"Paul Levine continues his trademark brisk pacing with timely storytelling and well-placed humor... 'Bum Luck' is elevated further by teaming Jake with Steve and Victoria. The trio make an unstoppable team - concerned about the law, but even more about people." - South Florida Sun-Sentinel
"A one-sit, must-read novel full of memorable characters and unforgettable vignettes, well worth your time and retainer. Levine's pacing is perfect as always, and the pages just fly by, even as he juggles multiple plots with his own unique aplomb. Put 'Bum Luck' at the top of your reading list." - Bookreporter.com
"A gripping and often quite an amusing thriller with a surprising climax, all of which is built around an intriguing cast of characters as it achieves an almost flawless rhythm." - BookPleasures.com
"Truly a humorous, smart and enjoyable fast-paced read. - MysterySequels.com
From the Author
At ll:47 a.m the next morning, I had my chance to kill Thunder Thurston.
He was leaning over the balcony railing of his Fisher Island condo, firing his forty-five caliber handgun at gulls and terns soaring over Government Cut, the passageway for cruise ships at the Port of Miami. One of his size-fifteen feet was off the marble tile, and the torso of his massive frame was just at the tipping point.
One push, and whoosh. Fly, Thunder, fly!
Could I do it?
Do I have the cojones?
He weighed 235 pounds, but I could drop into a crouch, snag both his ankles, and fire up hard. I could flip him over the railing and watch him flail through the air and splatter onto the pool deck far below.
I had my defense ready. He had threatened me - not the birds - with the .45. Even took a shot at me, I would claim. Forensics would reveal gunpowder residue on his right hand. So, I acted in self-defense.
One problem. There were four potential witnesses in the living room of his 7,500 square foot chrome and glass condo. At the moment, they were preoccupied playing volleyball. That's right, inside the penthouse. The apartment had been two stories, and Thurston spent a million bucks ripping out the second floor. Now, the living room had a twenty-four-foot ceiling and a regulation sand volleyball court.
Four young women who resembled college cheerleaders were bouncing around, kicking up sand and squealing with delight.
The volleyball court was surrounded by a patch of artificial grass. The necks of several bottles of Cristal peeked out of the ice in a picnic cooler. A silver cocktail tray held Champagne flutes and a pile of cocaine a foot high. Could they see onto the balcony through the floor-to-ceiling glass? Were they watching? Were they sober?
The two teams were organized by "tops and bottoms," two of the leaping ladies wearing only bikini tops and the other two only bottoms. Except for the uniforms, the teams could have been lifted from a Pepsi commercial with two Anglo women, one Hispanic, and one African-American. Thurston had always been an equal-opportunity corrupter.
I had perhaps three seconds to kill the murderer. I hesitated, thinking about possible flaws in my defense.
Motive? Why would Thunder turn a gun on me?
I would have to come up with something...