2016, ISBN: 9781846050923

Pasta dura

Penguin Publishing Group. Good. 4.26(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.94(d). Paperback. 1998. 352 pages. Cover worn<br>Tis the season for passion and intrigue in these four festive Christmas novel… Más…

Penguin Publishing Group. Good. 4.26(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.94(d). Paperback. 1998. 352 pages. Cover worn<br>Tis the season for passion and intrigue in these four festive Christmas novellas by four outstanding auth ors--including a Lieutenant Eve Dallas story from #1 New York Tim es bestselling author J. D. Robb. In J. D. Robb's Midnight in De ath, Lieutenant Eve Dallas must postpone her first Christmas with her new husband, Roarke, to hunt for an escaped serial killer--b ut she and Roarke still manage to find ways to celebrate. Susan Plunkett's Christmas Promises brings a woman and her ex-fiance to gether after four long years as they search for a missing child-- and make up for the broken promises of Christmases past. In Dee Holmes's The Unexpected Gift, Sabrina McKay and her five-year-old son are coping with the first Christmas since her divorce when h er son finds a body in the yard--and unexpectedly they rediscover the true spirit of the holidays. In Claire Cross's A Berry Merr y Christmas, a mysterious nanny has a special message to deliver to a young orphan and her uncle who long to feel the joy of Chris tmas in their hearts once again. Editorial Reviews Christmas Cr imes 'Tis the season to be suspenseful, with a dash of romance t hrown in for good measure! In this holiday treasure, four romanti c-suspense writers try their hands at stories of holiday-themed l ove and intrigue. The standout is from J. D. Robb (a pseudonym of the bestselling Nora Roberts), whose futuristic suspense story, Midnight in Death, begins with the delicious line, Murder respect s no traditions. From this opening, police detective Eve Dallas has walked into the scene of a particularly nasty crime -- a man has been hanged, but slowly and painfully, with a biblical phras e carved into his body: Judge not lest you be judged. The man is a judge, and with him Eve finds a list of others who the killer i s after -- and her name is at the bottom of that list! It has sh ades of Seven, but this is not a sadistic horror story, for J. D. Robb always manages to present a compelling detective story with out much in the way of gore. Dallas was prepared to celebrate a n ice Christmas with her husband, Roarke, but now it looks as if a killer is on the loose -- and one she knows all too well. The ser ial killer in question is none other than David Palmer, a man Eve had arrested after Palmer left a trail of corpses behind him. No w he's escaped from an off-planet penal colony. The murder story takes over Eve's life, but her romance heats up with her hubby as she proves that some women can have it all. A taut story, with a good deal of Christmas, tension, and love in heavy doses along w ith a neat murder mystery. The other stories also rise to the o ccasion. Dee Holmes's The Unexpected Gift is an ironic and beauti fully told tale of a woman and her young son who are managing the ir first Christmas without Daddy after the divorce. Sabrina McKay 's son, Josh, finds something shocking nearby -- a dead body. The ir entire holiday is changed with this discovery. In Claire Cross 's offering, A Berry Merry Christmas, an unusual nanny has a mess age for an orphan named Natalie and her Uncle Drew. And in Susan Plunkett's Christmas Promises, Marne York gets a Christmas surpri se when her former boyfriend is sent to give her a ride. Jake is not the guy she's wanted back in her life, but soon she and Jake join forces to track down a missing child. All in all, this is a wonderful holiday sampler from these writers, who have delivered a stocking stuffer of a book for fans of romance, suspense, and the season of joy. Highly recommended, particularly for the insta nt-classic J. D. Robb story. - Jessi Rose Lucas, barnesandnoble. com - Jessi Rose Lucas's first romance novel, The Swan Prince, is forthcoming. She lives on the New England coast and is current ly working on her second novel, The Tarnished Knight, a medieval romance about Lancelot and Guinevere. - Jessi Rose Lucas ., Penguin Publishing Group, 1998, 2.5, Ballantine Books. Good. 4.25 x 1.25 x 7.25 inches. Paperback. 1998. 416 pages. Cover worn<br>Thoroughly absorbing. --Time MISCHIEVOU SLY GOSSIPY. --The New York Times MOUTHWATERING. --Entertainment Weekly Gus Bailey, journalist to high society, knows the sordid secrets of the very rich. Now he turns his penetrating gaze to a courtroom in Los Angeles, witnessing the trial of the century un fold before his startled eyes. As the infamous case and character s begin to take shape, and a range of celebrities from Frank Sina tra to Heidi Fleiss share their own theories of the crime, Bailey bears witness to the ultimate perversion of principle and the mo st amazing gossip machine in Hollywood--all wrapped in a marvelou sly addictive true-to-life tale of love, rage, and ruin. . . . E ditorial Reviews Review He is one of those writers who seems eff ortlessly to collide with copy. Movie stars confide to his answer ing machine. Wanted men hail the same taxi. Heiresses unload thei r life stories in elevators. Except, of course, Dunne's luck is n ot luck. People love to talk to him because he has a gift for int imacy that is real and generous. -Tina Brown, editor, The New Yor ker Dunne's antennae are always turned to the offbeat story... H e is magazine journalism's ace social anthropologist whose area o f study is the famous and infamous up close and personal. -San Fr ancisco Chronicle A sharp and unfooled observer of decor and mor es. -Los Angeles Times Dunne is a genius. -Newsday He knows ev ery story there is to tell, precisely how it happened, and why. - The New York Times Book Review From the Hardcover edition. From the Inside Flap Thoroughly absorbing. --Time MISCHIEVOUSLY GOSS IPY. --The New York Times MOUTHWATERING. --Entertainment Weekly Gus Bailey, journalist to high society, knows the sordid secrets of the very rich. Now he turns his penetrating gaze to a courtro om in Los Angeles, witnessing the trial of the century unfold bef ore his startled eyes. As the infamous case and characters begin to take shape, and a range of celebrities from Frank Sinatra to H eidi Fleiss share their own theories of the crime, Bailey bears w itness to the ultimate perversion of principle and the most amazi ng gossip machine in Hollywood--all wrapped in a marvelously addi ctive true-to-life tale of love, rage, and ruin. . . . From the Back Cover ALLURING . . . YOU CAN'T PUT IT DOWN. --San Francisco Chronicle DELICIOUSLY WICKED. --Vogue POWERFUL, EVOCATIVE, AND RELENTLESSLY ENTERTAINING. --Newsday About the Author Dominick D unne is an internationally acclaimed journalist and the bestselli ng author of both fiction and nonfiction, including A Season in P urgatory, An Inconvenient Woman, The Two Mrs. Grenvilles, People Like Us, and The Mansions of Limbo. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by perm ission. All rights reserved. Yes, yes, it's true. The conscientio us reporter sets aside his personal views when reporting events a nd tries to emulate the detachment of a camera lens, all opinions held in harness, but the man with whom this narrative deals did not adhere to this dictum, at least when it came to the subject o f murder, a subject with which he had had a personal involvement in the past. Consequently, his reportage was rebuked in certain q uarters of both the journalistic and the legal professions, which was a matter of indifference to him. He never hesitated to speak up and point out, in print or on television, that his reportage on matters of murder was cheered by much larger numbers in other quarters. Walk down Madison Avenue with me and see for yourself h ow often I am stopped by total strangers, he said in reply to a h ate letter he received from an enraged man who wrote that he had vilified O.J. Simpson through the pages of your pretentious magaz ine for two and a half years. His name, as it appeared in print or when he was introduced on television, was Augustus Bailey, but he was known to his friends, and even to those who disliked him intensely, because of the way he had written about them, as Gus, or Gus Bailey. His name appeared frequently in the newspapers. Hi s lectures were sold out. He was asked to deliver eulogies at imp ortant funerals or to introduce speakers at public events in hote l ballrooms. He knew the kind of people who said We'll send our p lane when they invited him for weekends in distant places. From the beginning, you have to understand this about Gus Bailey: He k new what was going to happen before it happened. His premonitions had far less to do with fact than with his inner feelings, on wh ich he had learned to rely greatly in the last half dozen years o f his life. He said over the telephone to his younger son, Zander , the son who was lost in a mountain-climbing mishap during the d ouble murder trial of Orenthal James Simpson, I don't know why, b ut I keep having this feeling that something untoward is going to happen to me. Certainly, there are enough references to his obl iteration in his journal in the months before he was found dead i n the media room of his country house in Prud'homme, Connecticut, where he had been watching the miniseries of one of his novels, A Season in Purgatory. The book was about a rich young man who go t away with murder because of the influence of his prominent and powerful father. Getting away with murder was a relentless theme of Gus Bailey's. He was pitiless in his journalistic and novelist ic pursuit of those who did, as well as of those in the legal pro fession who created the false defenses that often set their clien ts free. That book, the miniseries of which he was watching, had brought Gus Bailey and the unsolved murder in Greenwich, Connecti cut, which, to avoid a libel suit, he had renamed Scarborough Hil l, a great deal of notoriety at the time of its publication, resu lting in the reopening of the murder case by the police. Gus had fervently believed that the case remained unsolved because the po lice had been intimidated by the power and wealth of the killer's family, which extended all the way to the highest office in the land. It was exactly the same thing in the Woodward case, said G us, who had written an earlier novel about a famous society shoot ing in the aristocratic Woodward family on Long Island in the fif ties called The Two Mrs. Grenvilles. The police were simply outda zzled by the grandeur of Elsie, whom I called Alice Grenville, an d Ann Woodward got away with shooting her husband. As always, wh en Gus's passions were involved in his writing, he ruffled feathe rs. Powerful families became upset with him. He created enemies. You seem to have annoyed a great many very important people, sai d Gillian Greenwood of the BBC, as a statement not a question, in the living room of Gus Bailey's New York penthouse, where she wa s interviewing him on camera for a documentary on his life called The Trials of Augustus Bailey. Gus, who was used to being on ca mera, nodded agreement with her statement. True, he replied. Do people ever dislike you, the way you write about them? asked Gill ian, who was producing and directing the documentary. There seem s to be a long line, answered Gus. Does that bother you? she ask ed. It's an occupational hazard, I suppose, said Gus. Does it b other you? Gillian repeated. Sometimes yes. It depends who, real ly. Do I care that a killer or a rapist dislikes me? Or the lawye rs who get them acquitted? Of course not. Some of those people, l ike Leslie Abramson, I am proud to be disliked by. Yes, yes, Les lie Abramson, said Gillian. She told us you weren't in her league when we interviewed her for this documentary. Gus, who was a la psed Catholic, looked heavenward as he replied, Thank you, God, t hat I am not in Leslie Abramson's league. What happens when you meet these people you write about? You must run into some of them , the way you go out so much, and the circles you travel in. It does happen. It's not uncommon. Mostly, it's very civilized. Aver ted eyes, that sort of thing. A fashionable lady in New York, Mrs . de la Renta, turned her back on me at dinner one night and spok e not a word in my direction for the hour and a half we were sitt ing on gold chairs in Chessy Rayner's dining room. I rather enjoy ed that. Sometimes it's not quite so civilized, and there have be en a few minor skirmishes in public. That's what I want to hear about, said Gillian. Gus laughed. I seem to have annoyed a rathe r select number of your countrymen when I wrote in Vanity Fair ma gazine that I believed the British aristocrat Lord Lucan, who mur dered his children's nanny in the mistaken belief that she was hi s wife and then vanished off the face of the earth, was alive and well and being supported in exile by a group of very rich men wh o enjoyed the sport of harboring a killer from the law. Certain o f those men were very annoyed with me. Oh, let me guess, said Gi llian. You annoyed the all-powerful James Goldsmith, and he's ver y litigious. Curiously enough, not Jimmy Goldsmith, who had ever y reason to be annoyed, said Gus. He chose to treat the whole thi ng as a tremendous joke. 