Deceit And Deadly Lies (Kevin MacInnes #1)

Deceit And Deadly Lies, by Franklin Bandy

No month stated, 1978  Charter Books

I picked up this fat paperback original many years ago, excited to read it, and typically it took me all this time to get to it. Running over 400 pages, Deceit And Deadly Lies won the Edgar Award and was the first of two novels featuring protagonist Kevin MacInnes, a former Army Intelligence officer who now makes his living as “The Lie King,” going around the world with a lie detector and working for high pay. 

I believe it was the 1980 Mystery Fancier review for the second MacInnes novel, The Blackstock Affair, that made me aware of this book several years ago; it’s hosted at Mystery*File.  (The reviewer mentions an earlier review for this first MacInnes novel, but I don’t think that one has ever been uploaded.) Anyway what got my interest was the note that author Franklin Bandy (real name Eugene Franklin) included “all the sex and violence modern readers want,” which of course set my sleaze instincts a-tingling. 

Well, folks, maybe that’s true for The Blackstock Affair. As for this first book, Deceit And Deadly Lies, both the sex and the violence are nil. Indeed, I ultimately found the novel a chore to read, wondering why a few hundred pages hadn’t been cut from it. More than anything else I got the impression that Bandy was another contemporary author influenced by Lawrence Sanders; there is the same clinical prose style, the same meshing of the crime genre with the trappings of the standard “airport fiction” of the day, and of course there’s the bloated page length. The big difference is that Sanders’s novels are, judging from the ones I’ve read, entertaining and fast-moving. (And also I’ve come to rank The Tomorrow File as my favorite novel ever.) 

What makes it most egregious is that the potential is there. MacInnes, in his 40s and wealthy, goes about the world with his mistress, a stacked blonde named Vanessa. There is not a single sex scene between the two, and Vanessa is not exploited at all; the most we get is that she’s beautiful. This is acceptable, but where the problem arises is that Bandy spends the narrative having MacInnes wonder if Vanessa is in love with him. There are entire chapters where he will sit around and ponder whether Vanessa truly loves him; he even secretly records their conversations and plays the tapes back on his Psychological Stress Evaluator (PSE), trying to gauge whether or not Vanessa is lying to him. Lame!! 

Bandy works a host of “crime novel stuff” around this main story – MacInnes figuring out if his mistress loves him, because he loves her – and none of it is compelling enough to save the book. One big demerit is that a lot of it takes place in Mexico, with MacInnes talking to a lot of Spanish people with easily-confused names who speak in the polite, formal diction that Spanish people use in novels of this type. The main “crime” plot has to do with MacInnes stumbling on to a plot to assassinate a major political figure, but the setup for this plot – a taxi driver overhearing two guys discuss the plan in a Bowery bar – is so ludicrous that the believability factor is ruined. 

Well anyway, MacInnes is incredibly wealthy; he rents out his services to all and sundry, and his prices are high. Probably the highlight of the book is the first sequence, where we see MacInnes at work; a group of businessmen have hired him to find out the rock-bottom price they can pay for some land they want for development, land that is owned by a man who claims he wants ten million dollars. Here we see that MacInnes doesn’t parse truth from lies, per se, but uses his machine to detect stress levels, allowing his instincts to figure out whether the person is lying or not. In this way it is made clear that the PSE is more so an instrument, and how well it performs relies on the skill of the user. 

It doesn’t sound like the setup for an action-packed novel, and Deceit And Deadly Lies certainly is not. MacInnes carries around a .45 and we are reminded of his Army background, but the action scenes are usually over and done with quickly, and more time is spent on introspection and pondering. Folks I kid you not, there’s a part in the final quarter of the novel where MacInnes is bored and he’s suffering from inexplicable impotence, and it goes on and on and on. I mean if you’re writing a 400+ page crime thriller, never have a part where your protagonist is bored…it’s like even the character himself is letting you know your novel is too long. 

After dealing with the land-buying job – and later on MacInnes reads in the paper that the dude selling it has killed himself, and MacInnes brushes off any sense of responsibility – we get to the main crime plot, the assassination. An Assistant DA in New York calls MacInnes and brings a taxi driver over to his hotel, and there the guy tells a ludicrous story about hearing two men discuss killing someone “big” in a bar. MacInnes judges the cab driver to be telling the truth, and ultimately this will take us into a storyline involving a “Hitler” of a third-party candidate who is the target of assassins. 

But this is not the only lie detecting work MacInnes does. There’s also an overlong sequence where he goes to Mexico to find out whether a man in prison killed the son of an influential crime boss, or if it was an accident, or whatever. Bandy works in the assassination plot with MacInnes also tracking down one of the men the cab driver saw in the bar, an Australian who serves as the novel’s main villain, even though most of his appearances feature him slipping into wherever MacInnes is staying, trading banter with him, and then slipping off. Truly the novel is nothing but 400 pages of stalling. 

Action is infrequent but at least handled well, like a part where one of the Mexican gangs adbucts MacInnes and takes him out to the countryside, where they’ve dug him a fresh grave. Working with the CIA on this caper, MacInnes has been given a bunch of spy tech out of a Eurospy flick, like for example a pen that fires projectiles. What’s interesting is that the action scenes are over and done with quickly, and Bandy will spend more time on MacInnes brooding over whether his mistress Vanessa really cares about him. 

Even more ridiculous, MacInnes finds out that Vanessa is a best-selling author, and indeed has been publishing books the entire time she’s been with MacInnes, but “The Lie King” was oblivious to all this, just thinking of her as his deluxe mistress. I mean WTF?? And then there are all these parts where he sits around wondering if Vanessa is writing about him in her books, and then he goes out and buys one of them, reading it to see if there are any parts that seem to be about himself(!). 

This is the sort of thing I mean when I say Deceit And Deadly Lies is such a misfire. It’s stuff like this that takes the center stage, and MacInnes’ lie detector work is not interesting enough to salvage the novel. I mean for that part, Bandy even repeats himself with the setups; there are two different jobs MacInnes is hired for that concern a murdered child. And there are a lot of sequences of him just talking to cops, feds, CIA agents, or district attorneys. 

The climax plays out in Madison Square Garden, where MacInnes has discovered the assassination attempt on the third-party candidate will occur. MacInnes at least is personally involved in the finale, blowing away one of the main villains, but a curious note is that MacInnes himself is shot in the chest at the end of the book, and the novel ends with Vanessa appearing there, crying over him (yes, friends, she does truly love him!!), and telling him to keep breathing. Bandy ends the novel by informing us that MacInnes does exactly that, but it could in fact be taken the other way: that MacInnes does not keep breathing. 

But the dangling cliffhanger is moot, as MacInnes returned two years later in another papberback original, also published by Charter Books. I have that one too, and here’s hoping it’s better than Deceit And Deadly Lies.

Cyborg (The Six Million Dollar Man)

Cyborg, by Martin Caidin

March, 1974  Warner Paperback Library

(original hardcover edition 1972)

The beginning of the Six Million Dollar Man saga is a novel made up of many parts, as if Martin Caidin were running a theme around the bionic parts that make up his hero Steve Austin, the titular Cyborg of this novel. The first part of the 318-page book with its tiny print is like something out of Caidin’s Space Race novels, then the book becomes a Michael Crichton-esque sci-fi medical shocker…then it becomes a wild pulp yarn, then it becomes a Cold War thriller, and finally it settles in for an overlong “desert survival” climax that leaves the reader more exhausted than thrilled. 

The main thing, though, is how little Cyborg resembles the family-friendly Six Million Dollar Man. Only the original telefilm, which I reviewed ten years ago, comes closest to resembling this source novel, but having read the book I can see that a lot of it was changed, no doubt for budget reasons. Cyborg would have benefitted from a big screen treatment, but then if it had it might not have made as much of an impact on 1970s pop culture…there might not even have been a Steve Austin doll! And man, I still wish I had mine…the fake skin on his arm was so cool! Not to mention the red rubber Adidas sneakers that would always fall off and you’d have to search for them! 

Actually, I was wrong – Lee Majors’ portrayal of Steve Austin is the closest thing the series ever came to resembling Martin Caidin’s source material. Majors nails the character, which is to say he comes off like the distillation of every astronaut of the Space Race, from Mercury to Apollo: laconic to the point of being terse, so calm under pressure he could be comatose. And we are informed here that Steve Austin was indeed an Apollo astronaut, the youngest one in the program and the last to walk on the moon, in Apollo 17. 

As in his earlier The Cape, Caidin again unwittingly prefigures Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff in his detailing of Steve’s current job: test pilot for NASA. And yes, Caidin mainly refers to his character as “Steve,” unlike Michael Jahn, who called him “Austin” in the later Wine, Women, And War. Here Caidin gives us a lot of background detail on NASA and missions once the moon shots had been scrapped. 

