Bøger af Michael Paulson

"Are these chicken eggs, Rita?" Dr. Clayton Niles and his wife, Rita, were having breakfast in the kitchen of their oceanfront home; just outside of Galveston, Texas. Clayton, with his stoic middle-aged determination, sat at the table studying his breakfast - two eggs fried sunny-side up - from multiple angles. Rita sat across from her perennially perplexed husband, buttering a slice of toast. Clayton raised the plate to eye-level and tilted it slightly; taking advantage of the sunlight streaming in through the adjacent window to further interrogate his meal. "They don't look like chicken eggs," he remarked, with more than a hint of suspicion. An impatient sigh crept from between Rita's full lips. "What else would they be, Clayton?" He shifted his lanky, blonde frame and twisted his mouth to one side as if repulsed; still studying the eggs. "Your mother did the shopping, yesterday; didn't she?" He set the plate down and picked up a fork before adding, "The yolks are too big for chicken eggs." Afterwhich, Clayton leaned his face down to audibly sniff the plate's contents. "They smell disagreeably fishy." She impatiently batted at the lock of dark hair curling across her forehead. "Speaking of disagreeable, you and I need to have a heart-to-heart talk." "If you're referring to your mother's plan to move in with us permanently, I will not take issue should you refuse to allow her." Rita's curtly responded with, "I'm talking about you, Clayton. You've been cranky and hallucinative, with respect to my mother; not to mention inattentive to me." With a vicious jab of his fork, Clayton pierced one yolk. "Look!" he cried. "Even the viscosity is wrong." Clayton studied the thick, yellow fluid as it moved across the white plate like a kid admiring the flow of chocolate across ice cream. "The yolk has a greenish pallor; almost reptilian." Rita picked a crumb from the bodice of her blue nightgown. Then her large brown eyes returned to Clayton's ongoing meal assessment. "As usual you are not listening to me." "Of course I am," he said; still examining the yolk. "We have agreed your mother will not continue her presence, indefinitely. And she will not do grocery-shopping in future." "For the past three weeks you've been exhibiting the symptoms of a man who is overworked, overtired and definitely undersexed." Clayton gave his wife an accusatory scowl. "Since when are you the psychiatrist?" "Since marrying you, my dear Doctor. Whereupon I promptly discovered you are the most neurotic man I have ever known." "I am not. You said your first husband was terrified of spiders. I happen to like the fuzzy little critters." "It's the rest of the world you worry about," she snipped, "and who worries about you." He shifted in his chair; returning the plate to the table. "As long as we're throwing shards, I would like to find out when your mother is going to return to Israel? She arrived for what you described as a short visit, immediately after we married. Short by any definition is not three weeks. In your mother's case, it is more along the lines of interminable." Rita's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "My mother's a joy to have around!" "Joy?" said Clayton, setting down his fork. "Each time I shower she's in there with a scrub brush scouring my back and anything else falling within reach." Then, he twisted his body laterally so as to bend over and place his eyes at plate level, before giving the intact egg another assessment. "How large are lizard eggs?" THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY SIMILARITY TO REAL PEOPLE IS COINCIDENTAL.

Stuart S. Stuart his come to Paris to find artistic inspiration. Instead, he falls for a Mafioso's wife, becomes a murder suspect, gets beat up by criminals searching for millions worth of diamonds, and learns that some of his student works have been fraudulently sold to another Mafia boss...with the promise that they're genuine old masters. Stuart seemingly becomes a magnet for murder. How long, though, before he's the one who ends up dead? Then there's the beautiful, but truth-challenged Maryse Rousseau... Author Michael Paulson writes a first-person story that's simultaneously exciting, side-splittingly funny, and sympathetic.

