Authors: Richard Bowker
Tags: #General, #Espionage, #Fiction
The Last P.I. Series
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1987, 2012 by Richard Bowker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Reviews & Accolades
Philip K. Dick Award for best paperback original of the year, Finalist
"A wry, ingratiating story"
is a hard science fiction, medium-boiled detective story that succeeds in both fields... The mystery kept me guessing right up to the end; the science fiction, with its detailed portrayal of the remnants of the U.S., is equally good. The plot works well, and somehow all the pieces fit together. I highly recommend
~Aboriginal Science Fiction
Humanist science fiction of a high order... The hero is bookish, the title obviously literary. Fortunately, the warmth, humor and unquenchable humanity of Sands and friends keep
from becoming pretentious or heavily symbolic. So read this book, then tell your friends. Richard Bowker has earned his place in the limelight.
We've had future private eye novels before, but there's something special about this one. Ruined Boston is very well drawn, with some great touches: the scavenger book dealer that sells pre-war porn and collects first-edition nuclear holocaust novels such as The Postman; the gun-toting airline ticket-seller at the airport who isn't sure what day the one weekly flight to England leaves, but does enquire, "smoking or non-smoking?" The peculiar combination of postnuclear anarchy, detective-story conventions, and innocent but intelligent hero comes together in something of a minor tour de force.
~Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine
For Robert and Helen Collins
Between what matters and what seems to matter, how should the world we know judge wisely?
—E. C. Bentley
It was one of those gray December days that freeze the soul as well as the body. The stack of unread books grew smaller; the fire in the wood stove was dying; I was thinking (not for the first time) that I was in the wrong line of work. Then I looked out my window and noticed the stranger standing in the slush below.
I quickly looked away. Didn't want to scare him off. I imagined him staring at the sign in the window and wondering whether to come up; it wasn't a very good sign, after all. I put the book down and waited. I heard the downstairs door creak open, then slam shut. I heard slow footsteps on the stairs; it was dark out there. The footsteps stopped outside my frosted-glass door. There was a pause, then a loud rapping.