I have to say that at this point I can safely state that I’m not a fan of Martin Caidin’s writing. He constantly tells instead of shows; his novels come off like lectures, given the wealth of detail and minutiae. Forward momentum is constantly stalled as Caidin eagerly dives into the weeds, usually with no consideration to what he’s doing to the narrative. It happens constantly throughout, and if this material had been gutted Cyborg would be a much smoother and more entertaining read, because as it was I really found it a chore. 

We all know the story, so I’ll skip all the details. Steve crashes out and is completely destroyed – both legs and his left arm are gone, as is his left eye, and a bunch of other stuff is wrecked. Enter OSO (which became OSI in the series), headed up by Oscar Goldman…much closer here to Darren McGavin’s portrayal in the original telefilm than the easy-going nice guy Richard Anderson would deliver in the ensuing series. Goldman is a figure of the shadow world, clearly duplicitous and not feeling the need to explain himself to others. 

Given his fame and his background – athletic and karate expertise, his service as a combat pilot in ‘Nam, etc – OSO wants to invest in Steve Austin…though, humorously enough given the famous name of the ensuing show, we are never told the exact amount they are willing to pay. Steve’s good buddy-slash doctor, Rudy Wells, helps talk Steve into the offer…and here, as in the telefilm, there’s a lot of grim stuff as Steve isn’t sure if he even wants to live. 

A little over a quarter of the way in, we get into the nitty-gritty of bionics, courtesy endless blocks of exposition. Interesting to note, the majority of the work is done by a character who did not exist in the series: Dr. Killian. Martin Caidin shows absolutely no understanding that he is writing a novel, with Killian and the other characters gabbing about bionic parts and how they work, even down to minor details the average reader wouldn’t care about. I mean Caidin’s grip on dramatic fiction is so loose that there’s a part where someone makes a minor comment about red blood cells, and Steve – confined to a hospital bed without either leg, his left arm, and missing his left eye – asks for more information about red blood cells, like how exactly they work and what they do and whatever. I mean, just put the bionic limbs on him and have him go crush someone, already! 

Boy, does Caidin really take his time here. Let it never be said that he rushes into the story. It goes on and on, with each and every part Steve gets being relentlessly detailed for the reader, usually via bald exposition. But he’s given bionic legs that allow him to run at incredible speeds (we’re just told he brakes all Olympics records), and a left arm that is equally superhuman (changed to his right arm in the TV series). Also, we are told ad naseum that Steve cannot see out of his bionic left eye – I mean this is hammered home repeatedly – but he can take photos with it. 

Caidin displays an unexpected pulpy flair with the augmentations to these bionic limbs, things that did not make it to the show. For one, there’s a compartment in Steve’s left leg with an oxygen tank for underwater missions, and also with a few changes Steve can turn his feet into fins. There are also handy little compartments on his feet for storing things. His left arm can fire poisonous darts from the middle finger – I’m assuming Caidin was showing subtle humor here by having us imagine Steve Austin giving people the finger as he kills them. He also has a steel skull plate and a radio transmitter in his rib. 

The bionics finally added and Steve having proven himself by saving some children from a burning bus, the novel suddenly turns into a pulpy sci-fi thriller as Steve is dropped into the ocean by the South American country of Surinam, to make a daunting underwater swim and take photos of some submarines the damned Russians have stashed somewhere. And for company Steve has a pair of cybernetic dolphins, one of which is an automated decoy and the other that Steve pilots, like his own one-man sub, and all this is presented to us on the level, as if it were of a piece with the grim, incessantly-detailed “medical science” tone of the first half of the book. 

Not that I was complaining, it was just so wild. But even here Caidin’s “tell don’t show” instincts conflict with the pulp, with our author bogging us down with hyper detail on ocean currents and whatnot. That said, when I started reading Cyborg I never expected to read about Steve Austin decked out like an underwater commando and piloting a robot dolphin. There’s even a bit of action as the Russians start dropping bombs – they’re in the middle of a battle, which has been staged as a diversion for Steve – and then frogmen come at him, but the action is more so relayed as chaotic than thrilling. We learn here that the Steve Austin of the novel – much like the Steve Austin of the first television season – is quite willing to kill if he has to. 

Sadly this is the only part of Cyborg that goes full pulp, and only if the entire novel were the same. Truly, it’s like something book packager/producer Lyle Kenyon Engel might have come up with – and I have a suspicion that both his Attar The Merman and John Eagle Expeditor were inspired by Cyborg, from the “dolphin commando” of the former series to the “look at my cool gadgets, dart gun, and my atomic one-man sub, which by the way is actually named The Dolphin!” of the latter. 

Clearly this entire sequence was too costly for a network budget, so it was removed. But for me it was the highlight of Cyborg, like a pleasant reward for us pulp-inclined readers for having made it through the previous slow-going half. True, Caidin’s fussiness prevents the sequence from achieving its full pulp potential, but overall it’s still entertaining, which can’t be said about the sequence that takes us through the final quarter of the novel. 

OSO used the sub photo mission as a warmup; now Steve is sent to the Middle East, where he is to slip into fictional country Asfir, teamed up with the beautiful but hard-bitten Israeli soldier Tamara. Caidin skirts with more pulpish material by introducing Tamara as she’s stripping casually in front of Steve, but nothing ever happens here; Caidin is much more focused on exploiting his own knowledge than he is in exploiting his female characters. 

The idea here is that Tamara, who is fluent in Russian – just like Steve is, somehow courtesy his time in the space race – is to pose as Steve’s wife, and they must be completely at ease with each other. Personally I thought she was trying to give Steve a hint, but as mentioned Steve Austin is very laconic and almost comatose, so nothing happens – indeed, there is only one sex scene in the novel, Steve finally giving in to the romantic wiles of his nurse, Jean Manners, but the sexual tomfoolery occurs completely off page. 

Steve and Tamara are here to steal the new Russian jet fighter, a MiG-27, so just like he unwittingly prefigured The Right Stuff, here Caidin unwittingly prefigures Firefox. It’s a taut Cold War thriller, but the only problem was that I had no idea why Steve Austin was needed for the mission. That is the central problem with the second half of Cyborg; it’s as if the first “bionic surgery” part has nothing to do with the second part, and Steve Austin could have been replaced by any generic Cold Warrior. 

I mean, at least in the underwater South America sequence it was believable that OSO needed a cyborg; Steve’s oxygen tank augmentations allow him to go underwater and sneak around a lot better than an ordinary scuba diver could. But here in the Asfir sequence, the bionics are almost completely forgotten. Only belatedly are they used, when Steve uses his bionic left arm to snap a guy’s collarbone while he’s in the process of torturing a captured Steve. There’s also a part where Steve uses that bionic left hand to smash some skulls, and I’m happy to report the dart finger is used a few times in the book. But still, any of this stuff could’ve been replaced by a standard spy gadget; why exactly a cyborg is needed is something Caidin can never fully explain. And why would OSO risk losing their huge investment on a suicide mission to steal a jet fighter? 

Even worse, the actual climax of the book is an endless trawl in which Steve and Tamara are trapped in the desert, trying to survive the elements and get to freedom. Good grief, friends, but it goes on and on. Again Caidin resorts to his “tell, don’t show” policy, making the turgid pace of the narrative seem even slower. It’s all grim and gritty, complete with Tamara’s instruction that their urine must be saved so they can wipe their lips with it to stave off complete dehydration, etc. 

Here, more than anywhere, it seems evident that Martin Caidin is shoehorning some other novel into Cyborg, as the desert trek has nothing to do with the rest of the book. That said, Caidin somehow uses it as an excuse for Steve Austin to realize he wants to live, even though he already came to that decision a few hundred pages ago. Also, it is stated at the end of the novel that Steve and Tamara have “found each other” – humorously, poor nurse Jean is just forgotten – and I’m curious to see if Tamara appears in Caidin’s follow-up, Operation Nuke, which was published the following year. 

Overall, Cyborg is a slow-going affair that only occasionally brightens up, and also there are flashes where Caidin will demonstrate emotional investment in his characters and they stop being expository automatons and show actual spark. These sequences indicate the novel Cyborg could have been, and I have to say the TV producers did a better job of uncovering the potential of the material than Caidin himself did.

The Viking Process

The Viking Process, by Norman Hartley

February, 1977  Avon Books

Many years ago, somewhere, I picked up a copy of the Avon paperback edition of Norman Hartley’s 1979 novel Quicksilver, which appeared to be a thriller with a sci-fi overlay, taking place in the era it was published but featuring a sort of “near future” gloss. The book looked cool but for whatever reason I put it away in one of my many book boxes and forgot about it. 

