Congratulations with Chris D'Elia by Chris D'Elia on Apple Podcasts
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Springing to her accustomed perpendicular like a bowed sapling, and satisfying herself that nobody was in sight, she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of Tewnell Mill. Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in his hut, went again among his ewes.
An hour passed, the girl returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman. Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking a cow.
Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path she would follow in leaving the hill. She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make Oak wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole would have been revealed.
There was a bright air and manner about her now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true.
Like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power.
The starting-point selected by the judgment was her height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that in Englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial curves.
Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the contours of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them.
Had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush. Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it in towns.
The self-consciousness shown would have been vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all. A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft.
Recollection of the strange antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again.
He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, and looked. She had gone away. With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned to his work.
Five mornings and evenings passed. His want of tact had deeply offended her — not by seeing what he could not help, but by letting her know that he had seen it.
The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting, but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. Many a small bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs. As the milking-hour drew near, Oak kept his usual watch upon the cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon the stove.
The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south. Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole — of which there was one on each side of the hut.
Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door closed one of these must be kept open — that chosen being always on the side away from the wind. Closing the slide to windward, he turned to open the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would first sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of the hut was a little raised.
His head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying himself weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep. He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary.
How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the first stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully — somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief. The young girl with the remarkably pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him.
More than this — astonishingly more — his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar. She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind to start enjoyment. It is a wonder you were not suffocated in this hut of yours. It played me nearly the same trick the other day!
He was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things.
He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent. She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a Samson.
The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open.
I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonise with the dignity of such a deed — and she shunned it. There is no reason either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak.
I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person. Oak held it longer this time — indeed, curiously long. You may if you want to. Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact.
This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appreciable inroads upon the emotional constitution of young Farmer Oak. However, he continued to watch through the hedge for her regular coming, and thus his sentiments towards her were deepened without any corresponding effect being produced upon herself. He dreaded the eighth day. At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceased to give milk for that year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more.
Gabriel had reached a pitch of existence he never could have anticipated a short time before. Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.
Marriage transforms a distraction into a support, the power of which should be, and happily often is, in direct proportion to the degree of imbecility it supplants. He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a living lamb. On a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution — a fine January morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible to make cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb into a respectable Sunday basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of Mrs.
Hurst, the aunt — George, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of great concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking. Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chimney with strange meditation. At evening he had fancifully traced it down the chimney to the spot of its origin — seen the hearth and Bathsheba beside it — beside it in her out-door dress; for the clothes she had worn on the hill were by association equally with her person included in the compass of his affection; they seemed at this early time of his love a necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called Bathsheba Everdene.
He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind — of a nature between the carefully neat and the carelessly ornate — of a degree between fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection. He thoroughly cleaned his silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to his boots, looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart of the plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously on his way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his clothes-box, put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with sprigs of an elegant flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily without the defects of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed upon his usually dry, sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had deepened it to a splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and Roman cement, making it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg, or wet seaweed round a boulder after the ebb.
Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter of a knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and rumour to be no less the staple topic of these little coteries on roofs than of those under them.
The dog took no notice, for he had arrived at an age at which all superfluous barking was cynically avoided as a waste of breath — in fact, he never barked even at the sheep except to order, when it was done with an absolutely neutral countenance, as a sort of Commination-service, which, though offensive, had to be gone through once now and then to frighten the flock for their own good.
A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the cat had run: Did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it; — did he, poor dear! Nobody appeared, and he heard the person retreat among the bushes.
Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows into his forehead by sheer force of reverie. Where the issue of an interview is as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for the better, any initial difference from expectation causes nipping sensations of failure. Oak went up to the door a little abashed: The voice had evidently been hers.
I thought she might like one to rear; girls do. If you will wait a minute, Bathsheba will be in. Because if she would, I should be very glad to marry her.
Hurst, poking the fire superfluously. Not that her young men ever come here — but, Lord, in the nature of women, she must have a dozen!
He looked round, and saw a girl racing after him, waving a white handkerchief. Oak stood still — and the runner drew nearer. It was Bathsheba Everdene. He held out his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing it there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating heart. Directly he seized it she put it behind her, so that it slipped through his fingers like an eel. Bathsheba had overtaken him at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush, now laden with red berries.
Seeing his advance take the form of an attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her person, she edged off round the bush. But there was no harm in hurrying to correct a piece of false news that had been told you. Will you marry me? I love you far more than common! And at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be — and whenever I look up there will be you.
He regarded the red berries between them over and over again, to such an extent, that holly seemed in his after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal of marriage. Bathsheba decisively turned to him. I want somebody to tame me; I am too independent; and you would never be able to, I know.
I have hardly a penny in the world — I am staying with my aunt for my bare sustenance.
