The Bad Kitty Lounge (Joseph Kozmarski Series #2)

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Overview

Michael Wiley’s first novel, The Last Striptease, was nominated for a Shamus Award and hailed as “riveting” (The Chicago Tribune), “delightful” (Toronto Globe and Mail), and “hard-boiled fiction with tenderness and compassion” (New York Newsday). Now he offers another exciting, fast-paced page-turner with The Bad Kitty Lounge.

Greg Samuelson, an unassuming bookkeeper, has hired Joe Kozmarski to dig up dirt on his wife and her lover Eric Stone. But now Samuelson has taken matters into his own hands. It looks like he's torched Stone’s Mercedes, killed his boss, and then shot himself, all in the space of an hour.

The ...

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More About This Book

Overview

Michael Wiley’s first novel, The Last Striptease, was nominated for a Shamus Award and hailed as “riveting” (The Chicago Tribune), “delightful” (Toronto Globe and Mail), and “hard-boiled fiction with tenderness and compassion” (New York Newsday). Now he offers another exciting, fast-paced page-turner with The Bad Kitty Lounge.

Greg Samuelson, an unassuming bookkeeper, has hired Joe Kozmarski to dig up dirt on his wife and her lover Eric Stone. But now Samuelson has taken matters into his own hands. It looks like he's torched Stone’s Mercedes, killed his boss, and then shot himself, all in the space of an hour.

The police think they know how to put together this ugly puzzle. But as Kozmarski discovers, nothing’s ever simple. Eric Stone wants to hire Kozmarski to clear Samuelson. Samuelson’s dead boss, known as the Virginity Nun, has a saintly reputation but a red-hot past. And a gang led by an aging 1960s radical shows up in Kozmarski’s office with a backpack full of payoff money, warning him to turn a blind eye to murder.

At the same time, Kozmarski is working things out with his ex-wife, Corrine, his new partner, Lucinda Juarez, and his live-in nephew, Jason. If the bad guys don't do Kozmarski in, his family might.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In Wiley's strong second mystery to feature Chicago PI Joe Kozmarski (after 2007's The Last Striptease), Joe has to contend with a client, Greg Samuelson, who unleashes a torrent of crimes. After Samuelson torches the car belonging to Eric Stone, the man having an affair with his wife, Amy, Samuelson is found severely wounded and his nun boss murdered. This is merely the first body Joe uncovers as elderly but still powerful civil rights activist William DuBuclet plies him with bribes and threats, and Stone tries to hire him to keep an eye on DuBuclet. A complex web of relationships reaches back to a crash house in the late 1960s called the Bad Kitty Lounge, where kids gathered for music, dope, and sex, until a fatal fire destroyed it. Joe, who has to figure out what family secret is worth killing for, has plenty of grit, and his style suits Chicago fine. (Mar.)
Library Journal
It starts on a cold Chicago street where a man pours gasoline on the car of his wife's lover and sets it on fire. Then the murders begin; one victim is a nun with a cat tattoo on her stomach. PI Joe Kozmarski follows a trail of deception, greed, and old secrets that endangers everyone he encounters. At the same time, his conflicted personal relationships involving the care of his mother and the young cousin he is now raising as his own, described in Kozmarski's clear voice, will affect readers. VERDICT Though the twisting tangle of plot lines at times goes over the top, Wiley, a Shamus Award nominee for The Last Striptease, keeps us guessing to the end; his style will remind readers of early Bill Pronzini. [Library marketing.]
More Reviews (1) Fewer Reviews
Kirkus Reviews
Sinful seeds bear murderous fruit. Chicago private eye Joe Kozmarski doesn't much like the Samuelson case, a run-of-the-mill no-brainer if ever there was one. You load your camera, bag the requisite salacious shots of the adulterous Mrs. Samuelson, hand them over to the cuckolded client. Soon enough, however, it becomes obvious to Joe-astute sleuth that he proved himself to be in his debut (The Last Striptease, 2007)-that this is a case with legs, thanks in part to the high-profile corpse lying in Greg Samuelson's office. Sister Judy Terrano was nicknamed the Virginity Nun, a condition forensic evidence renders dubious. Her clothes are in disarray, her belly inscribed with the faded tattoo of a cat in what appears to be a state of arousal. Beneath this, in magic marker, someone has scrawled, "Bad kitty." The client himself is also in his office, comatose, bleeding copiously from a bullet wound the cops say is self-inflicted. Murder-suicide, they insist, but Joe begs to differ. Skepticism deepens when he launches an investigation that reveals ancient and murky connections between Sister Judy and a pair of powerful Chicago families, the kind for whom old injuries are never really old, and vengeance never less than sweet. Sound and fury and mindless violence, signifying that a pretty good writer has yet to find a story commensurate with his talent.

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312593001
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 3/2/2010
  • Pages: 278
  • Series: Joseph Kozmarski Series, #2
  • Product dimensions: 5.70 (w) x 8.30 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Michael Wiley is a winner of the PWA Best First Private Eye Novel Competition and was nominated for a Shamus Award for his first novel, The Last Striptease. He lives with his family in northeast Florida, where he is hard at work on another Joe Kozmarski mystery.