Flash forward to last week, and I was watching the 1981 movie Looker for the first time, and apropos of nothing it made me think of that book I’d bought long ago, the paperback with the shiny silver cover. It took me a while to figure out that it was Quicksilver I was thinking of…and then it took another couple minutes of research to discover that Quicksilver was Hartley’s second novel; this, The Viking Process, was his first, published in hardcover in early 1976 (and getting a review in Kirkus), and coming out in this paperback edition the following year. Avon Books, by the way, retained the same cover art aesthetic for the two Hartley paperbacks, even though the books are not part of a series. 

As with Quicksilver, The Viking Process is a contemporary super-thriller that has a sci-fi gloss, mainly via the tech that is used. It could be that Hartley intended the book to occur “the day after tomorrow,” but if so the text does not specifically state so. The main takeaway is that The Viking Process was so gripping that I read it in like three days, which is pretty impressive given that the book is 310 pages long. That’s like…let me get my calculator…a hundred pages a day! 

To be sure, there are some problems I’ll quibble about, the main being something I’ve mentioned here before: it’s quite hard to read a steady diet of men’s adventure and then go to a “standard” novel, because you keep wondering why the protagonist isn’t kicking ass and wasting his enemies. Such is true throughout The Viking Process, which concerns a narrator named Philip Russell who is blackmailed into helping a radical terrorist group called the Vikings which wants to bring down the international corporations. I kept waiting for Russell to break someone’s neck, but it never happened…indeed, even in the finale he is reduced to bystander while the professionals take care of business. 

But other than that, The Viking Process really kept my attention throughout, and Hartley’s writing is so assured you’d never guess this was his first (of three) novels. With its first-person narrative, thriller vibe, and “future 1970s” angle, there were parts where The Viking Process reminded me of Lawrence Sanders’s The Tomorrow File (which, by the way, I am thinking of more and more as my favorite novel); for example, the opening features Russell in a high-tech hotel in Montreal, which features such sci-fi amenities as a crystal-web window that becomes opaque as the sun dawns, and an electro-magnetic pulse that powers everything, including the telephone, so you don’t even need cords. 

This opening also introduces Michelle, a hotstuff brunette Russell has picked up the night before; the first time he has ever cheated on his wife, Julia, who is back in England. I’ll buzzkill right now and inform you all with much regret that there is no sex in The Viking Process, which of course is typical of a lot of British pulp (Hartley, I might have failed to mention, is British). Indeed, despite being a beautiful and well-built sexual psychologist who runs a sex clinic where patients have orgies, Michelle will serve more as a foil than a bedmate, given that she is aligned with the Vikings. 

The Montreal pick-up turns out to have been a con, and the morning after Russell discovers that his life will never be the same. The Vikings, who have a base near his home in the English countryside, have had their eyes on Russell for quite some time, and he’s going to help them foster terrorist attacks whether he likes it or not. To this end his wife Julia has been abducted, and Russell has to do what the Vikings say or she will be punished. 

The Vikings are led by a rail-thin “prophet” by the name of Peace, another American, one given to grandiose speeches but also capable of violent actions. He claims that Russell, who has written books on terrorism, will be able to take the Vikings to the next level, but Russell soon learns that this is a con, too. This terrorist group is interesting, given that it is made up mostly of former ‘60s radicals, ones who have turned to technology; one of them, an American who is covered in hair (and named Hairy), is clearly modeled on Owsley, but there’s also some proto-Steve Jobs, too: he’s a former acid chemist who now turns out high-tech gizmos for the movement. 

The only problem is, Hartley doesn’t give these characters much room to breathe. Given that we are locked in the narrative and perspective of Russell, we only see what he sees. And he’s always focused on the wife that we readers have never seen; Julia, in fact, doesn’t even appear until the final third. This is a crutch the novel really recovers from, as is the never-explained reason why Russell became an expert in terrorism. We know he was in the British army, and he was a climbing instructor there…but why he got into the “terror research” game is unexplained. 

Oh, and the climbing. There’s quite a bit of it in The Viking Process. Indeed, Hartley cleverly works a climbing sequence into the climax of the novel, but the problem is that it once again takes Russell away from the action; we want to see him finally doling out comeuppance to these Viking bastards, but instead he’s scaling a wall of experimental glass in a massive shopping mall while the cops do the, uh, comeupping. 

But really the reader keeps waiting for Russell to fight back, and it never comes. The Vikings quickly prove their threats are real, giving Julia a shot with a virus in it when Russell tries to talk to people during Julia’s faked funeral, and after that Russell just does whatever they want. There’s a long sequence where they go to the British countryside and Russell sees the Vikings being trained; there’s a vaginal spray can that can hide a combustible paint that explodes when you shoot it, and then there’s a long scene where Russell and a fellow captive must race through the streets of a town as a squad of Vikings chase them on motorcycles. It’s here, by the way, that Russell makes his first of two kills in the novel. 

Some of the book reminded me of the later Fight Club, in that a lot of the Viking terror schemes have to do with mean-spirited schemes carried out by menial workers who can go about ignored. Which is to say, Vikings will get jobs as cleaners or mechanics or whatnot, menial-level jobs that aren’t paid much attention to, and will stage their sabotage, like when they set booby-traps in rental cars and the Vikings put out fake “contest” rules of how “a few lucky winners” might get a car that explodes. 

Some of these “scenarios” are also more lurid, like a part where Peace takes over a hotel where execs from a corporation are having a business function and he turns cameras onto some of the rooms, so people can see the naughtiness they’re getting up to. But even here Hartley is shy with the lurid details; indeed, there is a recurring schtick of Peace turning off the monitors anytime things get too extreme, like an earlier part where Russell is about to witness the sexual torture of a Viking who has slighted Peace. 

Regardless, The Viking Process moves at a rapid clip and Hartley has a definite knack for catching and keeping the reader’s attention. But things just sort of unravel in the final third. Peace reveals that the Vikings have possession of an experimental chemical that turns people into “monsters” by melting faces and causing massive boils in the skin and other grossness, and this is unleashed on innocent people in a grocery store. It’s so vile and extreme that Russell detects chips in Michelle’s armor – oh, and by the way, Michelle has been set up as Russell’s mistress, living with him in his countryside home while Julia’s off-page in captivity, but Hartley never once explains how their live-in situation is, whether they are sleeping together or etc. 

Russell works on this chip by insisting that Michelle take him to her sex clinic – a scene that Hartley completely fails to exploit. They sit there and watch sex films of Michelle’s clients, and Michelle clearly wants to spend a little time with Russell…but instead he knocks her out and slips off to talk to his old friend, who just so happens to be a secret agent(!). Russell manages to talk a bunch of security officials into letting him stay with the Vikings as an inside man.  That said, the scene at the sex clinic is notable because Hartley makes clear that, like Lawrence Sanders, he has been influenced by Alvin Toffler: “future shock” is specifically referenced several times.

We get the novel’s only sex scene when Julia briefly appears, the Vikings allowing Russell to have a conjugal visit with his wife in a Viking safe house; Julia’s skin has been darkened to avoid her being spotted (as the world thinks she’s dead), which leads to Julia’s awesomely pre-PC line to Russell: “Here’s your chance to have a black girl.” That said, even here Hartley doesn’t go full-bore with it, and truth be told Julia is more of a plot contrivance than a character; her peaceful acceptance of her life as a captive is very unbelievable, and one would think she’d harbor just a little resentment at her husband for having gotten her into this mess. 

This sequence has an unexpected and touching payoff, but as mentioned the climax just sort of loses all the steam Hartley has been building. It turns out the Vikings will unleash that monster-making chemical in a massive shopping mall in America, and Russell and a kick-ass terrorist-busting commando guy fly over there…and there’s lots of red tape as the Brits stand around and the Americans explain how they’re going to handle it. 

It’s a strange decision on Hartley’s part; the reader wants to see Russell getting revenge, but instead it’s a bunch of newly-introduced cops and terrorism experts from the US, and instead our hero scales a massive glass wall to get the cannister of chemicals. Hartley clearly knows his climbing and mountaineering, but I found it all overdone and would’ve been more satisfied with an old-fashioned firefight…which is the one thing we don’t get. That said, Russell does take out another terrorist, by jumping down on him, but it’s kind of too little, too late. 

It seems that Hartley rectified this in his next novel, Quicksilver, which is also in first-person but features a more action-oriented protagonist. Russell himself is the chief problem with The Viking Process, and I also wished for more payback on the individual terrorists. But the world Hartley creates, this post-Sixties world of radicals who have embraced technology as the new way to fight the system (while, it is gradually revealed, selling out to the system in the process), is a very compelling one. Like The Tomorrow File, Hartley here gives us a “future ‘70s” that never was, and if Quicksilver is more of the same, I’ll be reading it soon.