Farmer Oak had one-and-a-half Christian characteristics too many to succeed with Bathsheba: Bathsheba was decidedly disconcerted. Not if I know it. Because I am open enough to own what every man in my shoes would have thought of, you make your colours come up your face, and get crabbed with me.
That about your not being good enough for me is nonsense. You speak like a lady — all the parish notice it, and your uncle at Weatherbury is, I have heerd, a large farmer — much larger than ever I shall be. No man likes to see his emotions the sport of a merry-go-round of skittishness. It may have been observed that there is no regulal path for getting out of love as there is for getting in.
Some people look upon marriage as a short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. Oak belonged to the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret fusion of himself in Bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now that she was gone — that was all.
It appeared that she had gone to a place called Weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in what capacity — whether as a visitor, or permanently, he could not discover. Gabriel had two dogs. In substance it had originally been hair, but long contact with sheep seemed to be turning it by degrees into wool of a poor quality and staple. This dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals and dreadful temper, and the result was that George knew the exact degrees of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all descriptions better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood.
Though old, he was clever and trustworthy still. He was learning the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on at the flock when the other should die, but had got no further than the rudiments as yet — still finding an insuperable difficulty in distinguishing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too well.
So earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog he had no name in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any pleasant interjectionthat if sent behind the flock to help them on, he did it so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the whole county with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded when to stop by the example of old George.
Thus much for the dogs. On the further side of Norcombe Hill was a chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread over adjacent farms. Two hedges converged upon it in the form of a V, but without quite meeting. The narrow opening left, which was immediately over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough railing.
One night, when Farmer Oak had returned to his house, believing there would be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he called as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the outhouse till next morning.
Only one responded — old George; the other could not be found, either in the house, lane, or garden.
Gabriel then remembered that he had left the two dogs on the hill eating a dead lamb a kind of meat he usually kept from them, except when other food ran shortand concluding that the young one had not finished his meal, he went indoors to the luxury of a bed, which latterly he had only enjoyed on Sundays.
It was a still, moist night. Just before dawn he was assisted in waking by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. To the shepherd, the note of the sheep-bell, like the ticking of the clock to other people, is a chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by ceasing or altering in some unusual manner from the well-known idle twinkle which signifies to the accustomed ear, however distant, that all is well in the fold. In the solemn calm of the awakening morn that note was heard by Gabriel, beating with unusual violence and rapidity.
This exceptional ringing may be caused in two ways — by the rapid feeding of the sheep bearing the bell, as when the flock breaks into new pasture, which gives it an intermittent rapidity, or by the sheep starting off in a run, when the sound has a regular palpitation.
The experienced ear of Oak knew the sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the flock with great velocity. He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a foggy dawn, and ascended the hill.
These two hundred seemed to have absolutely vanished from the hill. There were the fifty with their lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but the rest, forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere.
Far from the Madding Crowd / Thomas Hardy
He went to the hedge; a gap had been broken through it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. Rather surprised to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it down instantly to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of which a great deal grew in the plantation, he followed through the hedge. They were not in the plantation. He passed through the trees and along the ridge of the hill.
On the extreme summit, where the ends of the two converging hedges of which we have spoken were stopped short by meeting the brow of the chalk-pit, he saw the younger dog standing against the sky — dark and motionless as Napoleon at St. A horrible conviction darted through Oak.
With a sensation of bodily faintness he advanced: The dog came up, licked his hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward for signal services rendered. Oak looked over the precipice. The ewes lay dead and dying at its foot — a heap of two hundred mangled carcasses, representing in their condition just now at least two hundred more. Oak was an intensely humane man: A shadow in his life had always been that his flock ended in mutton — that a day came and found every shepherd an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep.
His first feeling now was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn lambs. It was a second to remember another phase of the matter. The sheep were not insured. All the savings of a frugal life had been dispersed at a blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were laid low — possibly for ever. He leant down upon a rail, and covered his face with his hands. Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Farmer Oak recovered from his.
Trouble was, Valdez killed an innocent man. And when he asked for justice - and some money for the dead man's woman - they beat Valdez and tied him to a cross. They were still laughing when Valdez came back. And then they began to die A crowd had gathered to drink and laugh and shoot down at the old shack where a supposed killer was hiding out. Then Bob Valdez, humble town constable and stage-line shotgun rider, walked down to the shack. Moments later Valdez had killed an innocent man, and the crowd, sapped of its bloodlust, wandered off.
But for Bob Valdez it was far from over. He wanted the wealthy landowner who had engineered the scene to give the dead man's woman money for a wrongful death. They laughed at Bob Valdez. They taunted him and beat him until Valdez had no choice but to come back to them again. Only this time Valdez was coming with three guns--three guns and the will to teach a rich man's army how costly atonement can get.
Bantam, [western] [--A hellhole like Yuma Prison does all sorts of things to a man. Mostly it makes him want to escape. For two men facing life sentences - Harold Jackson, the only black man behind the walls, and Raymond San Carlos, an Apache halfbreed - a breakout seemed nigh on impossible.
