Author: Lawrence Kelter
A beautiful woman is dead. The victim was not just anyone, she was a British spy and JFK's mistress. The year is 1963. Miami Beach Private Investigator John Angel, is brought in by MI5 to investigate the murder of their operative. Angel is trapped dead center in the middle of a conspiracy that involves, the CIA, organized crime, and the Castro's revolutionaries. Angel puts his own life on the line in his attempt to apprehend the murderer while the Cuban Missile Crisis rages in the background.
Available in .mobi for Kindle, .epub for NOOK and most other e-readers, and .pdf.
John Angel swung the steering wheel on his cherry red Thunderbird convertible and turned heads as he made his way onto Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, Florida. The T-Bird was waxed up brighter than a shiny new dime. The chrome front bumper blinded the valet as he pulled up in front of the Fontainebleau Hotel.
The valet recognized Angel and raced around the car to open the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Angel. So nice to see you again.”
Angel swung his legs out of the car and dusted the lint off of his sharkskin slacks before he stood up. His jacket shirt was crisply pressed and flawless. He stuffed a few bills in the valet’s pocket. “Park her in the shade, Sonny.”
“Very good, Mr. Angel. I’ll find a nice spot for her.”
Angel strode through the hotel’s massive open-air lobby—his slipstream hair was impervious to the strong winds that blew off the Atlantic. The sixty-five-hundred-square-foot pool area stretched out in front of him. Beyond the pool, the turquoise water of the Atlantic sparkled as if it was filled with emeralds. Tito Puente was playing on the Fontainebleau’s outdoor sound system. Angel spontaneously broke into a cha-cha as he stepped into the sunshine.
A pretty brunette in a calico bikini looked up from her lounge chair and caught a glimpse of Angel as he tripped the light fantastic. “You’re light on your feet.” She smiled and held up a bottle of baby oil. “Would you?” she said. Her expression was an invitation to apply the baby oil and more.
Angel flashed his pearly whites. He knelt so that he could look directly into her eyes. “What’s your name?”
She smiled sweetly. “Honey.”
“Well, Honey, it’s so hot down here the lizards carry parasols. Baby oil is the worst thing you can put on your skin.”
“It is?” she said, with an air of helplessness in her voice.
“It is, but if you give me your room number, I promise to stop by later and show you a good use for it.”
“You seem shocked,” Angel said.
“I am,” she said and then brought forth a devilish smile. “Room 710. What time should I expect you?”
“Hard to say; I’m working right now.”
“I’ll be waiting. “
“That’s a good girl,” Angel said. He gave her cavalier pat on the butt as he walked off.
He pulled out a roll of cash. The sound of the crisp bills stopped a waitress dead in her tracks. “Can I help you, sir?”