'Gus here thinks Lucky Lucan is hiding o ut at my place in Mexico,' he said one night at a party at Wendy Stark's in Hollywood, which we both attended, and everyone roared with laughter at such an absurdity. Who, then? persisted Gillia n. Selim Zilkha, a very rich Iraqi who used to live in London, h ad dinner with Lucky Lucan the night before the murder, which I w rote about. Now he lives in Bel Air. He made a public fuss about me at the opening night of Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, when he chastised one of his guests, the Countess of Dudley, who was v isiting from London, for greeting me with a kiss on each cheek. H e referred to me by a four-letter word beginning with s that I ca n't say on television. What happened? The countess, who was no stranger to controversy herself, told off Zilkha in no uncertain terms, said Gus. She said she'd kiss whomever she wanted to kis s and, furthermore, 'Gus Bailey is an old friend of many years.' Tell me more. Another Lucan instance happened in your country, said Gus. Another of the men I mentioned, John Aspinall, a rich g uy who owned the gambling club above Annabel's where Lord Lucan w as a shill, made a terrible fuss at a Rothschild dance in London. He wanted Evelyn to throw me out. Were you thrown out? Of cour se not. The way I look at it is this: If Lucan is dead, as they a ll claim, why don't they just laugh me off as a quack? Why do I e nrage them so? From the Hardcover edition. ., Ballantine Books, 1998, 2.5, Poisoned Pen Press. Good. 5.5 x 1 x 8.5 inches. Hardcover. 2016. 264 pages. Ex-library.<br>Winter is hard in Beauville, where the melting snow can reveal much more than last season's dead leaves. So when a wealthy, obnoxious tourist and his ski bunny girlfrien d surface in Pru Marlowe's little Berkshire town, she knows she s hould stay out of their way. The bad-girl animal psychic has to f ocus on more immediate concerns, including a wild rabbit named He nry, supposedly tamed and illegally living with an eighty-four-ye ar-old lady in her home. Henry, who seems to be acting out and hi ding, avoids responding to Pru. Yet when Pru discovers the touri st murdered and his girlfriend's high-maintenance spaniel falls t o her care, she gets dragged into a complicated case of crime and punishment that involves some new friends, an old nemesis, and h er own shadowed past. A recent museum art heist draws the feds in to the investigation along with a courtly gentleman radiating men ace, who represents secretive business interests in New York and shows a surprising awareness of Pru. Her on-again, off-again roma nce with police Detective Creighton doesn't stop him from warning her to steer clear of the inquiry. The spaniel, however, lures h er in. Pru lives in a world where only her crotchety tabby Walli s knows the whole truth about her past, her flight from Manhattan , and her unique gift that surfaced abruptly one day. Fearing the worst, Pru now comes dangerously close to being exposed. With ev erything in motion, Pru, Wallis, and everyone they hold dear will be lucky to escape...by a hare. Editorial Reviews Review Pru M arlowe is an great character. I love this series and I am always excited to know when a new one is coming out. I have read book fi ve and now six and I am eager to go back to the beginning of the series. The character of Pru is fun and love seeing what she is g oing to get into next! She has a unique gift of being able to hea r animals speak. Ironically her business keeps her busy with her gift as well as gets her in trouble. She ends up finding a dead g uy and is getting all kinds of messages from her cat Wallis and a dog named Pudge who happens to be the dead guy's girlfriends. An d along the way she gets an interesting client by the name of Hen ry who is an Eastern Cottontail wild rabbit. What a job! But of c ourse all the clues are not so simple to figure out from her four legged friends. Although she can hear animals speak it is differ ent, they give her feelings instead of full sentences like you an d I would communicate. YIKES! This is where the fun begins. She h as a lot going on right now and her boyfriend Detective Creighton is telling her to back off! She can't because she is in the midd le of it whether she likes it or not because of her new client an d her dog, Pudgy. Will Pru be able to get out of this one or will this be her last dog walk??? This is a great cozy series and rec ommend it to all who love a challenging who done it. (NetGalley) Bunnies abound in this new entry in the Pru Marlowe Pet Noir ser ies. ThereÂ's the wild bunny being kept illegally by an elderly w oman who calls on Pru because sheÂ's heard of PruÂ's skill as an animal behaviorist; thereÂ's the bunny in the painting stolen in a recent art heist; and then thereÂ's that fixture of the resort slopes, the ski bunny.~~~The latter is Cheryl, the arm-candy girl friend of an obnoxious businessman type named Teddy Rhinecrest. P ru encounters the couple while out with her sometime boyfriend an d full time police detective Jim Creighton. What should have been a nice dinner is spoiled when Rhinecrest picks a fight with his girlfriend Cheryl, the aforementioned ski bunny. Creighton steps in to calm things down, but it wonÂ't come as any surprise to rea ders when Teddy turns up dead.~~~For once, Pru doesnÂ't have a pe rsonal stake in the investigation. She really doesnÂ't want to be involved, but then Cheryl calls Pru for help with her King Charl es Spaniel. Pru goes to help the dog and finds things are more co mplicated than she expected. . . not to mention the appearance of an old acquaintance who brings both old world charm and menace.~ ~~IÂ've enjoyed this series from the start. For the uninitiated, Pru is more than a behaviorist. SheÂ's an animal psychic, able to pick up bits of information from a variety of animals. The commu nication is disjointed, bits and pieces of things that Pru strugg les to understand. It can also be very distracting because she ca nÂ't turn it off.~~~One of the things I like the most about the s eries is the way that the characters continue to evolve. At the b eginning, Pru was all but shattered by this sudden gift of inter- species communication. She was so convinced that she was mad that she checked herself into a mental health clinic. She lives in fe ar that someone else will find out about her ability. Add this to her history of unhappy and unfortunate personal relationships an d Pru is one defensive and prickly lady, given to consuming large amounts of alcohol to deaden the pain and fear. Her one confidan t is Wallis, her opinionated tabby cat who functions as advisor a nd commentator, whether Pru wants to hear it or not. (No pun inte nded.)~~~However, over the course of the series Pru has begun to open up just a little. She is learning to question some of her ow n assumptions and to figure out that maybe, just maybe, she doesn Â't have to face everything alone. SheÂ's also getting better at trying to decipher the messages she gets from the various creatur es.~~~ThatÂ's not to say that this is a series that has to be rea d in order. Each is a standalone, though some characters carry ov er for several books.~~~The murder actually takes a bit of a back seat to some of the other mysteries in the book; while there is a resolution, it happens off camera so to speak. Thinking it over , I still found it a satisfying read as I was more interested in some of the other things that were going on. I admit I often read more for character than for plot, and this one was particularly well done in that respect. This isnÂ't to say that the mysteries got short shrift, just that as a long time reader I was more attu ned to the character development.~~~This series just keeps gettin g better and better. (BristolLibraryBookblog) Entertaining visit to the extraordinary world of the curious Pru Marlowe, animal-se nsitive and animal trainer, whose informal sideline in investigat ion brings her close to danger and crime. Pru's unique selling po int is her ability to tune in to communications with all manner o f non-human animals so that she can acquire intelligence of a mos t unusual nature. Set in small town America, this is a good thril ler in the Pet Noir genre, and will keep you guessing. (NetGalley ) Simon, the author of three other series, two of which are ongo ing, brings intrigue, wit and a profound love for animals to Pru' s latest adventure. And readers who enjoy a whodunit with unusual characters, animal connections and -- dare we say it? -- velvete en prose should hop to it. (RichmondTimes-Dispatch) I really lik e the Pru Pet Noir cozy series, especially because I just love th e animals. Ms. Simon has a way of writing them that keeps them tr ue to their species, but also adds a human element to their perso nalities. It makes them both endearing and highly entertaining. I f you haven't read any of this series, I implore you to read the beginning. It will help with some of the past moments mentioned i n the story and will keep you from finding out spoilers from the first set. Overall, another purrfect addition to an already fun s eries!! Two paws and a couple ears way up!! (Goodreads) Simon sp ins a great mystery full of humor to temper the murder. The twist s and turns keep readers guessing until the final pages.~~~I love the characters she has created. The humans are great, Pru is fun ny, sharp witted and can be sarcastic and abrupt. Her moods and p ersonality make her come alive on the pages. I feel the real star s of the book are the animals that interact with Pru. From the bi rds, squirrels and mice to the dogs, cats and the illegal pet bun nyÂ' Simon creates fabulously entertaining dialog in PruÂ's head that is shared with the reader. If you have ever wondered what yo ur pets are thinking, you need to read this series. It will hopef ully prevent anyone from naming a pet something that the animal c ringes at each time he is called.~~~I highly suggest this fun coz y mystery series. When Bunnies Go Bad is the sixth book in the Pr u Marlow Pet Noir series, but easily reads as a stand-alone novel if you want to read it first. (Writeknit) This is book #6 in th e Pru Marlowe Pet Noir Series & so far one of my favorites. The t itle refers to both a wild rabbit illegally living with an elderl y woman & a murdered mobster's snow-bunny girlfriend. Both Pru & her beau Detective Jim Creighton are extremely likable characters . I love Pru's ability to communicate with animals, & Creighton i s becoming more important to Pru in each book. As for the murder mystery, the reader is given a despicable victim to dislike & ple nty of suspects with motive. At the same time we are privy to the pet duties Pru performs daily. I especially liked her interactio ns with Bitsy, aka Growler. For a little dog he has quite a big a ttitude. I definitely enjoyed reading this book & without giving away any spoilers, the ending has me quite intrigued! (NetGalley) Clea Simon does an excellent job of mixing humor, romance, and mystery into one coherent and exciting tale. The humans are engag ing and fun, but the non-human characters are even more so. That the author was able to infuse so much personality into animals th at really have no voice as sometimes all Pru can get from them is a vague sense of their emotions really amazed me. IÂ've already purchased the first book in this series because I canÂ't wait to start at the beginning and discover how this all started. (LongAn dShortReviews) In this latest title in the only series to combin e pets with noir (or a semi-tame form of noir), animal psychic Pr u deals with a sneaky rabbit and finds a few bodies strung about her quaint Berkshire hometown of Beauville. It starts with an an obnoxious tourist whom Pru observes at a restaurant with his girl friend; later she finds his body in a condo. Maybe weirder is the fact that the girlfriend needs Pru's help with her dog, a persni ckety spaniel. And let's not forget that rabbit, a wild bunny nam ed Henry, who is living with an 84- year-old woman. Oh, and there 's a mobster, too, whose presence somehow forces Pru to deal with some secrets of her own about