By John D. MacDonald
Her veneer used to be gigantic urban, yet one glance and also you knew that Toni Rassell's instincts have been instantly out of the river shack she got here from. I watched her as she toyed with the guy, guffawing, her tumbled hair like uncooked blue-black silk, her brown shoulders naked. Eyes deep-set, a lady with a gypsy glance. So this was once the woman I had risked my existence to discover. She was once tough to discover, difficult to get, tough to kill.
Published April twelfth 1955 via DELL, moment printing in 1960 re-titled On the Make
"Depending on one's opinion of A Bullet for Cinderella it used to be both John D MacDonald's go back to shape or a run for protection. probably it used to be either. released in the summertime of 1955, the radical used to be MacDonald's fourteenth, his 10th paperback unique and his moment Dell First version. It at the heels of his moment try out at a mainstream paintings (Contrary excitement) and it reads just like the paintings of a guy leaping again into the fingers of a jilted lover. It's pulpy, violent, horny, suspenseful or even rueful, a go back to a number of the kinds of characters and occasions that stuffed the author's early brief fiction. There's even a buried treasure and a primary individual narrator, the 1st given that lifeless Low Tide in 1953 ...
Of direction, one of many merits of now not analyzing MacDonald's novels so as is for you to decide up a ebook like A Bullet for Cinderella and flat out benefit from the hell out of it. Taken for what it's there's totally not anything incorrect with it. the unconventional is carefully pleasant and a short pleasure to learn. a person searching for a reasonably consultant instance of a 1950's hardboiled paperback secret want glance no further."
- Steve Scott, The catch of stable Gold
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Additional resources for A Bullet for Cinderella
No, no, no! ” And then a dawning. “Ah! ” A look of dead certainty. ” And the face turns sweet and warm. “Oh, you look like him. In the smile, especially. ” Frank has a list of names in his head, speciﬁc people with memories of Arturo, and we ride from home to workshop, from workshop to storefront. ” Between each stop there is Frank, shouting his questions about the killing over his shoulder and into the wind. We are still young men, faintly embarrassed by our fascination with bloodshed and guns.
The Generalissimo had suggested that the order be reversed. Well, there was always the beach. Art had received his assignment to Azua less than a week after his arrival in the republic and had reached the town at night on October 13, 1960. His room was in the parish house just a few feet from the sacristy, and it wasn’t until morning that he could get a sense of Azua itself: a dusty town of farm and ranch workers who walked the streets with pistols or machetes hanging from their belts; of women who sat on stoops, shelling hard beans.
And the sound: sheet metal being dragged across polished concrete? It carries in through the open shutters above the bed, along with a breeze that is unusually cool. Sometime in the night, I realize, I have pulled on a dirty T-shirt. At last I place the source of the noise. Guinea fowl greeting the dawn. This isn’t Santo Domingo. Yes. Right. The convent. I’m in the Padre Arturo Educational Centre in San José de Ocoa, a town spoken of simply as Ocoa. Sister Mary Joseph Mazzerolle, known as la madre, the mother, has o¤ered me a bed in the visitors’ dorm.