Chapter 1 Wednesday, August 5th, 1936. 11:15 am. Eggie's Café, East 56th street, NYC. Philo Vance was toying with a cheese and green-pepper omelet when District Attorney John F.-X. Markham sat down at his table. "I stopped at your apartment when I heard you were back in town, Vance," declared Markham, "but Currie said you were having breakfast, here. How was the shareholder's meeting in Chicago?" The District Attorney was a tall, strongly built man of forty-some years with a clean-shaven, chiseled face beneath a neatly trimmed mop of uniformly gray hair. He was not handsome. However he had an unmistakable air of distinction, and culture. This morning he wore his favorite brown wool suit with its years of well formed wrinkles. "A week of unbearable heat and tedium," replied Vance. The debonair detective was slightly under six feet in height, fit, and as spotless as a shop-window dummy in a gray tweed ensemble. "Fortunately, the newspapers offered daily reports on the Berlin Olympics to keep me from going insane. Jessie Owens certainly made his mark in history - 10.3 seconds in the 100 meter dash." Markham fumbled through his suit, found a cigarette and lit it. His face in the reflected glow of the match looked grim. "Those Olympic games are nothing but propaganda mechanism for Adolph Hitler and his goose-stepping goons," complained the District Attorney, bitterly. He dragged over the ashtray sitting on the edge of the table, took a long draw on the cigarette and then blew smoke toward the ceiling. "That's why Hitler had that runner with the torch open the ceremonies. It was never done like that before." Vance nodded sympathetically, still trying to decide whether the omelet was edible. "Hitler's trying to impress the world with his Aryan ideology," declared the detective. He cut a small piece of the omelet, speared it with his fork and lifted the bit of food to his nose. "Frankly, that man worries me." The detective frowned with disgust and set the fork down, the bite untasted. "As does this omelet." He slid his plate off to one side. "Adolph Hitler's types are never satisfied until they control everything, and everyone. Note my words, Markham, there's a war brewing in the back of Hitler's dirty Nazi mind." The District Attorney gave his head a mournful wag. "Dear God, let's hope not." The detective's brows shot up with concern. "I didn't mean to worry you. I forgot about your son being a foreign correspondent assigned to the wire-service in Spain. How are things there?" "He'll be okay - if those damn revolutionaries come to their senses." In the background, white-coated waiters danced among tables with trays loaded with coffee pots, plates and cups. The other customers were also active, waving hands, nodding heads, and offering up chatter to each other. Cooking smells ebbed and flowed from the distant kitchen. "Speaking of revolutionaries," said Vance, "I read where the Japanese military took control of their country, yesterday. The Monarchy is still holding down the fort. But it's more or less a decoration to cover the Generals' dirty deeds." "I don't know what the world is coming to." Markham snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then he gave Philo Vance a sympathetic look. "I suppose you heard about Willie Chambers?" Vance looked across the table at his friend in surprise. "Don't tell me Willie got married while I was in Chicago?" The D-A gave his head a grieving shake. "I'm afraid Willie killed himself, Vance. His body was found in his car, the motor was still running. He left a note. It was a little vague. Apparently, his fortunes had taken a turn for the worse and Willie could not face insolvency." "That's not like Willie," murmured Vance, gravely. Markham shrugged. "Who knows what any of us would do in a situation like that?" THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY SIMILARITY TO REAL PEOPLE IS COINCIDENTAL.

Lawyer Chambers Elliot is suspicious of the supposed priest in his office. But the priest's story of an old murder rings true and Elliot finds himself sucked into a case that pits him against a gang of con-men and Texas's crime boss, Salvator Portello. Hardboiiled mystery action.

Ex-cop Deacon Bishop gets his first case when a beautiful woman claims she's in need of a bodyguard. Bishop wants to guard the body all right, but it will take all of his detecting skills to keep even himself alive. Author Michael Paulson has created a graphic novel staring the popular Deacon Bishop. A sexy and fun read.

If he hadn't turned into the rest stop, Deacon Bishop wouldn't have heard about the hundred million dollars--or gotten involved with his favorite Mafia family. But he stopped--and gave a woman a lift. A few miles later, Bishop is injured, his car exploded, and the woman is dead--with shots from Bishop's gun through her head, Bishop was involved. He could have done without the dead woman and the injuries, but a hundred million dollars is worth a bit of grief, and the private investigation business doesn't often turn up that kind of money.

Deacon Bishop is an ex-cop and trained detective. How hard could it be to trail a woman from the airport and see where she goes? What Bishop learns, though, is that he's not the only one after the woman--and that he's about to get stung. Hardboiled action.