Read an Excerpt

ONE I SAT IN TOMMY Cheng’s Chinese Restaurant facing a window onto North LaSalle Street and watched a four-story condo complex where Eric Stone was screwing another man’s wife. Not the kind of work I look for, but it always seems to . nd me. I kept my eyes on my client’s condo and ate egg foo yong.
Behind me in the kitchen, Mr. Cheng cooked something that sizzled in the wok. He wore an apron and a white baseball cap. My Pentax, its telephoto screwed into focus, rested on the coun­ter in case Eric Stone showed his face outside.
I squinted into the glare. The little birch trees that the city had dumped into sidewalk planters .ared October yellow. The condo complex was stucco and had the kind of Spanish arches and wide balconies that belonged far from Chicago in a place where the sea was always clear and the breeze blew as warm as a woman’s breath.
A man walked onto the balcony in front of the condo.
Eric Stone.
I dropped my chopsticks, readjusted the lens on the pentax, and snapped a photo. The man had a caterpillar of a beard un­der his bottom lip. The rest of his head was shaved. He looked somewhere in his early .fties but his arms and body were thick—all muscle. He .exed the arms over his head. He wore white shorts and a white T-shirt on a forty-degree autumn day. He looked like a pirate in tennis whites.
A woman joined him on the balcony.
Amy Samuelson. My client Greg Samuelson’s wife.
She was dressed in khakis and a sweater, her blond hair in a ponytail. She wrapped her arms around Eric Stone from be­hind.
Mr. Cheng came from the kitchen and stood next to me. “Every day the same thing,” he said, laughing. “She never gets enough of him.”
She slid her hands down the man’s stomach. One hand dis­appeared into the front of his shorts. Stone looked proud of himself.
Mr. Cheng said, “Some people’ve got no decency,” and I snapped more photos. “What do you do?” he asked. “Blackmail them?”
I pulled out my wallet, let him read my detective’s license.
“Joe Kozmarski?” he said.
“I’m helping her husband get a divorce.”
He laughed. “You blackmail them.”
Amy Samuelson and the man went back into the condo, clos­ing the door behind them.
I ate more egg foo yong. The bean sprouts were fresh, the shrimp as big as walnuts. Mr. Cheng stood and watched the balcony as if he expected them to come back out naked and screw in the open air.
Another man walked across a parking lot next to the condos. He was thin, wearing blue jeans, an oxford shirt, and a navy blue jacket, no tie. He carried a two-gallon gas can. He looked in no hurry. He crossed to a yellow Mercedes convert­ible that was parked facing the street.
I knew the car. Eric Stone drove it when he wasn’t . exing his muscles on the Samuelsons’ balcony in his tennis shorts.
The man set the gas can on the hood of the Mercedes and undid the cap. He screwed a spout onto the can. He poured gasoline over the car’s hood, over the convertible roof, onto the trunk.
Mr. Cheng said, “What the hell—”
The man shook gasoline onto the car doors. He stooped by the tires and poured gas over them. He took his time.
“Take—pictures,” Mr. Cheng sputtered. I left my camera on the counter.
The man splashed the rest of the gasoline under the Mer­cedes, then stepped back to appraise his work.
He touched the fabric convertible roof with a lighter and leaped away. The car burst into .ames. Thick black smoke .ngered into the air. The convertible top .ared and fell into the interior.
The man with the gas can watched the .re, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, and talked into it. When he hung up, he walked slowly away. The empty gas can dangled in his .ngers. The car made a hollow popping sound and the windshield fell into the front seat.
Mr. Cheng glared. “Why don’t you take pictures?”
I looked him up and down. “That was the husband—My my client.”
Mr. Cheng stared at me with blank eyes and nodded, then returned to the kitchen and called 911. He told the operator that a car was burning and gave the street address. When he hung up, he came back and sat on the stool next to mine. “You like the egg foo yong?” he asked.
“Best egg foo yong I ever ate,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s my mother’s recipe. It gives you long life.”
We sat together and watched the Mercedes burn. Giant .ames angled out of the interior. The car roared like an open furnace. Heavy black smoke, dense as dirt, clouded above it. The smell of burning rubber and something worse—the leather interior, something that once was living—made its way into the restaurant. By the time we heard sirens, the . re had blackened the car’s exterior, and whatever was feeding it from inside was gone. The .ames shortened. Then the gas tank exploded and the .re roared again.
I pushed away the egg foo yong. Long life it would give me, said Mr. Cheng. I’d lost my appetite.

Excerpted from The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley.
Copyright © 2010 by Michael Wiley.
Published in March 2010 by St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews

  • Posted February 5, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    superb Chicago Noir

    In Chicago Greg Samuelson goes ballistic when he learns his wife Amy is having an affair with Eric Stone. Fuming, he burns Stone's car. Soon afterward, at the Holy Trinity Church someone shoots Greg in the face and kills his boss, Sister Judy Terrano, the Virginity Nun; under her tattoo of a cat was written with a marker "Bad Kitty".

    Greg, who previously hired private investigator Joe Kozmarski to catch his wife in the act, rehires the sleuth to make inquiries into who shot him. As Joe digs and finds more corpses, long time civil rights activist William DuBuclet demands he drops the case or else. Stone tries to hire Joe to conduct surveillance on DuBuclet as the case ties back to the 1960s Bad Kitty Lounge where teens met to hear music, smoke weed and use dope, and have sex.

    This a superb Chicago Noir (see The Last Striptease) as Joe deals with a client he dropped after the BMW arson incident at a time he considers leaving the Windy City with his two dependents, his mom and his young cousin. Joe tells the tale from the opening inferno over egg fu young until the final wrap up though at times his escapades seem over the top of the Sears Tower. The audience will enjoy this fabulous investigative thriller as the spins and twists keep Joe and the reader off kilter throughout.

    Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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