewhere, possibly by some branch of the Mexican Tourist Bureau. But that was only theory. I said we’d be back in Mexico City sooner or later, but right now the most useful thing to do was get down to Oaxaca while there was still a good chance that friends of Miss Bix might be around. They had to leave. Went across the dim and crowded room. Those long, sweet, taffy-sleek
and jumped in with his first full-length work, which was followed by sixty-six more, including some really seminal crime fiction and one of history’s greatest suspense series. Why? Why did a middle-class Harvard MBA with extensive corporate connections and a gold-plated recommendation from the army turn his back on everything apparently predestined, to sit at a battered table and type, with an anxious wife at his side? No one knows. He never explained. It’s a mystery. But we can speculate.
right if he’d get away from Rocko. Jerry has this fantastic black beard. It’s the biggest, blackest beard I ever saw. All that shows are his eyes and a little bit of cheekbone and the end of his nose. I saw her in the market two or three days ago and she said they’d been out to Mitla and she saw Jerry walking along with a kind of ugly little Mexican woman walking behind him, so she made Ricky stop the car and she went back, but he was very strange. He didn’t want to talk to her at all. He’s
and looked up at me on the porch. Dopp-kit dangled from one hairy finger. “Yoo-hoo,” he said. “Yoo-hoo to you, too, my good man.” “I didn’t see her car, so I thought …” “Come on up. You live here, Meyer. Remember?” So he came up onto the porch, started to say something, and changed his mind and went silently into the cottage. He came out in a few minutes and sat in the other chair. “McGee, I thought that you had gotten back and somehow managed to send her on her way, implausible as that may
and I would like to have a chat with you when it’s convenient, Wally.” “What about?” “We think it’s a good idea to pool everything we’ve all learned up to this point. What do you think?” “Well … I guess it couldn’t do any harm.” “When would be a good time? Now?” “Oh, not now. I’m going with a bunch of the kids up to Monte Albán to see the ruins by moonlight again. Say, how about tomorrow morning? Have you ever seen the ruins at Yagul? It’s only about ten miles down the Mitla Road, and