Nobody knows better than Matthew Scudder how far down a person can sink in this city. A young prostitute named Kim knew it also-and she wanted out. Maybe Kim didn't deserve the life fate had dealt her. She surely didn't deserve her death. The alcoholic ex-cop turned p.i. was supposed to protect her, but someone slashed her to ribbons on a crumbling New York City waterfront pier. Now finding Kim's killer will be Scudder's penance. But there are lethal secrets hiding in the slain hooker's past that are far dirtier than her trade. And there are many ways of dying in this cruel and dangerous town-some quick and brutal ... and some agonizingly slow.
- Edgar Awards (Edgar Allan Poe Awards)
Showing 1-2 of the 2 most recent reviews
1 . OK, but not as good as all the reviews
Posted March 15, 2013 by kmcinnis , CalgaryThis book was just ok. It was not particularly spellbinding nor did it delve very deeply into the characters. I bought it based on the reviews, but found it did not live up to the glowing reviews. Again, an ok read, but not spectacular
2 . Great Read!
Posted November 14, 2010 by Book Fanatic , TorontoAn easy read with great characters. My first Lawrence Block book. I will be reading the rest of the Scudder novels in order. Can't wait!
September 30, 2000
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Excerpt from Eight Million Ways to Die by Lawrence Block
I saw her entrance. It would have been hard to miss. She had blonde hair that was close to white, the sort that's called towhead when it belongs to a child. Hers was plaited in heavy braids that she'd wrapped around her head and secured with pins. She had a high smooth forehead and prominent cheekbones and a mouth that was just a little too wide. In her western-style boots she must have run to six feet, most of her length in her legs. She was wearing designer jeans the color of burgundy and a short fur jacket the color of champagne. It had been raining on and off all day, and she wasn't carrying an umbrella or wearing anything on her head. Beads of water glinted like diamonds on her plaited hair.
She stood for a moment in the doorway getting her bearings. It was around three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, which is about as slow as it gets at Armstrong's. The lunch crowd was long gone and it was too early for the after-work people. In another fifteen minutes a couple of schoolteachers would stop in for a quick one, and then some nurses from Roosevelt Hospital whose shift ended at four, but for the moment there were three or four people at the bar and one couple finishing a carafe of wine at a front table and that was it. Except for me, of course, at my usual table in the rear.
She made me right away, and I caught the blue of her eyes all the way across the room. But she stopped at the bar to make sure before making her way between the tables to where I was sitting.
She said, "Mr. Scudder? I'm Kim Dakkinen. I'm a friend of Elaine Mardell's."
"She called me. Have a seat."