The Man With No Time: A Simeon Grist Mystery
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When two young children become the targets of a Chinatown kidnapping, hip, forty-something private eye Simeon Grist is forced to explore the hidden world of the Asian underground in the United States. 20,000 first printing. $15,000 ad/promo.
“him fun.” “He's also married,” I said, looking at the girl sitting next to Horace. “In fact,” I said, stretching a point, “we're all married.” “You taste married,” Ning said, sliding away from me. The girl next to Horace responded to the bulletin by twining her arms around his neck and saying, “Married. Pah.” “Who married?” The lady whom the management had assigned to Uncle Lo slid into the booth. She was a few years older than Ning, and maybe a decade older than Horace's girl, and she was
after all,” Eleanor said. “That's the direction I've been leaning toward,” I said to Sonia. “Something that seems to be worthless.” “Nothing is worthless to my mother,” Eleanor said, and then stopped. “Oh, good lord,” she said. She wrapped her right hand into a fist and pretended to try to force it into her mouth. “Just some relative, huh?” Hammond said accusingly. “Case closed, Al. All over, and at no cost to the taxpayers.” “A kid was transported across state lines?” Sonia demanded. “What
in a city as horizontal as Los Angeles would Hill Street be called Hill Street. Most of it is as level as a billiard table, four lanes of flat black asphalt distinguished from a million other L. A. streets only by the two-story, Chinese-cheesy architecture that crowds it on either side, replacements for the original buildings, slapped together in 1938 by the ephemeral architects of Paramount Pictures as a gift to the Anglo city's fantasy life. The development had been so romantically and
that his ankles were cuffed together, and the force of his kick pulled his other ankle up and he tilted backward and fell. Adrenaline, prompted by the vision of his head striking the toilet, kicked in, and I managed to straighten up and grab him before the collision took place. He was already pitching away from me, and I felt my back emit a murmur of protest, followed by a shout of pain. I strained against it and kept him upright somehow, but by the time we had both stabilized I was mad again.
disappeared behind it. Ideal. “Which door did you go to?” “Front,” Tran said, still making Roy Rogers eyes against the light. “All four houses?” He was peering through the window now, remembering something. “Yes.” Good, better, best. “Makes sense,” I said. “They bring the pilgrims in through the back and keep them in the back. Anyone comes to the front, the CIAs are out of sight. You're not supposed to know about them, so you come to the front.” “Charlie Wah no dope,” Tran said grudgingly.