That is, until the law gave them two choices: And it's worse for those whose damning crime is the color of their skin. The law says Chiricahua Apache Raymond San Carlos and black-as-night former soldier Harold Jackson are murderers, and they'll stay behind bars until they're dead and rotting.
But even in the worst place on Earth, there's hope. And for two hard and hated inmates - first enemies, then allies by necessity - it waits at the end of a mad and violent contest Then, the law gives them two choices: Majestyk" was produced as a movie in Delacorte Press, aka: Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret.
And if Harry doesn't pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder -- up to and including homicide, if necessary.
But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn'tget mad Delacorte Press, Stick-1 aka: Dell, [--The author of Get Shorty, Elmore Leonard writes of a world that is all-too-real, too frighteningly formidable.
In Swag, he takes us down the streets of summertime Detroit where life is not so sweet - unless you're handy at crime. His three "heroes" boast an expertise in things illegal. All it takes is an armed robbery and the street-savvy to get away with it.
It's a brilliant caper with a finely timed finale. There aren't any textbooks on armed robbery. The only way to learn is through experience, and small-time crooks Frank and Stick are determined to do as much learning on the job as possible. In s' Detroit they embark on a crime spree, holding up liquor stores and supermarkets. But then they bend their own rules, and it looks like trouble is heading their way.
For instance, Ryan is used more than once: They make a partnership in which they agree to follow "Ryan's Rules" which has been an alternate title for this novel. They soon break these rules and come to have several misadventures involving botched armed robberies their own and others they are victims of double-crosses and department store holdups gone wrong.
The action follows non-stop much like a violent video game. There is Leonard's characteristic wry humour: An incompetent stick-up man is relieved of the proceeds of his robbery.
He's locked in a storage room with his victims, who proceed to beat him unconscious.
Stick and Frank walk away with the money and are in turn robbed in a parking lot. Stick and Frank rob a liquor store where the stubborn senior citizen behind the cash register is willing to die and allow his equally elderly wife to be raped and murdered rather than hand over the hidden money.
All this and more while never going over the top and becoming unbelievable. It's possible to empathize with Stickley's predicament. He's basically a good man who does bad things. It is inexplicable to me that this book has not been made into a movie while many lesser Leonard novels have. The Stickley character reappears in the novel "Stick", in which it is revealed that Ryan died in prison. That novel, Stick, was made into the Burt Reynolds movie.
Delacorte Press, Jack Ryan-2 aka: Will keep you on the edge of your chair". Dell, author's original title: Black Ordell Robbie and white Louis Gara have lots in common - time in the same gaol, convictions for auto theft, and a grand plan. They're going to snatch the wife of a Detroit developer and collect some easy ransom money. At least that's what they think What they haven't figured on is the fact that the husband has a secret mistress and has absolutely no desire to get his wife back.
So now it's time for Plan B. With the help of one seriously ticked-off housewife they are going to take the scumbag for everything he's got Elmore Leonard has written more than three dozen books during his highly successful career, and many of his novels have been made into bestselling films.
Frank could care less. He has a mistress and does not want his wife back. This makes Mickey very upset and she decides she wants part of the action with Ordell and Louis. Meanwhile, the mistress decides she wants to be part of their plan too.
Two hapless criminals kidnap the wife of a rich man and demand ransom- ransom he does not want to pay as they are embroiled in divorce proceedings. Set in the tony country club world of suburban Detroit this is classic Leonard.
Wry, dry, ironic, funny and yet poignant at times.
Congratulations with Chris D'Elia
His characters come to life and stay with you. Louis and his fellow ex-con buddy Ordell, re-team up in Rum Punch- the book another film was based on- "Jackie Brown". Bantam Books, [western] Phil Sundeen-2 [Set: They were always something to see; real professionals, two of the toughest characters any man ever aimed a gun at.
Sure they spent half their time feuding. But once there was the smell of guns and maybe a hint of glory in the air, they teamed up--armed to the teeth to grin down to trouble. Now they were holed up on an Arizona mountain with a copper war primed to explode in their faces.
Early and Moon, together they fought through hell. Now they've got a fight to the finish. Brendan Early and Dana Moon are a professional gunslinging duo. Holed up on an Arizona mountain with a copper war primed to explode, the team is ready to fight to the finish. High Noon in Detroit NY: The seriously crazed killer is already back on the Detroit streets - thanks to some nifty courtroom moves by his crafty looker of a lawyer - and he's feeling invincible enough to execute a crooked Motown judge on a whim.
Homicide Detective Raymond Cruz thinks the "Oklahoma Wildman" crossed the line long before this latest outrage, and he's determined to see that the hayseed psycho does not slip through the legal system's loopholes a second time.