Code Name: Gypsy Virgin

Code Name: Gypsy Virgin, by Max Nortic

No month stated, 1971  Midwood Books

A big thanks to Johny Malone, who recently left a comment on my review of Black Swan #2: The Cong Kiss, and suggested I read the source novel for that series, Code Name: Gypsy Virgin. His suggestion hit me at just the right time, and now I’ve read the book and by god I’m here to tell you about it! 

As I mentioned in my review of The Cong Kiss, author “J.J. Montague” of the Black Swan series was clearly the same person as the “Max Nortic” who wrote Code Name: Gypsy Virgin (and whose real name, as Johny so helpfully informed us, was James Keenan, of whom I can find nothing). This is because the plot of Code Name: Gypsy Virgin is the same as the plot of the first Black Swan novel, The Chinese Kiss: a hotstuff nympho secret agent takes a crash-course in lesbianism so she can take down a hotstuff nympho Commie secret agent who has “an obsession with cunnilingus.” 

I read The Cong Kiss nearly ten years ago, so memories of it are dim. Per my review I found it overly literary and stilted, and also per my review I’d given up reading Code Name: Gypsy Virgin not long before I read that Black Swan novel; I’d read it recently enough that I was able to detect the same writing styles, characters, and plots between the two books. I’m not sure why I stopped reading Gypsy Virgin at the time, because reading it all these years later I thought it was pretty great – perhaps proving once again that the more pulp you read, the more your brain rots. Well, brain rot is very popular now, as anyone who has a kid will know, so I’m fine with that. 

I went into the details in my review of The Cong Kiss, but simply put, Nortic/Keenan published Code Name: Gypsy Virgin via Midwood Books in 1971, focused on hotstuff brunette spy babe Erica Wilson, who had sex every Friday with a random pickup, exclusively focusing on well-hung guys, given her “obsession with big pricks;” even her apartment in Newport Beach was filled with phallic sculptures. 

Then in 1974 Keenan changed Erica Wilson’s name to Shauna Bishop, changed his by-line to “J.J. Montague,” and retitled Code Name: Gypsy Virgin as The Chinese Kiss, sellling it to Canyon Books and getting a series deal in the process. Yes, the exact same thing J.C. Conaway did when he switched publishers and turned Nookie into Jana Blake, and when Nelson DeMille switched publishers and turned Ryker into Keller. So, a pretty common practice in the wild and wooly world of ‘70s paperback publishing! 

So then, Erica Wilson in Gypsy Virgin is the same character as Shauna Bishop in the Black Swan series, just with a different name – her code name is different, too. Per the title of this Midwood publication, Erica’s codename is “Gypsy Virgin,” and Shauna’s codename is “Black Swan.” Regardless of her name, she is 24, a trained spy who has killed (but only in self-defense, we’re told), incredibly beautiful and built, the daughter of “a Polish janitor and a Swedish maid.” She is not patriotic and works only for the money, and has total control of her emotions – and, we’re informed, her, uh, womanly parts. 

She is also “obsessed with big pricks” and has littered her home on Newport Beach with phallic sculptures and paintings. She lives a quiet life of solitude, but every Friday she lets out her pent-up energy by spending the afternoon looking at her “vintage erotica books” and then going out at night to a bar to pick up a guy…and, somehow, she’s always able to get a guy with a huge dick. Perhaps she has X-ray vision which Nortic/Keenan has not informed us of. Her most recent lay was over ten inches long(!), and we’re informed Erica implored him to take her in the rear, so she could be “hurt.” Good grief! 

We know about these backdoor shenanigans because the agency Erica works, ICS, has bugged her home, something Erica is well aware of; Nortic deftly injects a ‘70s paranoia into the yarn, as Erica figures that everything she does and says is being watched by someone, and she’s always right. Code Name: Gypsy Virgin opens with our heroine being stymied out of her usual Friday tussle, much to her mounting chagrin, suddenly summoned by her agency for a top secret assignment – flown off to Baltimore where she will spend the next several days locked up in a room and learning to become sexually attracted to other women(!). 

Nortic displays a gift for dark humor with the sardonic Erica knowing she is being subjected to head-fuckery, being monitored in her private room and laden with aphrodisiacs in her food as she watches lectures on lesbianism on closed-circuit TV, complete with female models acting out lessons in cunnilingus. And plus there’s that stacked blonde beauty Shirley who brings Erica her food and looks at her with those limpid blue eyes...Erica knows she’s being brainwashed into going lez, and she also eventually knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it from happening. 

The reason behind all this is Erica’s latest assignment: Nitro Five, another hotstuff secret agent, but one who works for the Chinese. She is, however, Caucasian (hence the title of the retitled Shauna Bishop story is a bit confusing), and while the woman’s background is known – roughly the same age as Erica, a hardship life that saw her essentially raised into becoming a merciless field agent who uses her beauty and body to ensnare victims for the Chinese government – we also learn she has never been photographed. 

Nortic opens up the tale with chapters from Nitro Five’s perspective; or, Loraine, which is the name she happens to be going by as she sets her sights on a scientist who specializes in ultrasonics. Posing as a socialite in DC, Nitro Five corners the professor at a lecture, coming on to him and taking him back to her place where an explicit sex scene ensues, but as with the Black Swan books, the author brings a literate touch even to the sleaze. We also learn that Nitro Five is deadly, as she takes out a man who inadvertently snaps her photo via some sort of mind control; an eerie scene that has the man waking up, after a short visit from Nitro Five, receiving a phone call from her, and then, his mind panicked, jumping out of a tenth-floor window. 

Like with a lot of these sleaze novels, Keenan/Nortic writes a worthy novel, to the point that the extensively-detailed sex scenes become a nuissance…something I rarely complain about. But as we know, sleaze writers were expected to deliver sleaze, and Nortic does throughout, with a focus on girl-on-girl. He varies it up with occasional scenes of straight sex, in particular with the ultrasonics professor, who is seduced by both Nitro Five and Gypsy Virgin, in sex scenes that are pretty similar, the good doctor under the effects of cantharides (aka Spanish Fly) and unable to orgasm, even after superhuman bouts of sex, all of which is detailed. Erica’s success at getting him off is pretty crazy, involving her fondness for those backdoor shenanigans. 

The author works in a grim Cold War storyline that concerns Gypsy Virgin being assigned to find out how Nitro Five assassinates from afar and to also try to get her to defect; meanwhile, Nitro Five’s assignment is to lure an ultrasonics scientist into defecting to China, seducing both him and his virginal teenaged daughter in the process. These characters all engage in sex either together or in groups, the longest sequence featuring both female agents making use of the professor’s daughter in an all-girl three-way that would press a lot of readers’ buttons, given that the girl is underaged. 

But then there is a strange focus on adolescent girls, par for the course in the grimy world of ‘70s sleaze paperbacks, I guess. Nitro Five is obsessed with adolescent Chinese girls and there is a lot of stuff about the excitement of deflowering the professor’s virgin daughter. Even Erica, who we’ll recall just got into the sapphic scenario courtesy agency programming, finds her heart pounding in excitement at the thought of sharing the girl with Nitro Five. 

What’s crazy is that, as proven with The Cong Kiss, the author is quite capable, delivering a narrative style that is more refined than scuzzy. He has a definite knack for dialog and for characterization, and the sex scenes are more erotic than repugnant, as is too often the case in a lot of these dirty books. I find it interesting that he did not write mainstream trash under his own name, but we do know from this Pulpetti post by my man Juri that Keenan was quite prolific as “Max Nortic.” 

I don’t have a copy of The Chinese Kiss, but it would be interesting to read it, for the ending certainly had to be changed. Code Name: Gypsy Virgin has a mega-downer ending that to be honest isn’t very surprising, as novel maintains a mean-tempered vibe throughout. 

SPOILERS: Well basically, Nitro Five’s grim backstory has it that she was taken in as a child and abused thoroughly by her trainers in Peking as they molded her into a remorseless killer, and this same fate awaits the professor’s daughter and Erica/Gypsy Virgin; Nitro Five has traded the two of them as well as the Professor in exchange for her own freedom (as an extra dig of the knife, we learn that Erica’s agency was in on the exchange from the start), and the novel ends with the villainess going off to her Happily Ever After while our heroine (and a teenaged girl) are shipped off to be raped, abused, and trained into becoming remorseless spies by the Chinese. End spoilers! 

