The world Lee Adams creates in "Nighthawks," as with her first novel "5th and Vanguard," feels to me like a blend of detective fiction a la Raymond Chandler, film.
Table of contents
- 5th and Vanguard
- Haworthia Revisited: A Revision of the Genus e-book - Mon premier blog
- Long Beach Author debuts second novel with book signing at Portfolio Coffeehouse
This darkly comic mystery explores the pock-marked inner and outer worlds of its heroine, Julie Page, as she dances with the devil in an effort to recover her muse. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? If you are a seller for this product, would you like to suggest updates through seller support? Learn more about Amazon Prime. Read more Read less. Review This is noir fiction at its best: Product details Perfect Paperback Publisher: Lightning Press October 15, Language: Related Video Shorts 0 Upload your video.
5th and Vanguard
Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Perfect Paperback Verified Purchase. I love this book. A splash of Sunset Boulevard, a hint of drug-addled Nancy Drew, and a healthy dose of Chandler ferment into an intoxicating brew in Lee Adams' first novel, 5th and Vanguard. The story's heroine, Julie Page, struggles with personal demons, secret obsessions, and mind-numbing insomnia which, eventually, drive her into the night in search of inspiration.
What she finds, though, is a tragic and enigmatic figure so compelling that Julie simply can't look away.
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The pages slip easily by, and the characters pulse with depth and subtlety. The fictional town of Berle feels almost too familiar. Even so, you'll struggle with the difficult choices that face Julie as she hunts down her elusive muse.
Did I say that I love this book? I think you will, too. This novel is what might have happened if Tom Waits had a sex change and started writing mysteries.
Haworthia Revisited: A Revision of the Genus e-book - Mon premier blog
It feels haunted somehow. There is a seaside town that started going slack decades before, and a number of characters I guess you could say the same about. Mostly they seem to be trying to undo a wrong turn they took somewhere, and to recapture something lost that was part dream, part youth, and part nostalgia; in other words, a fantasy.
And they know it. Of course, there is the MacGuffin. And the requisite search for those responsible and why. He fell backward and on his side facing me. The fall jarred his jaw some, and his eyes had rolled up a degree. After a beat or two of staring at this midnight matinee swamp creature, I screamed. I screamed in a way I was unaware I could. A Jamie Lee Curtis kind of scream almost more frightening than my company. Around certain pieces of furniture.
Her chair was untouched. She lit another cigarette and picked up the gun, curling herself like a cat on the cushion, staring, wide-eyed and dreamy as the curtain went up behind her. The fire had exited the room by the time my stomach uncramped, and I started thinking clearly enough to act. The fire got noisy fast, and I had to raise my voice for her to hear me. I put the recorder in the jacket pocket that hid the photo and stepped toward her, right up to the footrest.
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She aimed the gun at my face. Not because I needed a thrill right then, but because it occurred to me that my exit space was probably getting smaller.
Long Beach Author debuts second novel with book signing at Portfolio Coffeehouse
And she was right, it was majestic. Like a million candles lining the hall, growing bigger and more powerful as I watched. Flames danced along my left cuff. Blood bubbled across black knuckles where skin had been while I frantically tried to pat out the smoldering wool sleeve. I turned again to my artistic albatross as she continued singing to no one. I could hear her one-in-a-million voice cutting through the smoke like a foghorn.
Then she put the barrel of the shimmering gun in her shimmering mouth and pulled the trigger one last time. Again I screamed, but this time all emotion was lost over a wall of crackling heat and snapping flames. Mute, I began to make my way down the hall. The flames were wildly cheering me on yet remained close to each wall.
Like a dignitary walking through a semi-controlled, overly zealous crowd, I proceeded cautiously. And I made it all the way to the front door relatively unscathed. Then it occurred to me that the suitcase was inside. The only clues as to who she used to be were stranded in a burning building. When that was gone, it was gone. All those irreplaceable treasures and charms. Stepping through fire to get past the doorframe, I ran down the hall this time, flames glomming onto me like locusts.
I pitifully swatted at my arm and the back of my head, running sideways as if I would burn less that way. There was very little wall left untouched by the fire at that point, but everything toward the center of the room was still intact. I threw myself against the headrest, rolling against it, a lone life preserver in a sea of flames.
Grabbing the suitcase, I looked up to see Maxine one last time. Her chair was beginning to burn. As yet, she was not. The way her face was positioned, head tilted back, mouth wide open, it looked like she was still singing. I ran, trying to ignore the flames covering my clothes and hair. I continued to burn and scream and drag that suitcase with my free left hand all the way to the grass. Seemed so far away. My knees gave out before the car key hit its mark.
Shrieks of pain escaped when I went down. The very impact of the grass on my wounds was almost more than I could bear. I stroked my stinging scalp and came back with a handful of my own hair, black and mangled. I could only hope they went to call the cops. By the time I got back to the car, my adrenaline rush had drastically subsided. My arms could barely be raised to grip the car door as I coughed out more bile and smoke. It was while balancing myself between the frame of the car and my car door that the Cadillac came skidding around the corner. It made such a whoosh as it passed me that my chest tightened, anticipating yet another catastrophe.
Peter lurched the black beauty to a sloppy conclusion barely entering the driveway. The door flew open and he flew out, one gesture, not two. Light flickered through the closed blinds, and I could clearly imagine how bad things had gotten in there. I wanted to call out but really, why? What good would that do him now? Anyway, this was a private moment. He held himself at the door then backed up a couple of steps, looking for some other means of entering. Then back to the doorframe, all the while yelling his grief at each sadistic flame.
Finally, he sat on the porch stoop, put his head in his hands and sobbed. It was the saddest thing I hope I ever have to see. This piano player seemed to always be bringing up the rear when it came to Maxine, covering for her, tending to her, bowing down when better judgment did not prevail. I disliked her in that moment, seeing what she had left him to deal with.