By Ed Lynskey
Ed Lynskey, some of the most acclaimed smooth crime noir authors, returns to the Smoky Mountains with a brand new hardboiled story of homicide, ardour, and extreme motion.
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Extra info for Lake Charles: A Mystery Novel
Anxious, he ignored my extended dock line. “At least, I’d say. ” I tied a mariner’s knot to latch my dock line and climbed to the T-dock. “Let’s rack up the boats. ” He gnawed on a thumbnail. ” Brave words but the alarm in his voice had caused my heart to stagger a beat. ” He shambled over the dock planks, and he beckoned me with his hand. “C’mon. ” My boots punched through the dock planks as I followed him ashore. I wished the telephone in the crooked booth got 911. My binoculars were on the cab’s dashboard, and I rejoined Cobb.
It sat on the north cape of Lake Charles, a TVA creation (we’d no natural bodies of water). Edna’s elbow jostled Cobb and he grumbled awake. The vista filled us with misgivings. First, the dance pavilion had gone to smash. As breezes rattled the candy-striped tin awnings, the past glories I’d grown up hearing arose in me. Back in the day, the Chinese lanterns, tiki torches, and mirrored ball had illuminated the dance pavilion. Teenagers jalopied out of the hollows and hills to catch the rockabilly artists like Link Wray and Johnny Horton jam until dawn.
I hugged the thicketed shore, and my glances darted landward. The shadows blotched out my sightlines, and I despaired. Our fishing trip had degraded into a gold-plated pain in the ass. I had to mull over why. Then a nicotine fit chafed my nerves, but my cigarette machine sat in the other bass boat. A pang of nausea skewered me. Kicking this pot habit tested the limits of my resilience. Luckily, simple visual pleasures diverted me. A blue heron on its spindly, yellow legs scooped silver minnows from the water trickling over a gravel bar under a sycamore tree.