It happened in Hotel Duarte, a bullet length from the Great White Way, where life begins at eight-forty—and often ends by midnight with a couple of murders.For instance, the murder of a dumb welterweight who took his dive—and got paid off in lead.He was the brother of Johnny Killain’s gal, and that was pure bad luck for the fight mob—because Killain went in swinging with no referee to call him off.This great big deadly weapon of a man knew every dirty punch ever invented—and he would use them all to find the killer …

On the streets of a big city people smile and the lights are bright. But there is an alley world of darkness, double-dealing and death; in this world you need muscles and brains to take a step—and only the lucky ones live long.These two worlds meet in Hotel Duarte. Johnny Killain had a fistful of experience with both worlds—and with Hotel Duarte:The girl in 1109 was a schoolmarm from a small western town; but when she visited the city she left her morals at home, stripped off the drab veneer and became an armful of seething hell.The “salesman” in 1938 peddled death on the side—until he turned up cold ... very cold ... on a hook in the hotel icebox.Johnny had the keys to all the doors—to lust, love, greed ... and murder!

I had lived so long on the wrong side Of. the law I felt out of place as a special undercover agent for Uncle Sam. But I had no choice. One of the top brass in U.S. Intelligence had my number. So we made a deal-his silence for my services in tracking down and infiltrating a gang of Mid-East terrorists. Besides, I had a personal interest in this job. They had stolen $75,000 from me. So there I was-Earl Drake, bank robber and safecracker, playing on the side of the angels to outwit a bunch of fanatic Turks who were using their embassy for cover. I started with a Turkish delight. Talia. I conned her into leading me from the bedroom to their inner sanctum. I wished I hadn't. One look at the cold, bulbous eyes in the mound of flesh seated on the cushioned sofa before me told me I had stepped in the path of a rattlesnake. And if I couldn't charm it, I was a dead Drake.

    I had lived so long on the wrong side Of. the law I felt out of place as a special undercover agent for Uncle Sam. But I had no choice. One of the top brass in U.S. Intelligence had my number. So we made a deal-his silence for my services in tracking down and infiltrating a gang of Mid-East terrorists. Besides, I had a personal interest in this job. They had stolen $75,000 from me.     So there I was-Earl Drake, bank robber and safecracker, playing on the side of the angels to outwit a bunch of fanatic Turks who were using their embassy for cover.     I started with a Turkish delight. Talia. I conned her into leading me from the bedroom to their inner sanctum. I wished I hadn't.     One look at the cold, bulbous eyes in the mound of flesh seated on the cushioned sofa before me told me I had stepped in the path of a rattlesnake. And if I couldn't charm it, I was a dead Drake.

I was driving Hazel's niece, Melissa, to the airport when it happened. The car right behind me in the parking lot stopped and two men burst out. Crouched low, they came at me in a rush.The next thing I knew I was hit in the face with a stream of acid spray. I fell backward into the car. And that's the last I knew. Until I came to.The two guys were gone.And so was Melissa ...Operation Deathmaker ... a whiplash story of suspense, kidnapping, and murder, and a man who wouldn't give up—Drake.

The statue was knee-high, but it carried a fortune in gold and gems, plus centuries of fame in the art world. Everyone wanted it, and for some no price was too high—love, money, or murder ... Then Killain barged in.The redhead made the first pitch, and she had Killain twanging like a hopped-up fiddle—but not one note about the statue.The Blonde tried to bargain across a wide-screen bed, and she convinced Johnny that he should negotiate—but not about the statue.The Ape had a simple proposition: Hand over the statue or I'll beat in your head! This annoyed Johnny Killain.Much bloodshed and many murders later ...

Drake wasn't expecting visitors ...Which is why he was so wary when Hazel told him about the two strangers pulling into their drive.Drake watched as the two men got out of their car and walked toward them.They were Easterners; the cut of their business suits announced that.They didn't look like hoods.And they weren't cops. Drake had a built-in radar for fuzz.But there was something cop-like in the swaggering attitude.Whoever they were Drake didn't like them.Especially when they tried to get smart with Hazel.That's when Drake shot one in the arm.They quit fooling around then and handed Drake and envelope.It was from Washington. About his friend Karl Erikson in a Spanish prison.Drake wasn't thinking right then about his friend.He was thinking that some damn fool in Washington had blown his cover. And he had better get the hell away fast before his past caught up with him again.

I had a new face, a new name, and I had buried the past. Most of it, anyway. In unmarked graves. They had all been double-crossing bastards. Now I needed a new deal-something I could handle alone. Like a nice, quiet town… But somebody had other plans for me. Suddenly it was too late to back out- and too early to die…

It had been a year since I’d seen Hazel — six months in prison and six months running. We’d struck sparks from each other in the past. I had followed Hazel to her ranch, but now I wondered if it was over…. Finally she walked to my chair. She didn’t say anything. She took my hand and we went upstairs. Her bedroom was large and airy. She sat down and pulled off her boots. I stood in the center of the floor and watched while she straightened up again and whisked the belt from her Levi’s. She skinned them down over her hips and kicked them to one side. Her panties followed, and from her socks to the bottom edge of her buckskin vest there was just Hazel.

Drake had the assignment. He was sent to steal confidential files of the Mafia that had been stashed somewhere in a bank vault on an island in the Bahamas.Drake got the files.He also got himself trapped into a deadly private war—with the Syndicate, the local police, and a gang of freelance assassins.The only man who could help him out of the trap was being held incommunicado—behind the thick walls of a Bahamian prison.Breaking out of jail was something Drake knew about. Breaking in was something else again ...

    I had a new face, a new name, and I had buried the past. Most of it, anyway. In unmarked graves. They had all been double-crossing bastards.     Now I needed a new deal-something I could handle alone. Like a nice, quiet town…     But somebody had other plans for me.     Suddenly it was too late to back out- and too early to die…     Authentic Marlowe. Like his previous bestsellers, "Beautifully tough-minded, tensely plotted, vigorous, first-rate storytelling." - The New York Times Book Review.

It wasn't at all like Hazel to go off without a word to Drake. But she did. He tried calling her at the motel, but they said she'd just checked out. No, no messages.Drake figured he'd better do a little checking on his own.Which is why he went to see Hazel's business manager, Nate Pepperan, in Hudson. It had been Pepperman's phone call which had taken Hazel to Hudson in the first place. Nate would surely know where she was.But Nate wasn't telling. How could he, with his throat slit?Operation Whiplash—a tense, blood-pounding tale of mayhem, murder, and the Mafia with Drake, the Man with Nobody's Face.