her hasty exit from New York. Usua lly, Pru can sort out her various entanglements by hearing what t he pets have to say, but this time neither the rabbit nor the spa niel are coming through clearly. The plot is nearly as challengin g to follow as the critters, but once again Simon's wacky humor?d arkish but surely not black?provides more than enough entertainme nt. (Booklist) Pru Marlowe, animal behaviorist with a special ta lent, is balancing her work, her love life, and her sleuthing whi le trying to keep her talent for talking to animals a secret. I h ave read the earlier books in this series, and they continue to b e great humorous mysteries. Getting glimpses of our world through the eyes of animals is entertaining. When a very unlivable visit or is found murdered, Pru becomes involved in the investigation. Is the murderer the ski bunny girlfriend, his mob associates or s omeone he owed money to? With the help of her animal friends, Pru is on the trail! (Goodreads) Simon's mysteries are lighthearted with a fair amount of humor in the mix. Her animal characters ar e as three-dimensional as the human characters. She makes Pru's a bility believable and realistic in how she interacts with the ani mals. She draws you in with the first paragraph and keeps you eng aged to the final word. (The News-Gazette) Ronnie called Pru to The Pines so she can trap the rats that are in one of the units. They find a dead man in the unit which he shares with a ski bunny . Pru has another client who has a feral bunny, Henry, who was ra ised by the client's granddaughter. This begins Pru's adventure t hat involves treachery, art, a spaniel and an old friend who know s about Pru's physic ability. Wiiis is there with her irritable s elf and Crieghton is acting oddly. Pru looks for answers before p hysic ability becomes known. (NetGalley) A refreshing read (NetG alley) So, whatÂ's the big secret? Not telling. But readers will absolutely love this fun, witty mystery that hits on all points! (SuspenseMagazine) Pru Marlowe is back ! Fans of the series wil l rejoice . This fabulous series continues with a wonderful addit ion in When Bunnies Go Bad. For those that have not read the prev ious Pet Noir Pru Marlowe series this book does stand alone but I recommend reading the entire series. This is number six in the s eries.~~~Pru returns with a engaging fun story involving a comple x murder , a bunny and a new unique group of characters as suspec ts. Pru Marlowe has a lot on her plate and is balancing her gift of hearing animals speak, with her love life and her uncanny abil ity to investigate murder. As the story progresses I found all th e characters engaging and adding mysterious happenings to the sto ry. I loved the addition of a wild bunny who wants to be a house pet who communicates with Pru in this story as well as her humoro us relationship with her own cat and the addition of a dog involv ed with the murder victim. Pru has a gift for working with animal s and its a delight to read about her love for animals. This seri es is always fun to read and this new addition is a great cozy my stery. It has all the elements of a good mystery. and the writing flows beautifully to the exciting conclusion. Thank you for the advance reading copy Poisoned Pen Press which does not affect my honest review given here. I highly recommend When Bunnies Go Bad for your reading enjoyment and for all animal lovers. (NetGalley) Much of the enjoyment of this fifth in the Pru Marlowe Pet Noir series stems from Pru attempting to apply her animal behaviorist skills upon humans. The results may be mixed, but they are alway s fun. Pru continues to be annoyed by the gossip-mongering person of Bich, Poisoned Pen Press, 2016, 2.5, CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset the ir coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform th e scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, becau se of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodde d at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the score rs' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous- skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his unifor m, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Mar quis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enf orce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimm ed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a sof t touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but cl early the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and sco ring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slas hed through the lane, around and through and over much larger pla yers, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if all owed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirt y. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle Mc Avoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be ov er, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen , lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right m ind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the k ids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ig nore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he w as fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because th at's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the you th league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered th rough the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scor ed again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve w ith two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the d oor and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeab le because he was white. There were no white players on either te am. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench c oat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some vari ety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym , and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probab ly a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. I t would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspiciou s look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle o n Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it becam e uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ba ll, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, sho ok his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed b ack on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the m isery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyo nd him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, n ot at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old l aw student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or procl ivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all ind ications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement shou ld have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that wa y with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particu larly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to di g deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thi rty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd th rown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quic kly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was no w accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn 't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. T he decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully ov er. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as me aningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As K yle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outsi de? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle 's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped wit h it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permane nt stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right t hings-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were c hanging clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketba ll because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside t he locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There woul d be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncl e, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there w as another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that ope ned into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the f amilies and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a q uick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he ma de his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alle y, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had b een plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The tem perature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wedne sday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale L aw School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn 't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red J eep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyl e, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks an d his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing we re wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tri ed to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong , he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said wh en Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and to ok in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd bee n watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediate ly saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always wo rked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That 's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and fl ipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as al l the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten yea rs older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease . Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Bot h northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just fo llow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threa tening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs . Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten min utes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwic h shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tr icks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuin e. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. Wha t's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. G inyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body concede d- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable je rk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullsh it! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watche d their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was t he FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Crimina l Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interroga tion. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his fat her? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginya rd turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad a ctor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the ch ase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart -ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call you r old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life y ou have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyl e managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want e very word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. Th ey jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching tre nch coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside . He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought abo ut driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham P ublished by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover ed ition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publish ers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offer s an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal , which served as a platform for his concerns about the corruptin g effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law S chool student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, unti l shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could reviv e a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in ne ed, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. M cAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside informati, CENTURY, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781846050923

