Deadly SecretsJake Wanderman is not your average retired teacher and Shakespeare maven. He’s tangled with the Russian Mafia and assassins in Jerusalem and come out triumphant. Now his childhood friend's daughter is accused of murder. She flees to London. Jake follows in an attempt to find clues.Instead, he uncovers rape, suicide and secret identities. And falling in love with the female detective on the case only complicates the issue.. Like Sam Spade phoning in his reports to Effie, Jake Wanderman talks us through this corkscrew caper in his own inimitable, Brooklyn-wise-guy style.
I was out of my league—I just didn’t want the bad guy to know it…
“Look, the stuff is in London,” I said. “That’s all I’m telling you now. But I need time to make arrangements to turn it over to you.”
“Why don’t we just go and get it right now?”
“It’s not that simple. I have to do things to make it work. The girls are involved in this thing, too, I told you that. And I have to protect myself, don’t I? You may not trust me, but I don’t have a hell of a lot of trust in you, either. You know where Iam, you know where the girls live. I don’t know anything about you. So in one way you’ve got the upper hand. But on the other side, I’ve got what you want, so you have to deal with me. You hear what I’m saying Mr…what’s your name anyway?”
His face twisted in anger. His eyes had sparks in them. “Fuck you! You don’t need my name. Tell me what you got in mind.”
“Tomorrow morning, 10 a.m. Meet me in front of the Tate.”
“It’s a museum, asshole. The one you’re going to meet me at is called the Tate Modern. Just ask any taxi driver. They’ll take you right there.”
“What’d you do, park it in a museum?”
“Don’t strain yourself trying to figure it out. Meet me there and you’ll get your stuff. Guaranteed. If not, you know where to find me.”
He shook another cigarette out of a pack and lit it with a gold lighter. He blew some smoke through his nose and gave me another of his cold, blue looks, trying to show me how tough he was. If the look was meant to scare me, it did, a little, but I wasn’t about to let him know it.
And then, with a loud grunt, he pounded his fist into the middle of my belly. It felt like I’d been kicked by a horse. The breath shot out of me like an erupting volcano. I bent over, grabbing at my middle. Pain. Lots of pain. My eyes filled, my knees buckled. While I was gasping for air I heard him say: “Just so you don’t get any ideas.”
Excerpted from "Deadly Secrets" by Robert Boris Riskin. Copyright © 0 by Robert Boris Riskin. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Robert Boris Riskin
Many fiction writers have long been urged to get out of their ivory towers and research the real world for their material. Boris Riskin did better than that; he went out and actually worked for a living. A Brooklyn native, Riskin traveled the world. He lived in France twice, once on a honeymoon, again to attend the Sorbonne, both times to write … and write. After studying at the University of Michigan with playwright Kenneth Rowe, Riskin supported himself and family at a variety of jobs -- from dishwasher to factory worker, busboy to a hawker of low price garments for high fashion women. All the while experiencing first hand the stuff of the human condition that feeds his writing. Mr. Riskin’s work has appeared over the years in a variety of literary magazines, including The New Yorker. Long an avid reader of mystery-thrillers, he finally decided to write one. The crackling result was Scrambled Eggs (2005), a taut thriller that introduced a salty new reluctant sleuth called Jake Wanderman, and an exciting new crime novelist called Boris Riskin. Riskin now lives and writes in Sag Harbor, at the eastern end of New York’s Long Island, where the bay and ocean are close enough to touch he says, and the air is alive with stories.
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