Shooting Star/Spiderweb

suspicious like a perfect alibi.

Two for the Money

by MAX ALLAN COLLINS

AUTHOR OF ‘ROAD TO PERDITION’

After 16 years on the run, will Nolan bury the hatchet with the Mob—or will they bury him first?

Available now at your favorite bookstore. For more information, visit

www.HardCaseCrime.com

What Sordid Secrets Would He Find In the Depths of His Crystal Ball?

Eddie Haines came to Hollywood to work in television, not to become a phony self-help guru, collecting secrets from his wealthy clients in order to blackmail them.

But that’s what Eddie became, under the tutelage of Professor Otto Hermann, Ph.D., a vicious little man with dollar signs where his soul should have been.

It was a lucrative set-up—until the day the professor pushed Eddie too far...

“Perhaps the finest psychological horror writer.”

—Stephen King

Robert Bloch was the legendary author of PSYCHO and a true Hollywood insider, writing scripts for numerous movies and TV shows including ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS, Boris Karloff’s THRILLER, and the original STAR TREK. You haven’t see Hollywood’s dark side till you’ve seen it through Bloch’s eyes...

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange

THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather

LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block

ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill

THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer

THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis

BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod

SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas

FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich

KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall

SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block

MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

ZERO COOL by John Lange

SPIDERWEB

by Robert Bloch

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-042)

First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008

For

GUSTAV MARX

who gave so much of his time to this book

One

The door was of blonde wood, highly waxed. Across its surface, in angular script, was lettered:

LARRY RICKERT

AND

ASSOCIATES

I snapped the brim of my hat, turned the doorknob, and walked into the office. A set of chimes made background music.

The walls of the small reception room were of glass brick. Torcheres gave off a soft, discreet light. There was an end table bearing the usual copies of Variety and Billboard. Two chairs and a sofa, overstuffed by a firm of reliable over-stuffers, completed the ensemble. It made me sick to look at the joint.

I headed for the ticket-window opening in the wall ahead, where a receptionist’s ponytail bobbed behind a panel of glass.

When I rapped, the ponytail switched around until I got a look at a long, thin face with about three dollars’ worth of fancy makeup on it.

The panel opened and the makeup cracked into a smile. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Haines.”

Well, that was something. At least she recognized me, even if she didn’t exactly swoon in my arms at the sight of my smiling face.

“Is Mr. Rickert in?” I asked.

“Have you an appointment?”

“No. Not exactly. But I only want to see him for a minute or two.”

She nodded, closed the panel, and manipulated the intercom system, or the TV set, or whatever they used to convey trivial messages around here. After a brief pause for station identification she opened the panel again.

“Mr. Rickert will see you in a moment. Won’t you be seated, please?”

I tipped my hat, smiled roguishly and hit bottom on the overstuffed sofa. The sliding panel closed again. I waited to see if she would put up a Sold Out sign, but nothing happened.

There were exactly three cigarettes left in my package. I lit one and watched my hand tremble. Inhaling, I leaned back and forced myself to breathe deeply and slowly. Gradually I calmed down. It was going to be all right as long as I kept a grip on myself. Sure, I was perfectly relaxed now.

I only jumped about two feet when the outer door opened and Peter Lorre came in.

It wasn’t Peter Lorre, of course. Rickert didn’t handle any movie talent. But the little guy in the black hat bore a fleeting resemblance to the star. He walked over to the reception window and mumbled something about an appointment. I avoided watching or listening too closely, and presently he took his place on the chair set at right angles to my sofa. Something began to burn inside my forehead. He was staring at me.

Right away, my jumpy feeling came back. It was silly, of course. Let him stare. What did he know about me? What could he know?

I was putting up a good front. Sitting down with my legs tucked back this way, it was hard to tell that the shine was on the seat of my pants and not on my shoes. He couldn’t guess that the reason I came to Rickert’s office instead of calling him was that my phone had been disconnected. For all he knew, I had a full, fresh package of cigarettes in my pocket, and plenty of money to buy more.

So why should I worry if he stared at me? But I did worry. I doused my cigarette and looked up. His eyes were stones set in flesh.

I could feel my shirt getting sticky under the sports jacket. And I got the funniest notion that he felt it, too. He could feel everything I was feeling, think everything I was thinking. Those stones set in flesh were magnets.

Maybe I was flipping my wig? Maybe that’s what was wrong with me? All these weeks in the apartment, waiting for Rickert to call, watching the money run out. Then no phone, and nothing to do but run around and try to break the doors down myself—carrying my own photos and recordings.