Pasta dura

Pan Books. Good. 111 x 178 x 30mm. Paperback. 1998. 576 pages. <br>For thirty-year-old captain Scott McKay, the trans port run from Miami to Denver will give him the money he desper… Más…

Pan Books. Good. 111 x 178 x 30mm. Paperback. 1998. 576 pages. <br>For thirty-year-old captain Scott McKay, the trans port run from Miami to Denver will give him the money he desperat ely needs to keep his fledgling air cargo company flying. When a mysterious crate is discovered on his plane, however, McKay is or dered to abandon his present course and fly the crate and its own er, Vivian Henry, to Washington, D.C., before going to Denver. Mc Kay takes the forced detour in stride - until a strange noise com es from deep inside the crate. It is the voice of Vivian's husban d, Dr. Rogers Henry, warning that the shipment they are carrying is actually a fully armed Medusa device, a thermonuclear bomb tha t can destroy every computer chip over an entire continent, and b last the Silicon Age back to the Stone Age. And it is set to go o ff within hours. As panic spreads from the small community of n uclear scientists who used to work for Dr. Rogers Henry to the Wh ite House and eventually to the general public, a group of rogue military officers conspires to disobey the President's orders and secure the technology of the Medusa device, whatever the cost. W ill Captain McKay and his crew trust their own instincts to dispo se of the bomb, or will they let a misguided government dictate t heir actions? Editorial Reviews Review If you miss t he great airborne adventures of writers like the late Ernest K. G ann, John Nance might help take up some of the slack. His Pandora 's Clock--it became a TV movie--featured a nasty virus rampant at 35,000 feet. His latest has the widow of a world-class scientist trying to deliver to the Pentagon an invention that could shut d own computers everywhere, thus ending civilization (and online bo okselling) as we know it. Lots of hairy, if somewhat implausible, action--sure to be exploited in another TV movie. --This text re fers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Fr om School Library Journal YA?From the intriguing jacket cover to the final page, suspense abounds in this thrilling novel. When Sc ott McKay, captain of his private cargo plane, takes on two passe ngers and their cargo crates, he and his crew discover that they are in for the flight of their lives. While over Washington, DC, a strange noise comes from deep inside the crate owned by Vivian Henry. It is the voice of her husband, a nuclear scientist who wa s believed dead. The people onboard are informed that the shipmen t that they are carrying is a fully armed Medusa device, a thermo nuclear bomb that will not only kill millions of people, but can also destroy every computer chip on the continent, blasting the c ountry back into the Stone Age. It is set to go off within hours. Panic erupts in the world of nuclear scientists who used to work for Dr. Henry, for they realize that this threat is a real possi bility. Fear spreads through the White House and the general publ ic, as a group of rogue military officers conspire to secure the bomb at any cost. Captain McKay and his crew soon discover that t hey are being deceived, and that everyone's life is in danger. Mi strust, deceit, and spine-chilling action flow from every page of this story.?Anita Short, W. T. Woodson High School, Fairfax, VA Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From K irkus Reviews Retired airline and Air Force pilot Nance improves steadily, this time borrowing from his own plot for Pandora's Clo ck (1995) but leaving out the romance. Former Navy pilot Scott Mc Kay has started up his own airline for hauling air freight. Thing s are going well--until he discovers while in flight that a crate he's carrying holds an armed 20-megaton hydrogen bomb hitched to a deadly new device that will send out an electromagnetic shock wave. The wave's superpulse will turn every computer chip in the US into stone. Planes now aloft will be helpless, and the entire financial and banking system will collapse, bringing on worldwide chaos. All defense systems as well will destruct--and as many as a million people may die when the bomb goes off with the force o f a hundred Hiroshimas. McKay discovers this horror while circlin g Washington, D.C., awaiting landing instructions. Will D.C. be w iped out and uninhabitable for a thousand years? McKay has two cr ew members on board and two passengers. One is Vivian Henry, whos e late husband, a disgruntled defense physicist, created the bomb and sealed it into a steel case armed with sensors that will set it off should its case be tampered with. Simultaneously, the wor st hurricane in recorded history is chewing up the East Coast lik e a titanic lawnmower. The other passenger is Doctor Linda McCoy, a hugely intelligent meteorologist just back from Antarctica and riding herd on some secret instruments of her own in the hold. M eanwhile, the FBI, the Air Force, defense experts, and the Presid ent try to get McKay to land so that bomb experts can dismantle t he ticking bomb. McKay refuses- -the bomb is beyond dismantling-- and heads out to sea into the storm. Then things get worse . . . . Nothing new, maybe, but a thriller that grips and absolutely do esn't let go. (First printing of 100,000) -- Copyright ?1996, Kir kus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Library Journal Even from the grave, nuclear physicist Rogers Henry is d etermined to castigate the wife who left him and the nation that devalued his services. Two years after her ex-husband's death, Vi vian Henry agrees to accompany his lifelong project to the Pentag on. She doesn't know that what she is transporting is a thermonuc lear bomb that, upon detonation, will kill millions and immobiliz e U.S. computer, telecommunication, financial, and transportation systems. While airborne, the ex-navy pilot at the controls and t he hapless passengers discover the bomb when it diabolically info rms them that it will explode in three and a half hours. Nance (P andora's Clock, Doubleday, 1995) weaves a tight narrative and eff ectively builds the suspense. An old-fashioned page-turner recomm ended for public-library fiction collections. -?Maria A. Perez-St able, Western Michigan Univ. Libs., Kalamazoo Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist Nance's bes t-selling thriller, Pandora's Clock , which concerned an airline passenger afflicted with a deadly virus, recently aired as a tele vision miniseries. Nance, an experienced air-force and commercial pilot as well as a broadcast journalist (including serving as av iation consultant for ABC News), brings his aviation expertise on ce more to bear on another terrifying fictional work that could h ave been taken from today's headlines. For his livelihood, pilot and small businessman Scott McKay leases a converted Boeing 727 a nd ferries cargo across the country, much like a truck driver. On one particular flight, however, he comes to realize that his car go hold contains a thermonuclear bomb: a modern instrument of des truction dubbed the Medusa device and capable of an incredible ac t of terrorism--destroying every computer chip within a very wide radius. The effort to incapacitate the bomb before it can detona te is the warp and woof of an exciting plot that offers hours of pure diversion. Brad Hooper --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review So compelling it's tough to look away. --People magazine Master of aviation suspen se John J. Nance produces another high-flying thriller....BRILLIA NT...He moves the action effortlessly from place to place, buildi ng the tension and heightening the drama...NANCE DELIVERS PLENTY OF PUNCH. --The Orange County Register This book's more addictiv e than morphine, a proverbial page-turner. --Dallas Morning News --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of t his title. From the Publisher A new novel of airborne suspense b y the bestselling author of Pandora's Clock! Praise for John J. Nance's Books: Nance combines exquisite suspense and cardiac-arr est action to create the ultimate flying adventure. If you read t his on an airliner, you're a lot braver than I am. --Stephen Coon ts, author of Final Flight and The Minotaur Pandora's Clock will do for planes what the movie Speed did for buses. John Nance's r iveting thriller is a fast, fun read that never lets up. --Philli p Margolin, author of Gone, But Not Forgotten and The Burning Man Fasten your seat belts! John Nance turns air disaster into a gr ipping investigative novel. His professional skills as both pilot and writer combine to make Final Approach a compelling and all-t oo-realistic story. --James Michener --This text refers to an o ut of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Insid e Flap Everything in America is about to stop... 10,000 feet over Washington, D.C.! With the same breathtaking heroics that broug ht his bestselling Pandora's Clock international acclaim, John J. Nance once again spins today's headlines--this time about the th reat of nuclear terrorism--into an all-too-realistic story of hig h-flying suspense. For thirty-year-old captain Scott McKay, the transport run from Miami to Denver will give him the money he de sperately needs to keep his fledgling air cargo company flying. W hen a mysterious crate is discovered on his plane, however, McKay is ordered to abandon his present course and fly the crate and i ts owner, Vivian Henry, to Washington, D.C., before going to Denv er. McKay takes the forced detour in stride--until a strange nois e comes from deep inside the crate. It is the voice of Vivian's h usband, Dr. Rogers Henry, warning that the shipment they are carr ying is actually a fully armed Medusa device, a thermonuclear bom b that can destroy every computer chip over an entire continent, and blast the Silicon Age back to the Stone Age. And it is set to go off within hours. As panic spreads from the small community of nuclear scientists who used to work for Dr. Rogers Henry to t he White House and eventually to the general public, a group of r ogue military officers conspires to disobey the President's order s and secure the technology of the Medusa device, whatever the co st. Will Captain McKay and his crew trust their own instincts to dispose of the bomb, or will they let a misguided government dict ate their actions? Using his inside knowledge of the airline in dustry, as well as his expertise as a pilot, John J. Nance has on ce again turned our worst fears into a terrifyingly realistic sto ry. Medusa's Child will take readers into the center of a spine-t ingling crisis. --This text refers to an out of print or unavaila ble edition of this title. About the Author John J. Nance, aviat ion analyst for ABC News and a familiar face on Good Morning Amer ica, is the author of several bestselling novels including Fire F light, Skyhook, Turbulence, and Orbit. Two of his novels, Pandora 's Clock and Medusa's Child, have been made into highly successfu l television miniseries. A lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air For ce Reserve, Nance is a decorated pilot veteran of Vietnam and Ope rations Desert Storm/Desert Shield. He lives in Washington State. