Quarry In The Middle by Max Allan Collins
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

Quarry might just be one beautiful bastard, even if he manages to lose a few teeth along the way. The women certainly don’t seem to mind. Whether he goes for the more experienced ones, or the younger ones who managed to knock themselves on the head with the beauty branch, right before their mouths open wide, he certainly empties himself in a rather judicious fashion. He’s an equal opportunity sexual healer, who pounds Percocet with reckless abandon, and always manages to get his man…or woman.

He’s not described as a large man, but he takes up a lot of space, and he’s not afraid to shoot right between the eyes, and stuff the bloodied corpse in the back of his trunk. Like the pages of QUARRY IN THE MIDDLE that somehow manage to contain his presence, he rushes toward the end, even if he gets tripped up along the path of redemption. More than one evil presence fills the pages of this tall tale. Even if the penultimate conclusion ends in a mild whimper, I still managed to root rather hard for the home team, and wield my Louisville Slugger with pride and compassion and mild resentment.

The curves on these broads, though, nearly had me on my knees. One day, when I’m probably on my deathbed, sucking turnip juice through my respirator, as pale as a white house, with varicose veins and a twitch in my right and left hand, I’ll tell the nurse, in between gasps of breath, “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.” And then I’ll probably pass out for the next twelve hours, only to snore so hard that I wake myself up.

If you don’t mind a few motherfuckers between the pages, a damsel in distress or two who just happens to own more than one pair of sheer panties and maneuvers better than a Hoover, then you’ll feel right at home between this warm blanket. Even if you have to sleep with one eye open and a hard look over your shoulder whenever you maneuver down a dark alleyway. I’d say it’s well worth the tradeoff, and I’ll try not to wait so long to read the next one.

The First Quarry by Max Allan Collins
My Rating: 5/5 Stars

I’d say I’ve met my new favorite all American badass, and what I hope is the start of a beautiful friendship. Quarry is a former soldier that doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, and there are enough beautiful dames and plenty of broads to keep even a man like Quarry satisfied throughout the pages of this action packed novel. The abundance of death rivals most Shakespearean tragedies, and the prose packs more punches than a heavyweight bout. Quarry has a smart mouth, and he utilizes all of his weapons to perfection.

As described in THE FIRST QUARRY, he’s not an assuming man, but he’s not one that should be underestimated either. Multiple individuals make that mistake in the novel, and it’s often their last one. I delved into this novel so deeply I felt like I was the action star, and I was playing on the big screen at one of the local multiplexes. Needless to say, I was rather disappointed when I reached the end, and not because the end wasn’t satisfying. In fact, I was rather giddy with the prospect of reading eight more Quarry novels and knowing that there is a ninth one coming out early next year with a cover that looks every bit as scintillating as all the other Hard Case Crime novels out there.

Now I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the lovely ladies in this novel in more detail, and what a fine troop of women it is that trek through the pages of this noir tale. Dorothy Byron may have a few miles on her, but as Quarry puts it, he wouldn’t mind helping her with a few more. And with a mouth talented enough to suck a basketball through a garden hose, she’s every man’s wet dream. Annette, on the other hand, has dark hair and a dark complexion, and what she lacks in age-related experience, she more than makes up for in youthful enthusiasm and daddy issues.

If this is ever made into a movie, I’d like to put in my vote for a black and white film, and Hollywood needs to bring in the curvy women. Forget the stick thin models, let’s see some curvy broads and femme fatales with a sharp tongue or two. As for the rating (and in tribute to the late Roger Ebert who passed away two days ago), I’ll resort to the old Siskel and Ebert standard of two thumps up. Way up.

The Vengeful Virgin by Gil Brewer
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

If this novel teaches us anything, it’s this: Virgins are Dangerous. Very Dangerous. Sure, the prospect of bedding a virgin sounds glamorous, but let’s face it: It’s not really the stupendously fantastic experience that it might appear to be on first glance. Unless you’re a suicide bomber with a severe mental illness and the prospect of a twenty year lifespan to be followed by a severe and violent death appeals to you and you’re under the rather misguided notion that the pearly white gates hold forty virgins in white wedding dresses waiting to fulfill every one of your wildest fantasies, the thought quickly loses luster.

And as THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN aptly proves, these beautiful rosebuds can turn into what we in the medical community like to refer to as a “Stage Five Clinger.” When that happens, run, do not walk to the nearest exit, even if you’re missing a few clothes and possibly even your car keys. You can send the police back for the rest of your stash later, after the threat of imminent demise has worn off. If you’re lucky enough to have your car keys handy, and even luckier to have a buddy present, have him discreetly move toward the nearest exit right before you both run like hell.

The pages and my Kindle burst with dames and broads and TVs rammed into the ceiling and dialogue punctuated with colorful language. The pages overflowed with poignant prose and distressed damsels. But I like my hard-boiled novels filled with PIs and detectives, and these folks were relegated to secondary status. While I continuously flipped the pages and devoured this little gem rather quickly, I did feel a bit unfulfilled in the end, even with more than one dead body gracing the pages.

Shirley Angela and Grace (no last name) proved as intriguing as Jack Ruxton, and filled with more curves than a string of back country roads. The detours proved small and short lived with the story reaching its dramatic conclusion in rather explosive fashion. And while liking this story was rather easy, really liking this story might prove to be dangerous. So, in the end, I was rather glad I found this story, and also happy that I reached the end in just a few sittings.