So then, clearly this was changed when Erica Wilson became Shauna Bishop, and I’d be curious to know how it was changed. Not much pickup was provided in the second Black Swan, The Cong Kiss, which as we’ll recall was a flashback story to Shauna/Erica’s first mission, four years ago, so I guess I’ll just have to wonder unless I get really stupid some day and pay the exorbitant prices for a copy of The Chinese Kiss, which isn’t very likely. 

Anyway, a big thanks to Johny Malone for suggesting I read this, and also to Tiziano Agnelli, who recently left a comment on my review of The Cong Kiss to confirm that JJ Montague/Max Nortic was in reality a writer named James Keenan!

Mr. Right

Mr. Right, by Carolyn Banks

May, 1980  Warner Books

I recently discovered this one at a Half Price Books. Apparently making a bit of a splash upon its original 1979 hardcover publication – the back cover quotes a glowing review from Cosmo – Mr. Right was republished in 1999 under much “parafeminist” ballyhoo. Curiously this 1980 paperback doesn’t mention that at all, and indeed does a better job of describing the book. 

To be honest, I didn’t get any “feminist” angle from the novel. Sure, protagonist Lida is a sexually-liberated young woman who keeps a list of the 30-some men she’s been with, but at no point does she use this as a proclamation that “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Indeed, in another of those unintentionall “tells” that I love so much, Lida thinks something is wrong with her and wonders if she’ll ever find true love. Lol, there goes the “feminism” thing; Lida needs a man, after all. 

Another humorous thing is how much the sex angle is exploited on the back cover. Folks, I have to report that again we have that curious ‘70s phenonmenon of a “sexy book” that hardly has any sex in it, and indeed the vast majority of the sex occurrs off-page. There is nothing in this book to the sleazy length of, say, The Baroness, or even of contemporary popular fiction like Harold Robbins. Rather, the sex scenes we do get to read about are over and done with in a few sentences, and seldom if ever dwell on any juicy details. 

I also found it interesting that there’s nothing different about Lida, at least when compared to the average female protagonist of the day – in Robbins, in Hirschfeld, in Susann. Those authors, and innumerable others, gave us female characters who were both strong and promiscuous, who were literate and witty. All told, the only thing different about Lida is her self-doubt (she’s certain something is “wrong” with her), and also she has small boobs – though, again demonstrating the lack of focus on anything risque, we aren’t even told this until rather late in the game. 

Well anyway, Mr. Right is really more of a mystery, anyway, one that just happens to feature a promiscuous single woman in her 30s who fears that the man she is falling in love with might be a murderer. This is Duvivier, a famous mystery author who writes under other pseudonyms and who might have murdered a woman back in the early ‘60s, though Lida only learns this through coincdental plotting – her friend, Diana, happens to sleep with a guy who knew of a murderous colleage, years before, and Diana fears this man might have gone on to become Duvivier. 

A big problem with Mr. Right is that Duvivier is not built up enough. Lida reads one novel by the guy, brought to her in the hospital by Diana (Lida’s there to have an abortion!), and Lida likes it so much that she writes Duvivier a fan latter. It would have helped tremendously if we had been told more about the man’s novels, or maybe even gotten to read snatches of them; author Carolyn Banks could have had a lot of fun spoofing the mystery thrillers of the day, but apparently this thought did not occur to her. 

So, as with so much of the novel, we are only told of how great Duvivier’s books are, particularly his murders. Lida also responds to the fact that Duvivier clearly enjoys writing his books – Lida is an English teacher at an all-black college in Washington, D.C., and thus responds to what she sees as Duvivier’s gifted mocking of literary conventions. 

We also have a lot of scenes from Duvivier’s point of view; the novel hopscotches a lot, and I’m happy to report that Banks either gives us white space to denote this or just starts a new chapter. In fact there are a lot of chapters in Mr. Right, some of them as short as those in the average Richard Brautigan novel. Anyway, Duvivier is droll, elitist, and condescending – and also enjoys masturbating when devising the murder scenes in his novels. 

The gist of the novel is that Lida belives she’s found “Mr. Right” in Duvivier, due to that one novel of his she’s read; again, it would have been so much better if we’d learned more about his books. It would have helped explain why Lida, a woman who is having sex with one guy on the very first page and will with another not many pages later – and who chastizes herself for being screwed up and whatnot – would fall in love with Duvivier in the first place. 

There’s some cool stuff that resonated with me where Lida tracks down Duvivier’s real name. Showing how this sort of thing was done before the internet, Lida calls the Library of Congress and has them root through varous files; it’s a nice bit of investigative work that impresses even Duvivier, when he learns of it late in the novel. This “uncovering an author’s real identity” was right up my alley, and I’m also happy to report that Mr. Right even refers to Jimi Hendrix, not just once but a few times. 

The pseudonym stuff might have seemed revelatory in the day, but is altogether quaint n our internet/AI world. But it was cool to see the work one had to do to find the real name of an author – and, as Duvivier is told by a librarian who takes his job very seriously, there’s nothing to be found if the author specifically tells the publisher not to share his real name, something Duvivier never thought to do. 

Banks drops more ‘70s topical details here, like mentions of the pseudonymous bestsellers The Sensuous Woman and The Sensuous Man; she also references The Sensuous Dirty Old Man, another real book, but the librarian states that it was by “Mr. X;” in reality it was by Dr. A. This same librarian claims to know who “Mr. X” really is, and tells Duvivier that he’d never believe it; one wonders if Carolyn Banks herself knew that Dr. A was really Isaac Asimov. 

All these things are up my alley, but unfotunately a big problem with the novel is Lida. In another “tell,” instead of coming off as the strong and independent woman the author and publisher(s) intend, she instead comes off like a self-involved whore. Perhaps this is another “tell,” or self-own. Lida sleeps with a married man and even visits him for more sex while he’s in the hospital, all while wondering why she can’t meet a real man – we even learn she had sex with one of the students in her class, a black kid named “George Washington,” just so she could write that particular name down on her list of conquests. Or, as the kid told her – all of this relayed to us via dialog, as a lot of the story is – Lida would be able to put up a sign over her bed that stated, “George Washington slept here.” 

There is a lot of pre-PC humor here that had me laughing at times, but I’m sure it would be forbidden today, as a lot of it has to do with Lida’s comments about her black students, the majority of whom are not intelligent. When Lida and Duvivier meet, there’s also a lot of witty repartee between the two; Banks capably demonstrates how the two were made for each other. There’s also a very funny part where Diana tries to come to Lida’s rescue during a play and starts yelling that she can’t see when the house lights go down, much to the annoyance of the audience. 

But a lot of Mr. Right is made up of incidental scenes that have little bearing on the plot. Also, Banks has a tendency to write in short, punchy sentences, not much setting up scenes or giving us an idea why they are important to the story. In a lot of ways – from plotting to writing – the novel reminded me of another contemporary “spoof” of popular fiction, The Serial. 

Also, a lot of the book occurs in the early 1960s, right after the JFK assassination. This part is very much out of a mystery novel, concerning a nebbish and possibly homosexual young man who might or might not have murdered a woman, and who might or might not have become Duvivier. Banks hopscotches from the ‘60s to Lida in the ‘70s and also Diana (who has her own share of the narrative), so there really is a lot of jumping around in the novel. 

What puzzles me is why contemporary reviewers would think this novel was so different. I mean, this was an era in which a mainstream bestseller featured characters giving each other golden showers, so how in the hell could anything in Mr. Right have been considered risque or boundary-pushing? It’s altogether tame in comparison. And Lida, despite her sparkling wit, isn’t too different from sundry other female protagonists of the time. Only in her previously-mentioned self-doubt is she different, and that begins to wear thin quickly. 

Overall I’m glad I came across Mr. Right in the bookstore, as I doubt I would’ve have learned of it otherwise. Carolyn Banks proves she can deliver witty dialog and memorable situations, but all told I didn’t feel that the actual novel lived up to the sordid spectacle promised by the back cover. But then, do they ever?

Las Vegas Madam

Las Vegas Madam, by Matt Harding

No month stated, 1964  Domino/Lancer Books

While the spine and cover state “Domino Books,” the copyright page clarifies that this is a Lancer publication. So clearly Domino was the “adult” wing of Lancer, and that’s what we have here with Las Vegas Madam, with the usual caveat that this 60 year old book is not nearly as “adult” as it once was, and in reality the tale is more hardboiled comedy than it is outright sleaze. 

Also, the cover and title have absolutely nothing to do with the book’s plot. So once again I’d wager a guess that the good editors at Domino had a title and a cover, but their author – likely a house pseudonym – just did his own thing, only anemically catering to the general idea the editors requested. Of course this is all supposition, but I’m sticking with it. 