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reser ved. IN FLIGHT--SCOTAIR 50--4:05 P.M. EDT The voice of the Washi ngton Approach controller was terse. ScotAir Fifty, I've been ha nded a telephone number in Miami you're to call immediately. Do y ou have a phone aboard? Scott felt off balance. He'd never heard an air traffic controller order a pilot to make an airborne call . He wished Doc was back in the cockpit. Scott punched the trans mit button. Ah, roger, ScotAir Fifty does have a telephone. Who's requesting the call? I don't know, ScotAir, the controller bega n, ...but you need to call this number immediately. I'm told it's an emergency. The controller relayed the number and Scott punch ed it into the Flitephone handset, his mind whirling through a va riety of apocalyptic possibilities as a man answered on the other end, listened to the name ScotAir, and identified himself as an FBI agent. Scott felt himself shudder within. We've been trying to find you, ScotAir. You were in Miami this morning at the same time some undocumented hazardous material was shipped out. We thi nk that material may be on board your aircraft. The memory of Li nda McCoy's pushiness in getting her two pallets aboard suddenly flooded Scott's mind, almost blocking the agent's words. They had n't really verified her identity, had they? They hadn't even insp ected her pallets, once he'd agreed to take them. We need you to land immediately, the agent said. The visual memory of Mrs. Hen ry's single pallet also crossed his mind. He knew even less about her. Scott realized the agent was still talking, and he wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry, say again. There was a pause in Mi ami. I said, we'll have the appropriate people ready to meet you to examine what you've got on board. You haven't unloaded anythin g since you left Miami, have you? Suddenly, for some reason, he felt guilty. All they'd done wrong was load someone else's pallet , and that was an innocent mistake. Yet the fact that an FBI agen t was asking him questions at all was vaguely terrifying. No, si r, Scott answered, It's all still aboard, but I need to know, are we in any danger, if what you're looking for is really here? Si lence. Sir? Did you hear me? He could hear the phone being shif ted from one hand to another in Miami, and at last the FBI agent' s voice returned. Ah, Captain, I doubt you're in any immediate da nger, but I can't say for certain. If the...items...we're looking for are on board your airplane, it depends on how well they're, ah, packaged. More links and connections raced through his head, none of them comforting. Miami...drug dealers...drug-making equ ipment...hazardous, carcinogenic chemicals...what if we're carryi ng illegal drugs... Scott heard his own voice as if it were dise mbodied. Okay. Where do you want us to land? We're waiting to get into National, but right now it's closed. There was a worrisome hesitation on the other end. Scott could hear voices before the agent spoke into the handset again. Okay, stay in your holding p attern. What phone are you on? Scott passed the number of the ai rcraft's Flitephone. Keep the li, Pan Books, 1998, 2.5, CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset the ir coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform th e scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, becau se of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodde d at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the score rs' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous- skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his unifor m, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Mar quis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enf orce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimm ed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a sof t touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but cl early the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and sco ring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slas hed through the lane, around and through and over much larger pla yers, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if all owed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirt y. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle Mc Avoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be ov er, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen , lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right m ind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the k ids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ig nore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he w as fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because th at's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the you th league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered th rough the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scor ed again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve w ith two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the d oor and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeab le because he was white. There were no white players on either te am. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench c oat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some vari ety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym , and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probab ly a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. I t would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspiciou s look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle o n Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it becam e uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ba ll, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, sho ok his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed b ack on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the m isery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyo nd him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, n ot at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old l aw student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or procl ivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all ind ications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement shou ld have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that wa y with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particu larly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to di g deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thi rty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd th rown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quic kly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was no w accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn 't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. T he decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully ov er. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as me aningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As K yle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outsi de? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle 's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped wit h it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permane nt stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right t hings-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were c hanging clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketba ll because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside t he locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There woul d be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncl e, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there w as another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that ope ned into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the f amilies and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a q uick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he ma de his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alle y, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had b een plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The tem perature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wedne sday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale L aw School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn 't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red J eep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyl e, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks an d his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing we re wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tri ed to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong , he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said wh en Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and to ok in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd bee n watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediate ly saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always wo rked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That 's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and fl ipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as al l the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten yea rs older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease . Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Bot h northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just fo llow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threa tening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs . Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten min utes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwic h shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tr icks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuin e. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. Wha t's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. G inyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body concede d- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable je rk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullsh it! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watche d their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was t he FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Crimina l Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interroga tion. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his fat her? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginya rd turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad a ctor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the ch ase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart -ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call you r old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life y ou have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyl e managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want e very word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. Th ey jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching tre nch coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside . He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought abo ut driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham P ublished by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover ed ition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publish ers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offer s an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal , which served as a platform for his concerns about the corruptin g effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law S chool student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, unti l shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could reviv e a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in ne ed, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. M cAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside informati, CENTURY, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781846050923