But that means a good cop is going to have to play somewhat fast and loose with the rules - in order to maneuver Mansell into a wild Midwest showdown that he won't be walking away from. High Noon in Detroit, an enraged detective serves justice illegally to a brutal killer who evades prosecution once too often. And who killed eight more people. But knowing and proving are two different things. Steve Dunn does a first-class job presenting this complex story packed with a host of dark characters. He mixes carefully chosen dialects with just the right amount of emotion, pacing and inflection to bring this story to life.
Although the opening chapters seem crowded with people and events, the plot moves smoothly to a clear conclusion. He had the connections to ensure that his will was carried out. His friends hired a hustler to guard her. However the hustler had other ideas. Cop Detective Walter Kouza, investigating the killing of a Haitian intruder, discovers that Daniels has his sights set a good deal higher. The target is a big, moneyed, junked-up wheeler-dealer.
The scenario is perfected by a sweetly bodied blonde, expert on men and money. Arbor House, Cundo Rey-1 aka: Leonard is a master. The tone is dry and mordant, the action well-paced, and the voices of the riffraff convincing LaBrava may be the best of Mr.
LaBrava is a mean-streets romance, laconic and bittersweet, so thoroughly a film noir in novel form that a twenty-five-year-old Hollywood film noir is itself at the center of the plot Tommy Donovan has a casino in both places. Our cop hero Vincent is convalescing in Puerto Rico after being shot by a mugger.
This is the kind of book that if you get up to see if there are any chocolate chip cookies left, you take it with you so you won't miss anything. He meets Dick Nichols in New Orleans and discovers that he was raising money for the Contras, although his daughter, Lucy, doesn't want the money to arrive in Nicaragua. From the author of "Glitz". Arbor House, [--with an Introduction by Elmore Leonard. Miami, Las Vegas and Hollywood. In Get Shorty, he takes a mobster to Hollywood, where the women are gorgeous, the men are corrupt, and making it big isn't all that different from making your bones: He had this interesting observation: I was struck that he had an extra level of text.
The setting is Palm Beach County, Florida, where someone places a live ten-foot alligator in the backyard of the bigoted, redneck judge Bob Gibbs--known to all as Maximum Bob--and his wife, Leanne, a former Weeki Wachee mermaid. Not long after that, shots are fired into the judge's house.
It doesn't take much figuring to conclude that someone's out to get him and that malefactor isn't going to stop at the second try.
There's a long list of suspects: Dale Crowe, who just got an outrageous sentence for a minor crime; his uncle Elvin, a killer on parole, raring to go again; Dr. Tommy Vasco, the drugged out former medical doctor; his equally bizarre friend, Hector; and Dicky Campau, who makes a living poaching alligators. And there are others. Somehow Kathy Baker, a nifty young probation officer, has got herself in the middle of all this.
She's got to avoid two seducers--the judge and a homicidal maniac--and work with a young police officer who interests her for more than professional reasons. Trying to pick out from his assortment of bad guys, sociopaths, and punks the one who's trying to kill the judge is pure entertainment, as only Elmore Leonard, with his ear for the sound and eye for the sight of lowlife, can provide.
She's been a flight attendant for twenty years and she's down to working for an island-hopping airline the day she lands in Palm Beach International with fifty grand and is taken into custody. The Feds know Jackie works for a man who sells machine guns to bad guys, but they don't know his name.
Jackie looks at her options. She can tell what she knows about Ordell Robbie, the gun dealer, and get off - except that if Ordell suspects you're talking about him, you're dead. Or she can keep her mouth shut and do five years. Then she meets Max Cherry - late fifties, recently separated, and just starting to think that maybe there's more to life than being a bail bondsman--and sees she has more options than she thought. Max is hooked on Jackie from the first time he sees her. But when he meets Ordell, he has quite a different reaction.
Nineteen years a bail bondsman, Max knows trouble when he sees it. Jackie comes up with a plan to play the Feds off against the bad guys and walk off with Ordell's money, but she needs Max's help. Max allows himself to be drawn in just to stay near Jackie, yet he can't help but wonder if he's being used. As for Ordell, he's making it now after years of busted deals.
No one is going to stand in the way of his million-dollar payoff She's just been picked up at Palm Beach International with fifty grand and some blow stashed in her flight bag. Lucky for her, the Feds want something Jackie's got: And they're ready to deal-Ordell in exchange for her freedom. But Jackie's got another ace up her sleeve. Enter Max Cherry, bail bondsman. Big, tough, basically decent Max is on the verge of divorce and tired of the same old grind. That's where Jackie comes in. The fifty big ones are peanuts compared to what Ordell's got locked away in Freeport.
But when a blowsy blond blowhead and a none-too-bright ex con try to muscle in on the action, it's time to pull and old bait and switch-where the good guys are played off against the bad guys-and where Jackie and Max hope to walk off into the Florida sunset with a hot half million in cold cash.