But boy, what a cover it is! Uncredited, though. In its own way this cover is as eye-catching as the cover on a contemporary “sleaze” paperback: Vice Row. But again, this cover – and the misleading back cover copy – implies that Las Vegas Madam is about a hotstuff blonde babe that runs a sort of hooker hotel in Vegas…something author Matt Harding, whoever he was, only caters to in the most minimal sense. 

As it turns out, the titular “madam” isn’t even a madam, but a college-aged beauty named Linda who has recently been willed a hotel called Bikini Beach in Vegas, which had been owned by a relative…all the girls who work there wear bikinis (including Linda herself), and our hero quickly deduces that most of the girls are selling it on the side, but Linda herself claims to be unaware of this and hell, Linda herself claims to be a virgin, so again, the book we get is not the book we are promised on the back cover. A common occurrence, really. 

So what is this breezy, 140+ page book really about? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s about a pro footballer named “Big” Mark Hale, or just “Mark” as he’s referred to in the narrative; he plays for the New York Comets, and the tale opens with Mark suffering a severe knee injury on the field which he’s afraid will keep him from playing next season. Humorously, there’s a dangling, never-resolved subplot here where a senator, who attended the same college as Mark, offers our hero a job looking into crime…but this is never followed up on. Almost makes me wonder if Mark Hale was conceived as a recurring character. Oh, and the senator is named Martin Stone…not that Martin Stone, however… 

At any rate, Mark hops in his Thunderbird and drives to Vegas for the dry heat to fix up his knee…but first he stops to bang the mother of one of his college pals. This is Jennie, a buxom 38 year old who married an older man who is now dead. Jennie is afraid her son, Tommy, has gotten in over his head with gambling in Vegas and might drop out of school, or something, and she wants Mark to look into it…but first she wants Mark. 

Our hero has long lusted after the full-breasted, long-legged beauty who is the mother of his best pal, and thus ensues a mostly off-page sex scene that leaves practically everything to the reader’s imagination. We do learn that Jennie is a “nymphomaniac” who tells Mark that “the eighth time” is the best, to which Mark responds, “Oh brother!” There’s also some stuff here about Puffy Lansing, a “homo” from Hollywood who apparently has a burlesque show in Vegas and who goes around with his own musclebound entourage…Jennie is afraid her son has fallen in with Puffy, and this is another thing she wants Mark to look into…all for five thousand bucks, money which Mark doesn’t want, anyway. 

So this turns out to be the plot of Las Vegas Madam, sort of. Actually, the novel is more focused on the bantering between Mark and the titular madam, who as mentioned isn’t even a madam, but a naïve gal with an incredible bod (always well displayed in a bikini) named Linda…who falls in love with Mark at first sight. The recurring gag here is that Linda wants Mark, but, being a virgin, she’s afraid to go all the way. 

This quickly becomes grating. Linda’s “pulchritude” is often noted (that the word “pulchritude” is used should tell you how sleazy this book actually is), and Mark often gets her in a state of undress, but she’s never able to commit…in many cases jumping out of bed and running away. In other words the book could just as easily – and more accurately – been titled “Las Vegas Tease.” 

Mark handles it well, taking cold showers and whatnot…humorously, midway through the book the author seems to remember this is supposed to be an adult novel, and he has a random girl show up, again from Mark’s college past, who has sex with him asap. This is Aggie, a notorious college slut or somesuch, and the author gets slightly more risque here, but again the novel is anemic even in comparison to what would be mainstream fiction in just a few years. 

The plot about Tommy and Puffy is most often forgotten; Mark will make periodic trips to the hotel where Puffy has a recurring show, but Puffy’s never there – again, the author just barely catering to the plot he’s apparently been given by the editors. Instead much more focus is placed on Linda following Mark around, telling him she loves him, and Mark wondering why he can’t stop thinking about her. 

There are periodic attempts at action, like when Mark is sapped from behind but can’t figure out if he was indeed sapped or if his knee just went out on him and he knocked himself out while falling. Later on Mark is shot at – right after boffing Jennie, who has come down to Vegas to follow up on him. Humorously, Matt Harding strives to make the book more risque as it goes along, with Jennie’s sudden appearance a facile way to have Mark get laid again, as Linda isn’t giving him the goods – a scene that features the humorous line, “[Mark] buried his head between the two twin mounds.” So either Jennie’s like that mutant-breasted chick from Total Recall, or Harding just didn’t bother editing his manuscript. 

I suspect the latter, as Las Vegas Madam becomes more nonsensical and typo-prone as it goes along. There’s a head-scratcher of an editing mistake on page 98; Mark is once again driving off from Linda, leaving her on the road…and then suddenly he’s sitting in a club and about to get in a fight with Puffy and his musclebound entourage. Puffy hasn’t even been introduced in the book yet, and this sequence is clearly intended to take place later in the book, but someone at Lancer dropped the ball in the rush to get the paperback out. 

There’s also a weird bit where we are suddenly in the perspective of Jennie, and also in the perspective of a scummy type of guy with the great name Slats Hannigan, but these sequences too are strange because otherwise Mark is our only protagonist. But Harding abruptly builds it up that Slats is in love with Jennie, and the author almost drunkenly ties this plot in with Puffy Lansing and Jennie’s missing son. 

Sensitive modern readers – as if they’d be reading this book in the first place – should steer clear of Las Vegas Madam. There is a lot of old-fashioned gay-bashing in the novel; Puffy, whose gender is constantly questioned (how prescient!), makes Mark’s skin crawl…there are many scenes where Mark can’t fathom how his college pal Tommy might have gone gay, and a recurring gag is that Mark just wants to know what gender Puffy really is…leading to a crazy finale where our “hero” pulls Puffy’s pants down and mocks his small size. Methinks “Big Mark Hale” might not realize he’s in the closet. 

All told, my assumption is that Las Vegas Madam was conceived as a sleazy hardboiled crime yarn about a titular madam running a hooker hotel, but instead author Matt Harding got roaring drunk and turned in a light-hearted screwball comedy about a football player meeting – and falling in love with – a super-stacked virgin in a bikini. And a lame crime subplot is mixed into this, but it goes nowhere and no one’s killed or even really hurt in the course of the book. 

And that’s it for Las Vegas Madam, a book I bought many years ago and have been meaning to read; a book that I thought would be about something else entirely, which just goes to prove how talented those paperback publishers of yore were – they could make any book sound good.

Barca

Barca, by Lou Cameron

July, 1974  Berkley Medallion

The first of a handful of paperback originals Lou Cameron published with Berkley in the mid-late ‘70s, Barca is like the later The Closing Circle in how it clearly seems to take the work of Lawrence Sanders as inspiration. Indeed, Cameron is at such pains to produce a “legitimate crime novel” that, again like The Closing Circle, he undermines his own pulpy premise and turns in a tale that is much too staid for its own good. As it is, Barca is a slog of a read, a 256-page, small-print slog that is more focused on dialog than it is on thrills. 

Reading the back cover copy of Barca, the reader is promised a tale in which the titular tough-guy cop is shot in the head but survives, and now is on a trail of revenge. The reader will be frustrated to discover that this is not the novel he actually gets. 

Rather, the reader gets a lot of talking in Barca. A lot of talking. Hell, folks, even after waking up in the hospital bed with a bullet in his friggin’ brain, even here Barca gets in a pages-long conversation with his partner, Crane, and his boss, Lt. Genero. And they aren’t just talking about the bullet in the brain, either! It’s almost like a proto-Seinfeld in how their conversation just roams all over the place. 

And this is how it will go through Barca. It was the same thing in The Closing Circle, of course, and it occurs to me now that this was the same thing Herbert Kastle was doing in his own contemporary crime novels – lots of “salty, realistic chatter from jaundiced cops” stuff. I’ve only read a few novels by Lawrence Sanders – and I’m ready to rank The Tomorrow File as my favorite novel ever, these days, surpassing even my old top favorite Boy Wonder – but from what I’ve read, his novels too were dialog heavy. And yet, at least from the ones I’ve read, they didn’t come off as stultifying chores, like these two Cameron novels. 

So here’s the deal: Detective Sergeant Frank Barca is a New Jersey cop with twenty years of experience in Homicide. At novel’s start he and his younger partner Crane are providing protection for a guy in the hospital who is about to turn evidence against the Roggeris, a mobbed-up family with tentacles all over Jersey. Then when Crane goes out for cigarettes and Barca’s alone with the guy, someone sneaks into the room and shoots Barca in the back of the head, then puts the rest of the gun’s bullets into the would-be witness. 

