The Vengeful Virgin

Raves For the Work of GIL BREWER!

“[One] of the most adroit plot-spinners of the paperback era.”

—Geoffrey O’Brien, Hardboiled America

“Gil Brewer has spent a long time in the shadows of his more famous contemporaries, but his best work—a noir blend of James M. Cain, Dashiell Hammett and Ernest Hemingway—gives his rivals a run for their money. I’m delighted to see him making a comeback.”

—Allan Guthrie

“There is a Woolrichian darkness and desperation in his best work. It stays with you a long, long time.”

—Mickey Spillane & Max Allan Collins, A Century of Noir

“The prose is lean [yet] rich with raw emotion genuinely portrayed and felt.”

—Bill Pronzini

“A short but full-packed story, pointed and restrained...an effective tale of an ordinary man trying to turn sharpie and destroying himself in the process.”

—Anthony Boucher, The New York Times

“One of the most respected (and collected) of the Gold Medal writers.”

—Murder Mystery Monthlies

“His style is simple and direct, with sharp dialogue and considerable passion and intensity; at times it takes on an almost Hemingwayesque flavor.”

—St. James Guide To Crime & Mystery Writers

“Skillfully conveys the despair of a man with a lifelong dream after he succumbs to the temptation provided by a...fortune.”

—Publishers Weekly

“One of the leading writers of paperback originals.”

—Contemporary American Authors

“At his best, he hooked you in his first paragraph and never let you go.”

—Ed Gorman

She pouted. “Please. I’d like a fire.”

She had the blankets spread all around the floor in front of the fireplace. I dumped the wood in a box, and set the fire with some old newspapers underneath the wood. It caught quickly, and the room became a chimera of fire and shadow.

When I turned around, she was naked, lying there on the blankets.

“Get the money, Jack.”

I didn’t say anything. I got the money bag and brought it back.

“Pour it out,” she said. “Here.” She slapped the blanket between us.

I opened the bag and turned it upside down. The money fell there on the blanket between us, piling up and piling up. I threw the small suitcase across the room, and knelt looking at it.

“It kind of makes you crazy,” I said. “Doesn’t it?”

“Undress,” she said. “Like me. Take your shirt off.”

The firelight was high now, and the flames danced across the ceiling and played like thin wicked fingers across the pile of money.

“Jesus, Jack—just look at it, will you?”

I felt a little crazy, right then. I couldn’t help it.

Shirley knelt by the money. She reached into it with both fists and tossed it into the air, and watched it flutter down. I lay there, watching her. She was beautiful, Christ, they didn’t come any more beautiful than Shirley Angela. Kneeling there with that big pile of money, and the firelight playing across her body, breasts, hip and thigh, her flesh sheened a little with perspiration from the heat so it mirrored the flames— there was never anything like it...

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

GRIFTER’S GAME by Lawrence Block

FADE TO BLONDE by Max Phillips

TOP OF THE HEAP by Erle Stanley Gardner

LITTLE GIRL LOST by Richard Aleas

TWO FOR THE MONEY by Max Allan Collins

THE CONFESSION by Domenic Stansberry

HOME IS THE SAILOR by Day Keene

KISS HER GOODBYE by Allan Guthrie

361 by Donald E. Westlake

PLUNDER OF THE SUN by David Dodge

BRANDED WOMAN by Wade Miller

DUTCH UNCLE by Peter Pavia

THE GIRL WITH THE LONG GREEN HEART by Lawrence Block

THE GUTTER AND THE GRAVE by Ed McBain

NIGHT WALKER by Donald Hamilton

A TOUCH OF DEATH by Charles Williams

SAY IT WITH BULLETS by Richard Powell

WITNESS TO MYSELF by Seymour Shubin

BUST by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

STRAIGHT CUT by Madison Smartt Bell

LEMONS NEVER LIE by Richard Stark

THE LAST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

THE GUNS OF HEAVEN by Pete Hamill

THE LAST MATCH by David Dodge

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

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-030)

First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2007

One

She wasn’t what you would call beautiful. She was just a red-haired girl with a lot of sock. She stood behind the screen door on the front porch, frowning at me.

“I’m Jack Ruxton,” I said. “From Ruxton’s TV. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s all right.”

She was maybe seventeen or eighteen. The porch light was on. It was about eight o’clock on a Monday night. Looking past her, I could see through a long, broad living room, expensively furnished, and on into a brightly lighted bedroom. A man with iron-gray hair lay on a hospital bed under a sheet, with his toes sticking straight up. His head was flung back as if he were in a cramp. There was a lot of tricky-looking paraphernalia, rubber hoses and tanks and stuff, beside the bed. A fluorescent bedlight glared across his face. It was eerie.

“Well,” I said. “TV on the blink?”

“No. That’s not what I called you for, Mr. Ruxton.”