I spent the rest of the day with my latest find: a trashy '50s paperback from The Monkey's Paw The man who sold it to me had the most fabulous moustache-beard combo. He was the splitting image of the last Csar.
The book is a hazy mishmash of cultural stereotypes, train action sequences, a diamond heist sub-plot and the token icy blond. Mildly entertaining at best, but I do love its old-book smell.
Also, I can't help imagining Lawrence G. Blochman as one of the those young corporate types from the '50s. You know the ones who drank highballs at lunch, then went home to a cramped New York apartment and hammered out short stories on a rusted typewriter, all about dashing young men (based on himself naturally) in exotic locales. Eventually he'd make it into Reader's Digest, and then promptly circulate the issue among the secretaries at work. If you know our friend Larry please feel free to correct me. Or send me some of his other stuff- Wives To Burn is apparently another of his hits.
And yes that is my parking ticket as a bookmark.
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