‘Seasoned To Kill,’ is an 80k word crime novel in a first person narrative. Robert Klayman, a middle aged former substitute teacher who’s now a struggling private detective, is back in form as he goes head to head with a crime syndicate, hopscotching the globe in search of bad guys and personal fortune while nursing a growing appetite for revenge. His thoughts and observations reflect a boiling inner turmoil that spices up plot and dialogue to make this a fun and informative read.
PR-Inside.com: 2016-01-12 19:44:35
Robert Klayman, former Los Angeles private investigator, is out of prison after doing time for gunplay on his last P.I. job. He’s blacklisted and can’t find work until he takes a job as a courier for the Russian mob and is suddenly on his way to Odessa, Ukraine, to help move stolen art rumored to be a Rembrandt. Klayman is on a secret mission as well - to avenge the bloody doings of a nazi war criminal. He’s double-crossed and his efforts thwarted, but with some luck he pulls through and learns from his hardscrabble lessons. Back in Los Angeles, he plots revenge and a stab at a fortune in gems. This time he’s off to Bogota, Colombia, to take on a drug lord who’s in cahoots with the same Russian mob.
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SEASONED TO KILL
G. J. Prager
November’s not the best time of year to be hopscotching around New York. It gets colder and grayer by the day, along with my disposition. But I was in town for a week visiting relatives, squeezing them for shelter and hot meals while I hit the pavement seeking out a business opportunity that had recently come my way. I was heading crosstown to seek out an elderly gentleman who lived on the East Side of Manhattan and was purported to be an art dealer of some renown.
My old friend and sometime consigliore, Zeke Stanton, put me up to the task back in L.A., knowing I’d been chomping at the bit for work ever since my parole ended. It was a half-baked but interesting proposition he put forward, and I agreed to come east to learn the fine details and get moving on it right away.
Zeke had known Mr. Howard through some of the Hollywood stars he’d worked for over the years. It seemed this gentleman once sang for a big band during the Swing Era but his career fizzled out after the War, so he took up accounting instead.
Zeke said he held a secret that could make someone very rich.
Mr. Howard lived in one of those pre-war buildings that cost a pretty penny in rent. I peeked through the large glass doors into the lobby; it was laid out in marble made dull by the years, and chandeliers with missing crystals hung from the ceiling. The place had seen better days, as did Mr. Howard, I assumed.
I rang him up on the intercom a number of times before he finally buzzed me in. The only thing missing from this setup was a pricey doorman. I took the elevator to the twelfth floor, and only after knocking a dozen or so times on his door did he get wind of me. I’d read somewhere that hearing was the first thing to go in old dogs and geezers. His footsteps progressed down a long foyer; I heard a few locks turn.
“Who is it?”
“Robert Klayman. We have an appointment.”
“Robert Klayman,” I repeated, loudly. “You just rang me up on the intercom.”
"Oh, yes, yes.”
He struggled to unclasp a chain and finally got the door open, greeting me with a big smile that showed off a full set of implants.
“Mr. Klayman, it’s nice to meet you,” he boomed in the melodic baritone that once graced the radio waves.
“Likewise, Mr. Howard. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
His mood was light and airy, a sharp cry from the senility he had projected thus far. But I sensed something sinister about him. His gracious facade hinted at a dark secret or two. He might even have some skeletons in his closet. For real. Nevertheless, this wasn’t missionary work I’d signed up for.
“Come on in,” he bellowed.
I stepped inside as he locked the door behind me, then followed him down a long and never-ending foyer; it was dark and narrow and reminded me of a crypt. I had the heebie-jeebies and we hadn’t even gotten started.
The place lit up once we got past the foyer. I sat down on a brown leather sofa that stretched across one side of a sunken living room. He sat stiffly on the edge of a matching leather chair tucked away in the corner, looking like he was about to get back up.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked generously.
“Coming right up.”
He proceeded to the kitchen while I waited, patiently observing the surroundings. He returned and handed me my drink; it was filled to the top, as was his own spirited concoction. It seemed we were headed for a long session together.
1818 Kelton Ave. Los Angeles, CA 90025
# 972 Words