Pasta dura

Penguin UK. Very Good. 5.08 x 1.3 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2003. 544 pages. <br>Samuel Pepys is the astonishing biography by bests elling author Claire Tomalin 2002 WHITBREAD BOOK O… Más…

Penguin UK. Very Good. 5.08 x 1.3 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2003. 544 pages. <br>Samuel Pepys is the astonishing biography by bests elling author Claire Tomalin 2002 WHITBREAD BOOK OF THE YEAR 'Imm aculately well done. Tomalin has managed to unearth a wealth of m aterial about the uncharted life of Samuel Pepys' Craig Brown, Ma il on Sunday 'Sex, drink, plague, fire, music, marital conflict, the fall of kings, corruption and courage in public life, wars, n avies, public execution, incarceration in the Tower: Samuel Pepys 's life is full of irresistible material, and Claire Tomalin seiz es it with both hands. Fast, vivid, accessible' Hermione Lee, Gua rdian 'A rich, thoughtful and deeply satisfying account. It takes us behind and beyond the diary - which means that, on finishing it, we can reread the diary with greater pleasure and understandi ng then ever before' Noel Malcolm, Evening Standard 'In Claire To malin, Pepys has found the biographer he deserves. Her perceptive , level-headed book finally restores to the life of the diarist i ts weight and dignity' Lisa Jardine, New Statesman 'A great achie vement and a huge pleasure. A vivid chronicle of contemporary his tory seen through the all too human preoccupations of this ordina ry and extraordinary man' Diana Souhami, Independent From the acc laimed author of Charles Dickens: A Life and The Invisible Woman, this celebrated biography casts new light on the remarkable diar ies of Pepys and brings his story vividly to life once more. Clai re Tomalin is the award-winning author of eight highly acclaimed biographies, including: The Life and Death of Mary Wollstonecraft ; Shelley and His World; Katherine Mansfield: A Secret Life; The Invisible Woman: The Story of Nelly Ternan and Charles Dickens; M rs Jordan's Profession; Jane Austen: A Life; Samuel Pepys: The Un equalled Self; Thomas Hardy: The Time-Torn Man and, most recently , Charles Dickens: A Life. A former literary editor of the New St atesman and the Sunday Times, she is married to the playwright an d novelist Michael Frayn. Editorial Reviews Review The Pepys we know lived for only nine years and five months. Tomalin gives us the rest of the man, and also a startling new way to read him. - Thomas Mallon, The New Yorker Tomalin not only brings him back t o vibrant life, but makes a powerful case that he's more central, more 'relevant' than we ever imagined . . . She has restored to us the whole Pepys. -Charles McGrath, New York Times Book Review, front cover Brilliantly believable . . . It takes an exceptiona l biographer to go so confidently beyond the apparent totality of daily experience presented in Pepys's Diary . . . Claire Tomalin 's life [of Pepys] is a magnificent triumph. Her research has bee n not just scrupulously thorough but dazzlingly imaginative. -Phi lip Hensher, Atlantic Monthly Tomalin's writing is as supple and lively as Pepys's own, and by fleshing out the backdrop to his D iary writings, she has created the perfect bookend to his own rol licking self-portrait . . . The best work on Pepys since Robert L ouis Stevenson's classic essay, published in 1881. -Michiko Kakut ani, New York Times Our greatest diarist, analyzed by one of our greatest biographers. Tomalin's flawless research and trademark empathy with her subjects should make this portrait of one of the most fascinating characters of 17th-century England the best bio graphy of the autumn. -Caroline Gascoigne, Sunday Times (U.K.) I mmaculately well done. She writes with such beautiful clarity, al ways empathetic . . . There is about this biography a wisdom, an unforced feeling that the biographer has a sense of the way life is . . . Like all great biographies, Samuel Pepys: The Unequalled Self has a hint of the love letter about it. And it is a love th at becomes contagious. -Craig Brown, The Mail on Sunday (U.K.) A bout the Author Claire Tomalin was literary editor of the New Sta tesman then the Sunday Times before leaving to become a full-time writer. Her first book, The Life and Death of Mary Wollstonecraf t, won the Whitbread First Book Award, and she has since written a number of highly acclaimed and bestselling biographies. They in clude Jane Austen: A Life, The Invisible Woman, a definitive acco unt of Dickens' relationship with the actress Ellen Ternan, which won three major literary awards, and Samuel Pepys: The Unequalle d Self was Whitbread Book of the Year in 2002. In the highly accl aimed Charles Dickens: A Life, she presents a full-scale biograph y of our greatest novelist. She is married to the writer Michael Frayn. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Part One 1633-1668 The Elected Son He was born in London, above the shop, just off Fleet Street, in Salisbury Court, where his f ather John Pepys ran a tailoring business, one of many serving th e lawyers living in the area. The house backed on to the parish c hurch of St. Bride's, where all the babies of the family were chr istened and two were already buried in the churchyard; when he wa s a man, Pepys still kept the thought in his mind of my young bro thers and sisters laid in the ground outside the house of his you th. Salisbury Court was an open space surrounded by a mixture of small houses like John Pepys's and large ones, once the abodes of bishops and ambassadors, with gardens; it was entered through na rrow lanes, one from Fleet Street opposite Shoe Lane, another in the south-west corner leading into Water Lane and so down to the Thames and river steps fifty yards below. The south-facing slope above the river was a good place to live; people had been settled here since Roman times, and when Pepys was born in 1633 a Christ ian church had stood on the spot for at least five hundred years. A block to the east was the Fleet River, with the pink brick cre nellated walls of Bridewell rising beside it; it had been built a s a palace by King Henry VIII and deteriorated into a prison for vagrants, homeless children and street women, known to the locals as Bridewell Birds. A footbridge spanned the Fleet between Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill, and from St. Bride's you could look acr oss its deep valley-much deeper then than it is today-with houses crammed up both sides in a maze of courts and alleys, to old St. Paul's rising on its hill above the City. This was the western edge of the City, and Pepys's first playground. The City was prou d of being the most populous in the world; it had something like 130,000 inhabitants, and in the whole country there were only abo ut five million. If you went west from Salisbury Court along Flee t Street, you came to the gardens of the Temple lawyers, with the ir groves of trees, formal beds and walks, and further west along the Strand you were out of the City, on the way to Whitehall and Westminster. To the east was the only bridge-London Bridge, almo st as old as St. Bride's Church, with its nineteen arches and its spikes on which traitors' heads were stuck-and then the Tower. T he river, without embankments, was very wide, with a sloping shor e at low tide, a place for children to explore; and the great hou ses of the aristocracy were strung along the riverside, each with its own watergate. The best way to get about fast in London was by boat. The Pepys house centred round the shop and cutting room , with their shelves, stools and drawers, cutting board and looki ng-glass. At the back the kitchen opened into a yard, and in the cellar were the washing tubs and coal hole, with a lock-up into w hich troublesome children or maids might be put for punishment. T he stairs to the living quarters went up at the back. Timber-fram ed, tall and narrow, with a jetty sticking out over the street at the front, set tight against its neighbours, with a garret under the steeply pitched roof: this was the pattern of ordinary Londo n houses. On the first floor the parlour doubled as dining room. Above there were two bedrooms, each with a small closet or study opening off it, and high beds with red or purple curtains. In one of these Pepys was born and spent his first weeks. Older childre n, maids and apprentices slept on the third floor-Pepys mentions the little chamber, three storeys high-or in the garret, or in tr undle beds, kept in most of the rooms, including the shop and the parlour; sometimes they bedded down in the kitchen for warmth. In one of the bedrooms was a virginals, the neat, box-like harpsi chord of the period. John Pepys was musical: he played the bass v iol, and his eldest daughter, six-year-old Mary, could have start ed at the keyboard by the time Sam was born. Singing and musical instruments-viol, violin, lute, virginals, flageolet (a recorder of sorts)-were an essential part of family life, and music became the child's passion.Music was not only in the family but literal ly in the air for many months during the first year of Sam's life . It came from one of the large houses in Salisbury Court, in whi ch a young and ambitious lawyer, Bulstrode Whitelocke, was prepar ing a masque to be performed before King Charles and his queen. W hitelocke and Edward Hyde, together representing the Middle Templ e, had joined with members of the other three Inns of Court in a plan to celebrate Candlemas in a great masque to be produced befo re the Court at Whitehall, and Whitelocke, who had some skill as a composer, was in charge of the music. He assembled a large grou p of singers, including some from the Queen's Chapel, and caused them all to meet in practise at his house in Salisbury Court wher e he . . . had sometimes 40 lutes, besides other instruments and voices, in consort together. The noise must have been terrific. O n the day of the performance, 2 February 1634, three weeks before Pepys's first birthday, the masquers, in costumes of silver, cri mson and blue, some riding plumed horses draped in cloth of silve r, some carrying flaming torches, processed along Holborn and Cha ncery Lane, through Temple Bar to Charing Cross and so to the Ban queting House. Inigo Jones was the designer, and the poet Thomas Carew wrote the words.The event was such a success that Queen Hen rietta Maria asked for a repeat performance at the Merchant Taylo rs' Hall in the City. This was done, and gave great contentment t o their Majesties and no less to the Citizens, especially the you nger sort of them. It may be too much to imagine the infant Pepys held up to enjoy the festivities among the many Londoners agog a t the sound of the music and the brilliant show of the young lawy ers; but music, theatre, celebration, processions, ritual and fin e clothes delighted him throughout his life. A tailor's family w as likely to be well dressed. There was a looking-glass upstairs, in which the children could look at themselves in imitation of t he customers below and make themselves fine with scraps of cloth. But clothes, fine or plain, were hard to keep clean in London. E very household burnt coal brought from Newcastle by sea in its fi replaces and cooking ranges. So did the brewers and dyers, the br ick-makers up the Tottenham Court Road, the ubiquitous soap and s alt boilers. The smoke from their chimneys made the air dark, cov ering every surface with sooty grime. There were days when a clou d of smoke half a mile high and twenty miles wide could be seen o ver the city from the Epsom Downs. Londoners spat black. Wall han gings, pictures and clothes turned yellow and brown like leaves i n autumn, and winter undervests, sewn on for the season against t he cold, were the colour of mud by the time spring arrived. Hair was expected to look after itself; John Evelyn made a special not e in his diary in August 1653 that he was going to experiment wit h an annual hair wash. But every house, every family enjoyed its own smell, to which father, mother, children, apprentices, maids and pets all contributed, a rich brew of hair, bod- ies, sweat an d other emissions, bedclothes, cooking, whatever food was lying a bout, whatever dirty linen had been piled up for the monthly wash , whatever chamber pots were waiting to be emptied into yard or s treet. Home meant the familiar reek which everyone breathed. The smell of the house might strike a new maid as alien, but she woul d quickly become part of the atmosphere herself. When Pepys wrote of his family, meaning not blood relations but everyone who live d in his household-the Latin word familia has this sense-we under stand that, as a group sharing the same rooms, they also comforta bly shared the same smell. His mother was a connoisseur of dirty linen, having worked as a washmaid in a grand household before h er marriage. It was not a bad preparation for eleven children in fourteen years; the babies followed one another so fast that she was always either nursing or expecting one, and each made its con tribution to the monthly washing day. Samuel was her fifth, hardl y more than a year after John. Paulina and Esther, who preceded h im, were both dead before he was born, but by the time he was fiv e there would be four more, Thomas, Sarah, Jacob and Robert, of w hom only Tom would live to grow up. God's system was inefficient and depressing. A doc- tor writing in 1636 regretted that humans did not reproduce like trees, without the trivial and vulgar way of coition.This was Sir Thomas Browne. He might have added a furt her expression of regret at the wearing out