By John D. MacDonald
"A knight in a bit tarnished armor, " "the considering man's Robin Hood, " McGee lives on my own on his boat, the Busted Flush. Rejecting the trendy international, adhering to a undying experience of honor and legal responsibility, he's extra and not more than a personal eye. From the writer of The Deep Blue Good-by. unique.
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Extra resources for Nightmare in Pink (Travis McGee, No. 2)
A bonethin blonde with a big bite mark on her sallow neck came arid leaned loosely upon me and said, "Cruddy bottles and tubes and pots. She had a teenyweeny lil talent, but it was honest. Right? Where do you fit in, buster boy? " "I'm in marine hardware," I said earnestly. " "Leisure-time America has taken to the waterways. " She unhooked herself and peered at me. "Oh dear Jesus," she said. " She worked thin lips as though considering spitting, and then drifted away, scratching herself. A round young man with blond bangs explained how he and a darling friend of his would each write exactly five pages of description of the same sexual experience, using the same typewriter and the same spacing, and then they would cut the pages in half, vertically, and paste them together, so that the left half of each page was written by a different person than the one who wrote the right half.
The squeamish ones shy away with sick face. They are the half women, the cringing delicate ones, who are never worth a damn in bed. A complete woman, more than any man could ever be, is involved in the realities, the elemental dynamics of life, the blood and pain and mess of it, cleaning and healing. In this is all the enduring lustiness of their purposes and their needs. "They hurt you," she said. This, too, is one of the elemental statements of life. " *** It was a big loft-apartment, hung with masks and action paintings, loud with chatter and Haitian beat, with meager lights, a sparce collection of junk furniture, scores of soiled pillows, forty or more guests.
Now I don't know what to do," I said. " Two young girls came out of the service el evator. The Negro backed the Lancia out of the rack and brought it up for them. He put the top down. They went droning up the ramp and away. A package delivery man came whistling in, greeted the old man, and went up the stairs to the service entrance to the foyer. I moved casually to the other side of the cage and looked at the parking chart with the slots labeled with the names of the users. "You won't find Thayer on there," the old man said.
Nightmare in Pink (Travis McGee, No. 2) by John D. MacDonald