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The Devil's Redhead

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Overview

In this masterfully written fiction debut, David Corbett combines a gripping crime story with a poignant tale of enduring love. Freelance photographer and wildcat smuggler Dan Abatangelo blows into Vegas to hit the tables and taste the night life. In his path waits Shel Beaudry, a knockout redhead with a smile that says, Gentlemen, start your engines. The attraction is instant–and soon the two are living the gypsy life on the West coast, where Dan captains a distribution ring for premium Thai marijuana, His credo "no guns, no gangsters, it's only money." But the trade is changing. Eager to get out, Dan plans one last run, judges poorly, and is betrayed by an underling and caught by the DEA. To secure light time for Shel and his crew, Dan takes the fall and pleads to ten years. Now, having served the full term, he emerges from prison a man with a hardened will but an unchanged heart. Though probation guidelines forbid any contact with Shel, a convicted felon, he sets his focus on one thing: finding her.

Editorial Reviews

Corbett thunders out of the gate with this gritty, moving debut about an ex-con's readjustment to freedom and his efforts to reunite with a former lover. Ten years after being sentenced for drug dealing, Dan Abatangelo emerges from prison with one thought in mind: finding Shel Beaudry and rekindling their relationship. Abatangelo is a changed man harder, less patient, prone to bursts of violence. Despite the advice of friends, who warn him that no good can come from reuniting with Shel, he pushes forward. He eventually finds her living north of San Francisco, beholden to a drug-addled, mentally unstable man named Frank Maas and the crime ring that employs him. When Shel and Abatangelo finally meet, she waffles on returning to him, but before he can convince her, a local drug war breaks out and Shel is taken hostage. Abatangelo responds with a daring rescue mission that takes him deep into his former world and ignites a gruesome chain of violence and death. Corbett, a San Francisco private investigator for more than a decade, brings a wealth of real-world detail to his swift, highly atmospheric narrative. His plotting could sometimes use a little more glue, and a few characters particularly newspaperman Bert Waxman border on caricature. But Corbett's prose dazzles, cutting across the page with passionate force, articulating themes of devotion, lost hope and spiritual renewal in an unforgiving world. Author appearances in the Bay Area. (July) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of David Corbett

David Corbett grew up in Columbus, Ohio, under the tutelage of Dominican nuns. He wants to assure them he is heartily sorry. He attended Ohio State University, where he won a poetry prize, earned Phi Beta Kappa honors his junior and senior years, and graduated cum laude with a degree in mathematics. These accomplishments were preceded by a year playing guitar and bass in a bar band, a four-sometimes-five-man outfit which took by storm such Midwestern Musical Meccas as: Kokomo, Indiana; Lima, Ohio; Beckley, West Virginia; and Midland, Michigan. This proved to be a formative time; he met many cocktail waitresses. He earned a fellowship in linguistics to the University of California at Berkeley, an opportunity he managed to squander in a matter of weeks. He left graduate school before being forcibly removed, after which he worked some might say floundered as a musician, comedian and actor before discovering that he was, in fact, a writer. In 1983, he joined the private investigation firm of Palladino & Sutherland in San Francisco, figuring the job might provide a little material here and there. He stayed thirteen years. During that time, he worked on a number of high-profile criminal and civil litigations, including the Lincoln Savings & Loan Case, The Cotton Club Murder Case, The People's Temple Trial, the Michael Jackson case and a RICO civil litigation brought by the Teamsters against former union leaders associated with organized crime. In 1995, he eased out of private investigation work to open a small law practice with his wife, Terri, specializing in probate litigation, estate planning and small business law. (For more on Terri, see Cesidia on this website.) She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in September, 2000, and in January, 2001, passed away at age 46. David continues to reside in northern California.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Random House

Filesize

830.11 KB

Number of Pages

416

eBook ISBN

9780345464323

Awards

  • Anthony Award

Excerpt from: The Devil's Redhead by David Corbett

Abatangelo stood on the porch of a safe house in western Oregon, watching with foreboding as an old Harley-Davidson shovelhead thundered up the winding timber road. The motorcycle turned into the long, steep drive to the house, spewing gravel and dust as it charged uphill beneath the pine shade.

Behind him, footsteps approached from inside. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as Shel materialized through shadow at the porch door screen.

ýKinda early,ý she said, nodding down the hill.

ýIsnýt it,ý he replied.

Abatangelo recognized the bike. It belonged to a man named Chaney, one of the local throwbacks heýd hired for the beach crew. Not the brightest bulb, but he wasnýt alone in that. This was probably the sorriest bunch Abatangelo had put together in years, comprised of Chaney and his wanna-be biker pals, plus an unruly and utterly toasted squad of pillheads from Beaverton and a few swacked Chinooks who at least knew the area. It underscored how right it was that this should be the last catch ever, a final nest egg against the looming unknown.

Chaney took the final crest of the hill at full throttle. The dogs, three spirited black Labs, barked from inside the fenced-in backyard as the bike left behind the thick shade of the drive and entered the hardpan firebreak surrounding the house. Chaney came garbed in denims and cowboy boots and aviator shades, with a black watch cap pulled down low on his head. Maybe all of twenty years old. Give him three years, Abatangelo thought, heýll be punching a clock for the timber companies, or whining because he isnýt, same as everybody else up here.

Revving the throttle three times, legs sprawled for balance, Chaney walked the hog up to the porch. Abatangelo waited till he killed the engine, then waited a little longer for the dust to settle. Pines on all sides of the house swayed in the morning breeze. In the distance a lumber truck broke the valley-wide silence, groaning in low gear up a steep grade.

ýWhat an unexpected pleasure,ý Abatangelo said, making sure Chaney caught his tone. This location wasnýt common knowledge, not among the hirelings. Only the Company captains knew where to find each other.