By George Axelrod
From the Academy Award nominated screenwriter of Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Manchurian Candidate comes a panoramic tale of homicide and mischief… it is the tale of a big-game hunter, fisherman, fighter, customer to Cuba, under the influence of alcohol, and Nobel Prize-winning writer, lately deceased of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, whose ultimate unpublished manuscript may fetch a mint… it is the tale of a brief, balding guy with a high-pitched voice and a vicious wit, whose cocktail events are the debate of town, particularly while a gorgeous lady dies at one among them… it is the tale of Hollywood’s sexiest starlet, who manages to hide issues even if she’s donning not anything yet a towel… …and it’s the tale of Dick Sherman, intrepid ny writer, at the path of the literary locate of the century – and the killer who will cease at not anything to maintain it from being chanced on.
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Extra resources for Blackmailer
A flashlight. He poked the beam into my face and I blinked, completely blinded. I let go of Jean Dahl’s wrist. ” I said. The light was hitting me in the face and my mouth was dry. From behind the blinding light the voice said, “Don’t get mixed up in this, I told you. Mind your own business, I said. Have you noticed, there’s some people you can’t tell them anything. Right away they know it all. ” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “The gun,” he said. “In your pants pocket. ” I was a hero, all right.
I don’t know how I avoided breaking my neck. “Jean,” I called. ” As I figured, she was headed straight for the front door. But as I hadn’t figured, the door was locked. She hadn’t figured it either. I heard her swear and then I reached out and caught her wrist. “All right,” I said. ” “You’re hurting my wrist, baby,” Jean Dahl said. “Well, stop wriggling then,” I said. “You’re pretty lively for someone who was out cold an hour ago. ” I dragged her across the hall and through a door. I kept us moving, bumping into things as we went but still moving.
I didn’t want to wake up and spoil the beautiful daydream I was having. I walked into Pat’s office (in the dream) and casually tossed the manuscript (347 yellow pages, typed, with pencil corrections) on his desk. ” Pat asked. ” “The new Anstruther,” I said casually. ” Pat was aghast. Feverishly, with trembling fingers he seized the manuscript and began to pore over it, eagerly, hungrily scanning the pages. “Dick! ” He was kissing me on both cheeks and blubbering when the buzz of the phone snapped me back to harsh reality.