The invitation from Edgar Pelican arrived at Dr. Clayton Niles' office, by courier. It was ivory-colored, gilt-edged, watermarked, scented with chicory and embossed with the Pelican family crest: two eagles devouring a duck. A certified check accompanied the summons, favoring Dr. Niles in the amount of one thousand dollars. Clayton settled his lean, six-foot frame in the swivel-chair behind his desk and studied the jagged signature on the draft. "An expensive way to request a psychiatrist's time," he mused. Then he scratched his thinning blonde hair. "Daddy's little boy must be up to his ass in trouble, again." Prone upon the yellow leather couch across the oak-paneled room, was one of his patients; Mrs. Abbot. She was a plump, sixtyish accountant with blue hair, a taste for floral dresses, preferences for suede wedgies, and a long-standing relationship with support-hose. She also had fantasies for her teenage hair-dresser: Ramón. "My husband, Herbert, says Ramón is gay!" she wailed. Then Mrs. Abbot's blue-veined hands became animated as she quickly added, "But I don't believe it. The way Ramón sings to me during my cuts; the way he cracks his gum during my shampoos; I just know it can't be. Do you think I'm being a slut because I find Ramón so attractive, Doctor? Herbert, does. He says, 'there is no slut like an old slut." "As we reach maturity it is common to fantasize about a younger lover," Clayton cooed, reassuringly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mrs. Abbot. In a short time you will see the folly in such a pursuit, and abandon it. Age disparity has its drawbacks when it comes to sex." Mrs. Abbot gave a dismal shrug. "Nothing sexual is going on in my life. Herbert is always too busy, or asleep." There was a short pause and then she smiled. "But Ramón can always fit me in." "I take it you tip Ramón generously?" She gave him a scathing glance. "Of course. I don't want him to think I'm a cheap slut. But my generosity has nothing to do with our relationship. Ramón adores me. Once I wore a low cut sweater and a pushup bra. He said I looked just like a schoolgirl. Ramón is so perceptive." Clayton muttered a note of encouragement as to Mrs. Abbot's selection in wearing apparel, before letting his mind drift back to Edgar Pelican. He tapped the edge of the check against the dimple in his chiseled chin, trying to recall if he had ever met the reclusive billionaire. He decided not. However Clayton was very familiar with Edgar's one-and-only offspring; Roger. For nearly a year Roger Pelican, a creature of the most disagreeable pursuits; a creature who never wearied of wallowing in ever-deepening debaucheries; a creature of murderous intent, had been one of Clayton's patients. Mrs. Abbot twisted slightly to look over at Clayton before she asked, "How many condoms do you think I should bring, Doctor?" "Condoms?" Clayton echoed; his blue eyes squinting in confusion, at his patient. "For after the concert. I'm not sure how many times Ramón will want to - well, you know." "I would counsel against any type of sexual activity with Ramón, Mrs. Abbot. May-December affairs are generally short-lived. And there is Herbert to consider." She lay back whimpering with disappointment, "I don't see why. He wouldn't care if I humped half the men in Austin!" "You've been married a very long time, Mrs. Abbot. If you did not still love your husband you would have left him. Therefore you're feelings for Ramón are more fantasy, than romance." "But Herbert doesn't pay any attention to me," she sobbed. "Every time I suggest he throw me a quickie, my husband decides to check his stamp collection!" THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ANY SIMILARITY TO REAL PEOPLE IS COINCIDENTAL.

Fresh out of prison, Mike Zeeman and Tio Manetti get caught up in a scheme to steal a million in smuggled diamonds. Zeeman doesn't expect much from Meri Darling... she is the woman who turned on them and got them sent to prison. Still, he doesn't expect that she's taken up with a dangerously insane man, that the Russian Mafia is involved, or that he'll find a beautiful blind woman frustrating him at the same time as she intrigues him. A darkly funny thriller.

When Harry Bronstein, a young American tourist, is mistaken for a CIA agent, he finds himself embroiled in a three-way conflict between Chechen terrorists, Russian counter-spies, and a Chinese crimelord. Staying alive will be almost impossible. Naturally, Harry doesn't just want to stay alive... he also wants the girl. Author Michael Paulson combines a fast-paced thriller with his own unique dark humor in Cherem.