A Long, Hard Look

A Long, Hard Look

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It was one of those days when breakfast wanted to be cheap whiskey straight from the bottle.

A short, fat banker. A willowy, buxom blonde. Phil Brennan’s latest client is the former. He prefers the latter — until he gets to know her better. She and her family back Brennan into a corner. His only way out is to choose between truth and love.

With this family, there’s a third choice, just for good measure.

Death.

A Long, Hard Look is a mystery that’s about people, not puzzles. Introspective noir.

ISBN: 978-0984094097

“The dialog crackles, the story moves, and the characters are fresh. This is a good one.”
James R. Preston, author of the Surf City Mysteries

“A fun, fast-paced mystery in the classic style with a modern twist. Fans of Raymond Chandler will find much to love in A Long, Hard Look.
Elizabeth Craig/Riley Adams, author of the Memphis Barbecue Mysteries

“I’m truly amazed at your voice. You’ve captured the hard-boiled PI perfectly. If I were ever to write a book about Voice I’d certainly point to A Long, Hard Look as a stellar example. Reminiscent of Raymond Chandler.”
— Mark Tier

“There is a new Raymond Chandler in town! Joel D Canfield’s new novel, A Long, Hard Look had me believing Philip Marlowe was lurking somewhere in the shadows!”
Alex Zabala, author of Treasure of the Mayan King

From the Back Cover

It was one of those days when breakfast wanted to be cheap whiskey straight from the bottle.

They came less often lately, but they came. Five years isn’t long enough. Maybe there is no long enough.

These tales always begin with a voluptuous blonde temptress in desperate need. In the books, at least.

In my office, they’re more likely to begin with a shortish stoutish bespectacled banker.

If he’d had a hat, he’d have been turning it in his hands, shuffling along the brim, round and round and round. But he didn’t, so he didn’t, and I sat there wondering if it would ever end.

He outwaited me. I gave up and said something. “You can either tell me what you’d like me to do, or you can tell me what you’re afraid of, or who’s missing, or what’s lost, or even your name. But say something, please. The suspense is killing me.”

Since he ended up dead not many hours later, it wasn’t the most politically correct thing to say, but then, I didn’t know it at the time, did I?

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