Winner of the Anthony and Cacavity Awards for Best Novel • Nominated for the Edgar and Shamus Awards for Best Novel “Elvis Cole provides more fun for the reader than any L.A. private eye to come along in years.”--Joseph Wambaugh Meet Elvis Cole, L.A. private eye . . . He quotes Jiminy Cricket and carries a .38. He's a literate, wisecracking Vietnam vet who is determined never to grow up. Praise for The Monkey's Raincoat “Outstanding characters, tight plot, and scintillating prose style. . . . This fast-paced story speeds Elvis Cole to a chilling, heart-stopping ending.” -- Mystery Scene “Is Bob Crais good? Put it this way: if they're taking you out to put you against the firing squad wall, and you want to enjoy your last moments on earth, pass on the last cigarette and ask for an Elvis Cole novel.” --Harlan Ellison “Far and away the most satisfying private eye novel in years. Grab this one--it's a winner!” --Lawrence Block “The best private eye novel of the year . . . lots of action; bright, crisp dialogue; and sharply drawn characters.” -- The Denver Post “Robert B. Parker has some competition on his hands. . . . Elvis Cole is an appealing character and Crais's style is fresh and funny.” --Sue Grafton “In Crais, a new star has appeared on the private eye scene--a dazzling first novel.” --Tony Hillerman

Autorentext

Robert Crais is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty novels, sixteen of them featuring private investigator Elvis Cole and his laconic ex-cop partner, Joe Pike. Before writing his first novel, Crais spent several years writing scripts for such major television series as Hill Street Blues, Cagney & Lacey, Miami Vice, Quincy, Baretta, and* L.A. Law*. He received an Emmy nomination for his work on Hill Street Blues, and one of his standalone novels, Hostage, was made into a movie starring Bruce Willis. His novels have been translated into forty-two languages and are bestsellers around the world. A native of Louisiana, he lives in Los Angeles.

Klappentext

"Elvis Cole provides more fun for the reader than any L.A. private eye to come along in years."-Joseph Wambaugh

WINNER OF THE ANTHONY AND MACAVITY AWARDS FOR BEST NOVEL • NOMINATED FOR THE EDGAR AND SHAMUS AWARDS FOR BEST NOVEL

Meet Elvis Cole, L.A. Private Eye. . . . He quotes Jiminy Cricket and carries a .38. He's a literate, wisecracking Vietnam vet who is determined to never grow up.

When quiet Ellen Lang enters Elvis Cole's Disney-Deco office, she's lost something very valuable-her husband and her young son. The case seems simple enough, but Elvis isn't thrilled. Neither is his enigmatic partner and firepower, Joe Pike. Their search down the seamy side of Hollywood's studio lots and sculptured lawns soon leads them deep into a nasty netherworld of drugs, sex-and murder. Now the case is getting interesting, but it's also turned ugly. Because everybody, from cops to starlets to crooks, has declared war on Ellen and Elvis. For Ellen, it isn't Funtown anymore. For Elvis, it's just a living . . . He hopes.

Praise for The Monkey's Raincoat

"Outstanding characters, tight plot, and scintillating prose style. . . . This fast-paced story speeds Elvis Cole to a chilling, heart-stopping ending."-Mystery Scene

"Is Bob Crais good? Put it this way: if they're taking you out to put you against the firing squad wall, and you want to enjoy your last moments on earth, pass on the last cigarette and ask for an Elvis Cole novel."-Harlan Ellison

"Far and away the most satisfying private eye novel in years. Grab this one-it's a winner!"-Lawrence Block

"The best private eye novel of the year . . . lots of action; bright, crisp dialogue; and sharply drawn characters."-The Denver Post

"Robert B. Parker has some competition on his hands. . . . Elvis Cole is an appealing character and Crais's style is fresh and funny."-Sue Grafton

"In Crais, a new star has appeared on the private eye scene-a dazzling first novel."-Tony Hillerman

Leseprobe
1

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, this has nothing to do with you. Please excuse me.” Ellen Lang stood up out of the director’s chair across from my desk. I’d had it and its mate fitted in a nice pastel burgundy a year ago. The leather was broken in and soft and did not crack when she stood. “We shouldn’t have come here, Janet,” she said. “I feel awkward.”

Janet Simon said, “For Christ’s sake, Ellen, sit down.”

Ellen sat.

Janet Simon said, “Talk to him, Ellen. Eric says he’s very good at this sort of thing. He can help.”

Speak, Ellen. Alf. I rearranged two of the Jiminy Cricket figurines on my desk and wondered who the hell Eric was.

Ellen Lang adjusted her glasses, clutched her hands, and faded back into the director’s chair. She looked small, even though she wasn’t. Some people are like that. Janet Simon looked like a dancer who’d spent a lot of time at it. Lean and strong. Good bones. She wore tight beige cotton pants and a loose cotton shirt striped with shades of blue and pink and red. No panty line. I hoped she didn’t think I was déclassé in my white Levi’s and Hawaiian shirt. Maybe the shoulder holster made up for it.

Ellen Lang smiled at me, trying to feign comfort in an uncomfortable situation. She said, “Well, perhaps if you told me about yourself.”

Janet Simon sighed, giving it the weight of the world. “Mr. Cole is a private detective. He detects for money. You give him some money and he’ll find Mort. Then you can get Perry back and kiss off Mort and get your life together.” She said it like she was talking to someone with brain damage. Great legs, though.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said.

Janet Simon gave me a look, then turned away and stared at the Pinocchio clock. It’s on the wall beside the door that leads to my partner’s office, just above the little sign that says The Elvis Cole Detective Agency. As the second hand sweeps around, Pinocchio’s eyes move from side to side. Janet Simon had been glancing at it since they walked in. Probably thought it was peculiar.

Ellen fidgeted. “I was just curious, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Mrs. Lang,” I said. “I’m thirty-­five years old and I’ve been licensed as a private investigator for seven years. The state of California requires three thousand hours of experience before they’ll give you the license. I spent that time with a man named George Feider. Mr. Feider was an investigator here in Los Angeles for almost forty years. Before that I was a security guard, and before that I spent some time in the Army. I’m five feet eleven and one-­half inches tall, I weigh one hundred seventy-­six pounds, and I’m licensed to carry a firearm. How’s that?”

She blinked.

“Yeah, it impresses me, too,” I said. “I don’t take custody work. I might find your husband and your son but after that it’s up to you. I don’t steal children unless there’s reason to believe the child is in danger.”

Ellen Lang looked as if I’d kicked her. “Oh, no. No, no. Mort’s a good man, Mr. Cole, please don’t think he isn’t.” Janet Simon said something like shumphf. “You have to understand. He’s been under enormous strain. He left ICM last year to start his own talent agency and things just haven’t gone the way they should. He’s had to worry about the house payments and the cars and schools. It’s been terrible for him.&…