REVIEW

MURDER IS NEVER PRETTY... EVEN WHEN THE CORPSE IS A BLONDE - Joe Blake

Reviewed By
Karen Chisholm

Latter day Australian Pulp Fiction at it's best, Murder is Never Pretty... is, well hilarious.

Part of the attraction is that it's 100% true to the style and phrasing of the pulp writers of bygone times - but it's all set in current day Perth - dare one say the mean and dirty streets of Perth?

When a beautiful (are there other kinds in pulp?) blonde is murdered (shot / naked of course) in her suburban unit the local police put a call through to Joe Blake (who fortunately is chatting up another girl in his hot police car which he uses to hoon away to the call annoying the local lads trying to do burnouts in the vicinity), because nothing gets in his way. (Except for a lot of very athletic sex which is just a sideline that he specialises in).

Joe always gets the bad guy. (They may land a couple of glancing blows on the way, but he'll always get his man). And along the way he gets a few naughty girls (well just a few - and he's obviously a darn sight younger than he seems to be if he can keep up that strike rate!), because Joe likes them naughty - very naughty.

It's silly, it's fun, it's the first in the series. See http://joeblake.com.au(link is external) for more (and you can buy them new from the publisher on ebay so do yourselves a favour!)

BOOK DETAILS
BOOK INFORMATION
Author
ISBN
1875291059
Year of Publication
BLURB

MURDER IS NEVER PRETTY ... EVEN WHEN THE CORPSE IS A BLONDE CHAPTER ONE I was cruising west along Great Eastern Highway, going nowhere in particular, waiting for the call. It was one of those nights. It was hot, the moon was full and the dregs of society were restless. Black storm clouds hung over the Perth hills to the east and we'd had a drizzle of rain. It was enough to bring out the smell of hot tar. It had been a long day and I knew it was going to be a long night. I needed a drink of good old Queensland rum but the wagging finger in the back of my brain told me I had to stay sane. Instead I pulled into my favourite Golden Arches for a coffee. The young assistant manageress smiled as she passed me my discount coffee, leaning out of the drive through window. There were no other customers. We chatted for a while as we watched a ute load of hoons rumble into the empty car park opposite. They were in one of those low-to-the-ground Holdens, with wide mudflaps, stolen bar mat on the dash, spotties strung out along the roof rack and bumper stickers covering most of the rear window. It had Northam number plates. A lanky young kid wearing an Akubra climbed out of the passenger side window with a plastic bottle of oil in his hand. He poured it over the back wheels. They were setting up for a monumental burnout. I considered calling in a rego check and going over and having a bit of a chat to them, but it wasn't any of my business. My business was murder, and I had more important things on my mind. The girl asked me if I was enjoying my coffee. The fast food girls liked us coppers dropping in from time to time for a coffee and a chat. I suppose we might respond a bit faster when they were in trouble if we knew what they looked like ... and this one satisfied two of the important criteria; she was pretty and she was a blonde. If she needed me around anytime I'd be there fast - real fast. I was trying to find out if she was married, not that it really mattered, when the mobile phone vibrated in my top pocket and played the theme from Hawaii Five O. It's a weird feeling I can never get used to, especially when it rattles up against the grip of a loaded .357 calibre Glock in a shoulder holster. 'Joe Blake, Major Crime', I answered. It was work. Someone had reported a gunshot in a Maylands unit and the local boys had been around and found a body. 'I'm off to fight the bad guys', I said to the girl as I grabbed the magnetic blue light and stuck it on the roof, hit the siren button and fired up the Commodore. While it might have come out of the government vehicle pool mine wasn't an ordinary Commodore. It was a Police Special supercharged V6 and the mechanics had played around with the computer. It went faster than most cop cars. There's a difference between a good burn-out and a great burn-out. Great burn-outs depend on three things: performance, coordination and attitude. I checked the rear view mirror, dropped the Commodore into reverse and let it roll back just a bit, enough to get the momentum going. Then I red lined the motor, slammed it into first and dropped the clutch. When the wheels were smoking I dabbed the clutch, hit second and powered out of the drive through. I drifted out onto Great Eastern Highway, slammed it into third, and managed to get that impressive squeal signifying I had all three spot on. Glancing back through the trail of smoke I could see the assistant manageress was impressed. I could tell by the way she was waving her arms. So were the dickheads from Northam. By the time I hit my first set of red traffic lights I was going fast and the magnetic blue light was struggling to hang on. I braked slightly and changed over into the oncoming lane to get around the traffic, let the back end slide a bit as I went through the lights and flicked back into the left lane. I felt the back wheels bounce off the left hand curb as I straightened up. There was plenty of noise and smoke. It was perfect. Advanced driving. Poetry in motion. Shit, I loved being a copper!

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