of so much health and happiness, but he failed to, and instead overcame his distaste a t the triviality of the act often enough to father twelve childre n on his wife. Pepys's mother must have been always busy, tired, distracted or grieving for the deaths of his brothers and sisters when he was a child: soon worn out, physically and emotionally. Pepys's birthday was on 23 February and his baptism by the vicar of St. Bride's, James Palmer, is recorded on 3 March 1632/3, Sam uell sonn to John Peapis wyef Margaret.The same year, in October, the queen gave birth across town at St. James's Palace to her se cond son, James. After his christening, he was given the title of duke of York. He had a staff of officials paid to rock his cradl e; and, unthinkable as it would have seemed then, he was destined to become one of Sam Pepys's close associates. Another boy who g rew up to influence Sam's life, Anthony Ashley Cooper, was also l iving off Fleet Street, in Three Cranes Court, from 1631 to 1635. Sam's brother Tom was born in the summer of 1634, making a trio of little Pepys boys, John, Sam and Tom, and a sister Sarah the f ollowing summer. Other tailoring families in the district produce d playmates. There were the Cumberlands, also in Salisbury Court, with, Penguin UK, 2003, 3, CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekl y Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offers an acti on-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 19 91's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal, which s erved as a platform for his concerns about the corrupting effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law School stu dent, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, until shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could revive a five- year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in need, McAvo y accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershin g, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. McAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside in formation on the case. Readers should be prepared for some predic table twists, an ending with some unwarranted ambiguity and some unconvincing details (the idea that a secret file room in a high stakes litigation case would be closed from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a. m. every night stretches credulity to the breaking point). Still, Grisham devotees should be satisfied, even if this is one of his lesser works. Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review It's a damned good read. This is Grisham returning to what he knows best. * Scotland on Sunday * G risham paints a fascinating picture. Vintage Grisham, with a real ly believable ending * The Guardian * Tense and exciting * Evenin g Standard * Easily his most recognisably 'back to form' novel si nce The Firm. Grisham has returned with a vengeance to his tradem ark territory: the grim world of corporate law and the sinister m achinations of the men on its fringes. * The Times * In typical G risham fashion it does hurtle along at a decent clip * London Lit e * --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Booklist E ditor of the Yale Law Journal, recipient of job offers from the b est Wall Street firms, a wonderful (but not too serious) girl by his side--Kyle McAvoy is ready to take on the world. Until, that is, Bennie Wright, an unsavory private investigator, walks into h is life and announces that Kyle will be doing Bennie's bidding fo r the foreseeable future. Why would Kyle put his fate into the ha nds of Bennie and his unsavory crew? Because they know a secret a bout Kyle--an incident involving a fraternity party gone bad--tha t Kyle thought was buried and forgotten. If the story gets out, K yle's career could be ruined, so he does as Bennie demands and ac cepts a position with one of Wall Street's two largest firms. Kyl e's assignment is to spy on his new employer on behalf of Bennie' s client, the other premier Wall Street firm, as the two legal gi ants face off in the largest case involving defense contracts in U.S. history. Kyle must play along if he wants to get out alive. Just like Mitch McDeere in Grisham's break-out novel, The Firm (1 991), Kyle is at once too naive and too cocky, daring to try to o utwit forces much more powerful than he. Grisham knows how to pro duce a page-turner, that's for sure, and while his plot this time stretches believability a bit, he'll hook readers with the David -against-Goliath angle. --This text refers to the paperback editi on. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid pl ay at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset their coaches by skipping practice or viol ating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report bef ore the game and inform the scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't p lay much, if at all, because of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle lo oked down the bench, nodded at a somber and pouting little boy na med Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, M arquis walked to the scorers' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous-skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his uniform, foul language. In fact, after ten we eks and fifteen games, Marquis had broken every one of the few ru les his coach tried to enforce. Coach Kyle had long since realize d that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, an d for that reason he trimmed his list and fought the temptation t o add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten i nner- city kids with a soft touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marqu is was only eleven, but clearly the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and scoring over passing and defending, and wi thin two minutes he'd slashed through the lane, around and throug h and over much larger players, and scored six points. His averag e was fourteen, and if allowed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirty. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle McAvoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be over, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen, lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right mind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the kids, he'd said to himself a thousand ti mes, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothere d to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ignore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he was fed up. He'd done his community serv ice, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelli ng occasionally because that's what coaches are supposed to do. H e looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the youth league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered through the bleachers, all waiting for th e final horn. Marquis scored again. No one applauded. The Red Kni ghts were down by twelve with two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the door and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeable because he was white. There were no white players on either team. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench coat that announced the presence of an a gent or a cop of some variety. Coach Kyle happened to see the m an when he entered the gym, and he thought to himself that the gu y was out of place. Probably a detective of some sort, maybe a na rc looking for a dealer. It would not be the first arrest in or a round the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers , he cast a long suspicious look at the Red Knights' bench, and h is eyes seemed to settle on Coach Kyle, who returned the stare fo r a second before it became uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly fr om near mid- court, air ball, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, shook his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed back on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the misery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyond him, and in the background was the a gent/cop, still staring, not at the action but at the coach. Fo r a twenty-five-year-old law student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or proclivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all indications of being employed by some bran ch of law enforcement should have caused no concern whatsoever. B ut it never worked that way with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and sta te troopers didn't particularly bother him. They were paid to sim ply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agen ts, the ones trained to dig deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thirty seconds to go and Marquis was argui ng with a referee. He'd thrown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earli er and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, w ho never listened. He quickly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was now accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, h e was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early Febr uary, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he swea ting? The agent/cop hadn't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. The decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully over. One team cheered, and one team real ly didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and G ood game, good game, as meaningless to twelve- year- olds as it i s to college players. As Kyle congratulated the opposing coach, h e glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outside? Of course it was paranoia, but para noia had settled into Kyle's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped with it, and moved on. The Red Knights r egrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space und er the sagging and permanent stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right things-nice effort, good hustle, our gam e is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were changing clothes and hardly listening. T hey were tired of basketball because they were tired of losing, a nd of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too youn g, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who w ere there waited outside the locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his com munity service. There would be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncle, a twenty-two year-old former all-sta te player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coac h Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. Fro m the locker room, there was another door that led to a dark narr ow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way t o an outside door that opened into an alley. Kyle was not the fir st coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he want ed to avoid not only the families and their complaints but also t he agent/ cop. He said a quick goodbye to his boys, and as they f led the locker room, he made his escape. In a matter of seconds h e was outside, in the alley, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had been plowed, and the sidewalk was icy an d barely passable. The temperature was somewhere far below freezi ng. It was 8:30 on a Wednesday, and he was headed for the law jou rnal offices at the Yale Law School, where he would work until mi dnight at least. He didn't make it. The agent was leaning aga inst the fender of a red Jeep Cherokee that was parked parallel o n the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyle, the true owner. Though his feet su ddenly felt like bricks and his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing were wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tried to think clearly, but they've done t heir homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong, he said again and again. Tough game , Coach, the agent said when Kyle was ten feet away and slowing d own. Kyle stopped and took in the thick young man with red chee ks and red bangs who'd been watching him in the gym. Can I help y ou? he said, and immediately saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always worked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a p ocket, and as he said That's exactly what you can do, he pulled o ut a leather wallet and flipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as all the blood left his brain and he could n't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He wa s much thinner and ten years older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed ba dge presentation with ease. Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob a nd Nelson. Both Irish. Both northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle as ked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want t o, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. I f you leave, we'll just follow, Plant said as he stood from his s louch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campu s, do you? Are you threatening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was ba ck, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bea d or two ran down his ribs. Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten minutes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwich shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tricks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genui, CENTURY, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781846050923

