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Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
It was one of those tourist traps that have turned the coast of Florida into a glittering facade. They hide the naked sight of the hundreds of thousands of voracious cash registers behind the tinsel... The place was on the outskirts, on the tidelands, where acreage is cheap. It was a big, bristling, brawling take-off on the Disneyland idea out in Southern Cal.
Like most of those places that are designed for the tourist who wanders around with money falling out of his pockets, it looked fine on top, impressive. Then you start scratching the surface and the dirt you find under your fingernails is the same grime you'll find in any clipjoint.
That's why I felt at home.
I didn't want him reaching for his shoulder holster with the intention of subduing me further with his gun. If he reached, he would discover that the holster was empty.
I'd palmed his Roscoe while we were hugging each other and had slipped it under my belt...
He floored it and that big rumbling, crystal-eyed sedan came hurtling down the road at me, but it was already slated for crashville when I started jerking off shots at the windshield, and it swerved out of control and to the left and I took a frantic roll back into the ditch.
. Doesn't mean it isn't a classic ranking up there with Jonathan Latimer's "Bill Crane" series of loopy detective novels or Norbert Davis's similarly zany "Max Latin" Pulp novellas.