In material seemingly taken from a medical textbook (like Sanders, Lou Cameron wants us to know he’s done his research), we learn how the bullet did a ton of damage to Barca’s neurons but came to rest in his brain in such a way that he survived – and maintained all of his physical abilities. However, the bullet has also come to rest in such a way that to retrieve it via surgery could result in Barca’s death. This too is explained in copious detail, as Barca exposits back and forth with a neurosurgeon some months later, after coming out of therapy. 

Barca struggles with some memories, like when a pal from the Korean War calls him to wish him well, and Barca cannot remember the guy for anything. Barca’s bigger problem however is that it is only a matter of time until his brain rejects the bullet that is embedded in it. When this happens Barca’s mind will blank out, and meanwhile his body will go into convulsions and he will ultimately die. This too is covered in copious expository dialog. 

The premise is interesting: Barca gets the chance to solve his own murder, and he has to do it fast, before his brain explodes. Instead of Plot A, however, we get Plot B: Lt. Genero, reluctantly accepting Barca back on duty, puts Barca on another case, because it would look bad for the force if Barca started investigating his own shooting(!). Which Genero assures Barca the force is totally doing, it’s just a question of manpower and whatnot… 

So Barca gets the case he was working on before he was shot: looking into the hit-and-run death of a guy named Fantasia. It’s maddening in a way; the back cover and first pages set you up for one story, then Cameron pulls the narrative rug out from under you and soon Barca’s looking at the corpse of a dead young black girl who hooked for some boys who lived above Fantasia’s pharmacy, kids who were mostly into a dope and booze scene and not so much into heavy drugs. In other words, you get another story entirely than what was promised. 

Barca’s old partner, Crane, has moved on to a new gig after being promoted, but Barca will occasionally head over to his place to engage in dialog – because, gradually, it becomes clear that the Fantasia death might be connected with the Roggeris, ie the mobbed-up family that was going to be ratted on by the guy Barca and Crane was guarding the night Barca was shot in the head. 

It takes a long while for this to develop, though. For the first half of Barca we have a methodical procedural in which Barca interrogates a cast of characters who knew Fantasia; most memorable is Wrong Way Corrigan, an 18 year-old punk child of wealth who is known for crashing expensive cars. During this Baraca becomes acquainted with Beth Wilson, an (apparently) pretty blonde social worker who was helping the young black hooker who died of an OD. 

For a writer with a pulp background, Lou Cameron is curiously chaste. At least in the novels of his I’ve read. That he pulled off such prudery in the sleazy ‘70s is quite a feat. But there’s zero exploitation of the female characters and there is zero sex; Barca notices that Beth gradually begins to grow feelings for him, but when she asks him on a date late in the novel he turns her down – he doesn’t want her to start to like him and then have her feelings crushed when he suddenly dies. Personally I thought Barca was coming on as a little too self-important; just because a girl asks you out doesn’t mean she’s going to fall in love with you. 

We fare slightly better on the action front, but even here Cameron fails to deliver what he promises. Due to his condition Barca is not allowed to drive a police car, so he finds a workaround and starts driving a motorcycle. It’s a Honda, not a Harley, but Barca also starts wearing “leather togs” and packing two pistols, making the reader think of Chopper Cop, or better yet the bike-riding cop from The Blood Circus. 

But man; we only even know Barca looks like this because other characters mention it (again, the majority of the novel is relayed via dialog), and Cameron does precious little to deliver on his own pulpy conceit. I mean Barca drives the Honda around here and there; at no point does he turn into the leather-wearing, bike-roaring hellraising cop the veteran pulp reader might want. 

The novel’s sole “action scene” is over before we know it; following leads, Barca ends up at a garbage dumb outside of town, and none other than one of the Roggeris pull up. One of the guys with him’s a coked-up “junko,” and Barca shoots him with his Colt Cobra when the guy rushes him. But this scene too is played up more for the suspense angle, as Barca soon learns that there was more to this situation than he expected. 

But then overall Barca is more of a procedural than a thriller. Sometimes it’s unintentionally humorous, like the many and confusing tentacles that make up the Roggeri family. I mean there’s the one who was going to be turned against, the one who is a legitimate businessman, the one who became a priest. Then there’s the old crone who might be the most cruel mafioso of them all. And it’s all talking, talking, talking; even parts where Barca goes to talk to his old priest and they get into various theological debates. 

I mean a part of me can see Lou Cameron enthusing over all this, turning in a meaty and weighty “crime novel” that has more in common with John Gardner (the American, not the Brit) than Don Pendleton. But it comes off as so ponderous, especially given that so many scenes have no bearing on the outcome of the novel. The bantering between Barca and Lt. Genero also gets old after a while, and there are so many parts that are dumb – like Barca figures out another workaround, how to keep his gun even when he’s temporarily removed from the force, but when Genero tries to give Barca back his gun officially, Barca tells him to forget it! 

Probably the biggest issue with Barca is Barca himself. He’s nowhere as interesting as Cameron seems to think he is. There’s a lot of muddled stuff about his Italian upbringing, and how he could’ve been in the Mafia, but again it’s all just dialog with no payoff – like when Barca tries to ask that old priest of his about “omerta” and all this other stuff. None of it amounts to anyting other than making the book seem even longer. 

So, the reader can forget about the plot promised on the back cover of Barca. The concept of a tough-guy cop with a bullet in his brain going out for revenge on the mobsters who tried to kill him sounds like a great story, but it’s not the story we get in Barca. Instead, we get a tough-guy cop with a bullet in his brain who…investigates a hit-and-run death and talks to a bunch of people. Only gradually does he get around to solving who it was who almost killed him – and even this doesn’t have the emotional payoff the reader might want, Cameron going for more of a ‘70s-mandatory downbeat ending. (But an unsurprising one, as it should be obvious to even a disinterested reader who shot Barca.) 

I wasn’t very crazy about The Closing Circle, either, as it suffered from a lot of the same stuff. But that one was marginally better because the subplot about the killer at least kept things moving, and there was certainly more of a sleazy overlay – not via sex or anything, given Cameron’s prudishness, but in the wanton description of people shitting themselves when they’re strangled. To this day when I watch Dateline or whatever and it mentions a victim being strangled, I’m like, “Why aren’t you telling us they shat themselves?!” I mean, it’s the one thing I learned from The Closing Circle. 

Cameron wrote a few more of these “realistic cop novels in the vein of Lawrence Sanders” for Berkley; curiously, one of them is titled Tancredi, a name that appears in Barca. It’s not a cop or even a character in Barca, but a building where one of the Mafia capos operates out of, “The Sons of Tancredi.” There doesn’t seem to be any connection between these novels, so maybe Cameron just liked the name and decided to use it for his next book. But I’ll probably read that one next, and hope that it’s better than these first two.

No Job For A Virgin!

No Job For A Virgin!, by Jock Killane

No month stated, 1968  Softcover Library

I picked up this obscure paperback original some years ago, and I believe I was under the impression it was a Lancer publication. But, having finally decided to read the thing, I saw that it was actually published by Softcover Library. “Wasn’t that a sleaze imprint?” I asked myself…and, sure enough, the first page opens with our narrator, hotstuff female hotel dective Red, engaging in fairly explicit sex with a guy. 

Yes, friends, this is another of those curious instances where an (apparently) male author writes a sleazy novel in the first-person narration of a female protagonist. No idea who “Jock Killane” was, but I’m guessing it wasn’t a lady. The protagonist of No Job For A Virgin! is a former cop turned hotel detective who manages to screw her way through a few men and women during the course of her investigation, which sees her uncovering a diamond ring that is operating out of her hotel. 

To be sure, like most vintage “sleaze” novels, No Job For A Virgin! is more so a hardboiled crime yarn, with less of a focus on the actual sleaze than you’d encounter in a later example of the genre, like for example Lorna’s Lust For Men. That said, when the sex happens, not much is left to the reader’s imagination, but this being 1968 the details still aren’t as explicit as they would be some years later in books like The Baroness and etc. 

Regardless, the sex scenes are for the most part intrusive to the plot, and seem to be there to meet a publisher requirement. Also, I obviously have nothing to go on other than my own guess, but my assumption is that Jock Killane was a serious boozer, and turned out No Job For A Virgin! during a two-day bender fueled by Jack Daniels and uppers, with the occasional snort of coke. Either that, or he just pieced together disparate subplots and storylines in order to meet a word count. Personally I like the first option better. 

I say this because No Job For A Virgin! is a crazy read for sure, akin to something Russell Smith might write, but not that crazy (no book is as crazy as a Russell Smith book). And I’m not putting forth the notion that Killane was Russell Smith; the narrative style is completely different. If anything Jock Killane writes more like it’s the 1950s and he’s publishing a novel through Gold Medal Books. There is a definite hardboiled tone to the book, and zero in the way of topical late ‘60s details, which further makes me suspect that No Job For A Virgin! was actually written earlier. And also, a pedantic note: the exclamation point in the title only appears on the cover and the spine, but not on the first page of the book itself. 