Pasta dura

CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outst… Más…

CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset the ir coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform th e scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, becau se of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodde d at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the score rs' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous- skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his unifor m, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Mar quis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enf orce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimm ed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a sof t touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but cl early the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and sco ring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slas hed through the lane, around and through and over much larger pla yers, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if all owed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirt y. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle Mc Avoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be ov er, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen , lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right m ind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the k ids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ig nore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he w as fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because th at's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the you th league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered th rough the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scor ed again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve w ith two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the d oor and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeab le because he was white. There were no white players on either te am. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench c oat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some vari ety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym , and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probab ly a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. I t would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspiciou s look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle o n Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it becam e uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ba ll, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, sho ok his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed b ack on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the m isery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyo nd him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, n ot at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old l aw student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or procl ivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all ind ications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement shou ld have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that wa y with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particu larly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to di g deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thi rty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd th rown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quic kly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was no w accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn 't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. T he decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully ov er. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as me aningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As K yle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outsi de? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle 's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped wit h it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permane nt stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right t hings-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were c hanging clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketba ll because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside t he locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There woul d be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncl e, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there w as another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that ope ned into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the f amilies and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a q uick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he ma de his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alle y, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had b een plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The tem perature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wedne sday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale L aw School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn 't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red J eep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyl e, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks an d his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing we re wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tri ed to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong , he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said wh en Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and to ok in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd bee n watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediate ly saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always wo rked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That 's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and fl ipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as al l the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten yea rs older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease . Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Bot h northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just fo llow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threa tening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs . Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten min utes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwic h shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tr icks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuin e. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. Wha t's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. G inyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body concede d- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable je rk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullsh it! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watche d their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was t he FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Crimina l Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interroga tion. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his fat her? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginya rd turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad a ctor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the ch ase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart -ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call you r old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life y ou have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyl e managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want e very word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. Th ey jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching tre nch coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside . He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought abo ut driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham P ublished by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover ed ition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publish ers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offer s an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal , which served as a platform for his concerns about the corruptin g effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law S chool student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, unti l shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could reviv e a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in ne ed, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. M cAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside informati, CENTURY, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781846050923

Pasta dura

CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outst… Más…

CENTURY. Very Good. 6.38 x 1.38 x 9.45 inches. Hardcover. 2009. 384 pages. <br>It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're makin g him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past , a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night t hat secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromisi ng video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he n o longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailer s tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unplea sant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? I t is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the la rgest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this compa ny, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate i s vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekl y Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offers an acti on-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 19 91's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal, which s erved as a platform for his concerns about the corrupting effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law School stu dent, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, until shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could revive a five- year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in need, McAvo y accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershin g, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. McAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside in formation on the case. Readers should be prepared for some predic table twists, an ending with some unwarranted ambiguity and some unconvincing details (the idea that a secret file room in a high stakes litigation case would be closed from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a. m. every night stretches credulity to the breaking point). Still, Grisham devotees should be satisfied, even if this is one of his lesser works. Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review It's a damned good read. This is Grisham returning to what he knows best. * Scotland on Sunday * G risham paints a fascinating picture. Vintage Grisham, with a real ly believable ending * The Guardian * Tense and exciting * Evenin g Standard * Easily his most recognisably 'back to form' novel si nce The Firm. Grisham has returned with a vengeance to his tradem ark territory: the grim world of corporate law and the sinister m achinations of the men on its fringes. * The Times * In typical G risham fashion it does hurtle along at a decent clip * London Lit e * --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Booklist E ditor of the Yale Law Journal, recipient of job offers from the b est Wall Street firms, a wonderful (but not too serious) girl by his side--Kyle McAvoy is ready to take on the world. Until, that is, Bennie Wright, an unsavory private investigator, walks into h is life and announces that Kyle will be doing Bennie's bidding fo r the foreseeable future. Why would Kyle put his fate into the ha nds of Bennie and his unsavory crew? Because they know a secret a bout Kyle--an incident involving a fraternity party gone bad--tha t Kyle thought was buried and forgotten. If the story gets out, K yle's career could be ruined, so he does as Bennie demands and ac cepts a position with one of Wall Street's two largest firms. Kyl e's assignment is to spy on his new employer on behalf of Bennie' s client, the other premier Wall Street firm, as the two legal gi ants face off in the largest case involving defense contracts in U.S. history. Kyle must play along if he wants to get out alive. Just like Mitch McDeere in Grisham's break-out novel, The Firm (1 991), Kyle is at once too naive and too cocky, daring to try to o utwit forces much more powerful than he. Grisham knows how to pro duce a page-turner, that's for sure, and while his plot this time stretches believability a bit, he'll hook readers with the David -against-Goliath angle. --This text refers to the paperback editi on. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid pl ay at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset their coaches by skipping practice or viol ating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report bef ore the game and inform the scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't p lay much, if at all, because of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle lo oked down the bench, nodded at a somber and pouting little boy na med Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, M arquis walked to the scorers' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous-skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his uniform, foul language. In fact, after ten we eks and fifteen games, Marquis had broken every one of the few ru les his coach tried to enforce. Coach Kyle had long since realize d that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, an d for that reason he trimmed his list and fought the temptation t o add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten i nner- city kids with a soft touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marqu is was only eleven, but clearly the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and scoring over passing and defending, and wi thin two minutes he'd slashed through the lane, around and throug h and over much larger players, and scored six points. His averag e was fourteen, and if allowed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirty. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle McAvoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be over, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen, lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right mind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the kids, he'd said to himself a thousand ti mes, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothere d to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ignore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he was fed up. He'd done his community serv ice, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelli ng occasionally because that's what coaches are supposed to do. H e looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the youth league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered through the bleachers, all waiting for th e final horn. Marquis scored again. No one applauded. The Red Kni ghts were down by twelve with two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the door and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeable because he was white. There were no white players on either team. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench coat that announced the presence of an a gent or a cop of some variety. Coach Kyle happened to see the m an when he entered the gym, and he thought to himself that the gu y was out of place. Probably a detective of some sort, maybe a na rc looking for a dealer. It would not be the first arrest in or a round the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers , he cast a long suspicious look at the Red Knights' bench, and h is eyes seemed to settle on Coach Kyle, who returned the stare fo r a second before it became uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly fr om near mid- court, air ball, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, shook his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed back on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the misery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyond him, and in the background was the a gent/cop, still staring, not at the action but at the coach. Fo r a twenty-five-year-old law student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or proclivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all indications of being employed by some bran ch of law enforcement should have caused no concern whatsoever. B ut it never worked that way with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and sta te troopers didn't particularly bother him. They were paid to sim ply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agen ts, the ones trained to dig deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thirty seconds to go and Marquis was argui ng with a referee. He'd thrown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earli er and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, w ho never listened. He quickly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was now accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, h e was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early Febr uary, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he swea ting? The agent/cop hadn't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. The decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully over. One team cheered, and one team real ly didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and G ood game, good game, as meaningless to twelve- year- olds as it i s to college players. As Kyle congratulated the opposing coach, h e glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outside? Of course it was paranoia, but para noia had settled into Kyle's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped with it, and moved on. The Red Knights r egrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space und er the sagging and permanent stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right things-nice effort, good hustle, our gam e is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were changing clothes and hardly listening. T hey were tired of basketball because they were tired of losing, a nd of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too youn g, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who w ere there waited outside the locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his com munity service. There would be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncle, a twenty-two year-old former all-sta te player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coac h Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. Fro m the locker room, there was another door that led to a dark narr ow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way t o an outside door that opened into an alley. Kyle was not the fir st coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he want ed to avoid not only the families and their complaints but also t he agent/ cop. He said a quick goodbye to his boys, and as they f led the locker room, he made his escape. In a matter of seconds h e was outside, in the alley, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had been plowed, and the sidewalk was icy an d barely passable. The temperature was somewhere far below freezi ng. It was 8:30 on a Wednesday, and he was headed for the law jou rnal offices at the Yale Law School, where he would work until mi dnight at least. He didn't make it. The agent was leaning aga inst the fender of a red Jeep Cherokee that was parked parallel o n the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyle, the true owner. Though his feet su ddenly felt like bricks and his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing were wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tried to think clearly, but they've done t heir homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong, he said again and again. Tough game , Coach, the agent said when Kyle was ten feet away and slowing d own. Kyle stopped and took in the thick young man with red chee ks and red bangs who'd been watching him in the gym. Can I help y ou? he said, and immediately saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always worked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a p ocket, and as he said That's exactly what you can do, he pulled o ut a leather wallet and flipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as all the blood left his brain and he could n't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He wa s much thinner and ten years older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed ba dge presentation with ease. Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob a nd Nelson. Both Irish. Both northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle as ked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want t o, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. I f you leave, we'll just follow, Plant said as he stood from his s louch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campu s, do you? Are you threatening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was ba ck, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bea d or two ran down his ribs. Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten minutes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwich shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tricks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genui, CENTURY, 2009, 3<