Another interesting note: No Job For A Virgin! is copyright Script Associates, the outfit that later brought us ‘70s men’s adventure paperback series like The Butcher and The Big Brain. It is for the most part a hardboiled crime novel, narrated by a tough dame who happens to be a hotel detective at the Seagull Inn, in an unspecified city. The bodies start building up, and it soon becomes clear that a diamond smuggling ring is working out of the hotel. And then later there’s a sort of white slavery angle as well. As I say, the author seems to have jammed together a bunch of unrelated plots to make a book. 

Well anyway, the book is a rocky read at best. As I’ve frequently mentioned, it’s narrated by a woman: Sally “Red” Barnes, a tough dame who was previously “on the force,” but quit when a fellow cop “tried to rape” her. Now Red works in the Seagull Inn as the day detective, but usually works nights as well, as the night detective, Charley, is off drinking somewhere. Humorously, there is zero detail on what Red looks like. Zero! We only learn through dialog that she is called “Red” due to the color of her hair. It’s a given that she’s attractive, as everyone – man and woman – wants to take her to bed. But Jock Killane does not exploit his protagonist in the least; indeed, one could read the novel and not even know Red was a female (especially when she starts having casual sex with other women). The book is narrated in the same terse, hard-assed tone as any other hardboiled novel narrated by an ass-kicking male detective…just like, it now occurs to me, the later Hatchett. 

But man, there is no self-exploitation from Red, as you’d expect from a male author turning in a sleazy novel from the point of view of a sexy female character, ie “My full, upthrusting breasts jutted forward proudly, demanding the attention of every male eye, my nipples sharp as diamonds,” and etc. (Note how I even subtly worked in an allusion to the jewel-smuggling plot, friends!!) If I’m not mistaken, Red only refers to her breasts like once in the book, and in passing. 

She does, however, talk up the guys; the novel opens with Red having sex with some guy in her hotel room: “His left hand plucked at my right nipple…I could feel the massiveness of him, pressing against my thigh.” Personally I’d take an opening like that over “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” any day. A fairly explicit sex scene ensues, though again nothing compared to what would pass in the mainstream fiction of just a few years later. And also eventually we’ll learn that this random guy Red is banging is really…her ex-husband, Hank, a lawyer who will prove useful to her in the first half of the novel, before summarily disappearing from the text when the author tires of the plot he’s been constructing for the past hundred pages. 

Red is called immediately post-orgasm to a room up on fourth, where a fight has broken out. Red runs up there to find a burly guy strangling a blonde woman, and the guy knocks Red’s purse – with its .25 automatic in it – out of Red’s hand, and then knocks her out. This will be the start of all of Red’s problems, as Detective Heller – the very same cop who once “tried to rape” Red, back when she was on the force – accuses her of stealing jewels that the burly guy claims he had in his room. 

There is a perhaps-intentional comedic tone to the novel, as soon more and more shootouts keep occuring at the Seagull Inn, happening in that very same room on the fourth floor, yet customers keep checking into the place. Jock Killane spends a goodly portion of the tale building up a crime-suspense angel in which Red, working with an accomplice on the newspaper, learns that a diamond smuggling ring has been operating in the city and is apparently using the Seagull Inn as its base of operations. 

Red gets in a few shootouts, but truth be told No Job For A Virgin! is not an action thriller by any means. And, for that matter, nor is it a jokey, takes-nothing-seriously type of novel, like I initally assumed it would be. You know, like one of those Man From O.R.G.Y. books or whatever. Again, the impression is very much that this is one of those vintage “sleaze” paperbacks that are really crime yarns with occasional detours into somewhat-explicit sex, ie Vice Row. 

But boy, the sex scenes sure are frequent. Red does her ex-husband, then later hooks up with Olga, the sexy traveling businesswoman who stays in the hotel room across from the one on fourth. Olga invites Red over for “dinner,” and the two are soon dining someplace else entirely, if you get my sleazy drift. Humorously, Red’s sapphic pursuits are treated almost casually by the author; initially Red is anxious about how Olga makes her feel, but after Olga starts giving her a nude massage our narrator is jumping right into it. Olga is the main female character to get exploited in the text: first she’s making drinks, “her large breasts juggling” with the act, which of course gives a completely different (and anatomically-impossible) mental image than what the author likely intended. Later we get the classic line, “Her big, milk-white breasts were firm and upthrust,” which is straight out of Harold Robbins. 

Jock Killane is only getting warmed up on the sex front. After Red and Olga’s lesbian fun, there’s yet another shootout in the hotel, in the same damn room on the fourth floor, and then we have a hilariously-unrelated subplot in which Red, on her day off, goes on a yacht cruise with a wealthy couple who also stay at the hotel…and soon enough she’s engaging the sexy wife in some lez action, after which she’s screwing the husband. 

As mentioned, Jock Killane struggles to meet his word count…and the book’s only 154 pages, by the way! But this whole middle sequence has nothing to do with anything, and even after Red has slept with the couple, another couple comes aboard the ship, and Red’s having sex with that wife, too! Then later she also does the husband, and again it’s the men who get most detail; Red uses her ex-husband Hank as her reference point for the male anatomy, so that we are often informed, “He was big, almost as big as Hank.” 

Killane does try to tie this part into the overall plot, as they all end up on an island, and Red suspects that the diamond smugglers might be using the island. But then it’s back to the Seagull Inn, where another firefight ensues – and Red gets raped. This guy is bigger than Hank, she tells us, and it hurts – or, as Red tersely informs the hotel doctor: “He tore up my guts,” spreading her legs to show the damage. “Doc” meanwhile tells Red to have a stiff drink and informs her she’ll be fine, but she’ll “walk bowlegged for a few days.” 

You win a no-prize if you guess that Red will have sex posthaste, regardless! This is courtesy Sid Bartlett (whose name of course made me think “Syd Barrett”), a businessman who is thrust upon the readers in the final stages of the narrative. He’s another traveling business person, and Red is surprised to see him at the Seagull Inn (business at the hotel doing fine, despite all the shootings and killings). Red informs us that things “have never worked out” between her and Sid…until now! 

Sid takes Red out, this just a few nights after her rape, and there follows the most egregious plot-filler yet in No Job For A Virgin!. They go to an amusement park, and there a barker is promising a live sex show, and Sid gets in an argument with the guy, calling him out for his lies, saying there’s no legal way actual sex acts could be performed, etc. The barker lets Sid and Red in for free, and there follows a several-page sequence in which Red details every moment of the live sex show, which does indeed feature actual sex (you win another no-prize if you guessed that, by the way), and it goes on and on, having nothing to do with anything. Then Red and Sid go back and have sex – and Sid’s “even bigger” than Hank, by the way – and folks this ultimately even includes some backdoor shenanigans: “Sid raised me onto my knees and gently spread the cheeks of my buttocks…and then wham!” 

The final quarter of No Job For A Virgin! seems to come from a completely different novel…same as the live sex show bit did, now that I think of it. But Red wakes to find herself nude and locked in a cabin room on a ship at sea, and soon she befriends kindly Chinese guy Wang, who seems to be part of a white slavery group that has apparently gotten Red in its clutches. This is all apropos of anything that has come before in the narrative, mind you. But this is the homestretch of the story; the captain – whose member is the biggest of all, by the way – keeps trying to rape Red, and Red keeps fighting him off, while slowly gaining the trust of Wang so that the two might escape together. 

On the very final pages Jock Killane ties all this stuff into the diamond smuggling plot that he spent the previous half of the book developing. In a way I was impressed by his ability to pull off such a brazen act of connect-the-narrative-dots. But it goes without saying that the finale is wholly unsatisfactory, as Killane throws the “big boss reveal” on us in a way that would even take Norvell Page aback. 

Curiously, Killane also goes for a downbeat ending for the novel, with Red telling the dead villains, “See you in hell” as she walks off. There’s no resolution to the storyline at the Seagull Inn…and in fact, Killane pulls a total trick on readers, as he has us suspecting that other characters Red works with are involved with the smuggling ring, but he doesn’t follow up on these plotlines. Of course, there was no reason to, once he had hit his word count. 

Overall, No Job For A Virgin! was a fast read, fun mainly due to its madcap vibe (Syd Barrett again), but I suspect the story behind the book was even more interesting. Oh, and the title has nothing to do with the book – it’s not something Red ever says, or any other character says. For that matter, the cover photo could’ve been pasted on any other paperback of the era – I mean, the cover model doesn’t even have red hair! She does have a red dress, though, so maybe that counts for something.