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Harry Lipkin, Private Eye

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Harry Lipkin, Private Eye

A Novel
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Meet Harry Lipkin, the world's oldest private detective: part Sam Spade, part Woody Allen, all mensch. Harry Lipkin is a tough-talking, soft-chewing, rough-around-the-edges, slow-around-the-corners...
Meet Harry Lipkin, the world's oldest private detective: part Sam Spade, part Woody Allen, all mensch. Harry Lipkin is a tough-talking, soft-chewing, rough-around-the-edges, slow-around-the-corners...
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Description-
  • Meet Harry Lipkin, the world's oldest private detective: part Sam Spade, part Woody Allen, all mensch.

    Harry Lipkin is a tough-talking, soft-chewing, rough-around-the-edges, slow-around-the-corners private investigator who carries a .38 along with a spare set of dentures. Harry specializes in the sort of cases that cops can't be bothered with, but knows where to find good chopped liver for a fair price. He might not be the best P.I. in Miami, but at 87, he's certainly the oldest.

    His latest client, Mrs. Norma Weinberger, has a problem. Someone in her home is stealing sentimental trinkets and the occasional priceless jewel from her; someone she employs, trusts, cares for, and treats like family. With the stakes so low and blood pressure that's a little too high, Harry Lipkin must figure out whodunit before the thief strikes again.

    Sure to appeal to fans of Alexander McCall Smith, Harry Lipkin, Private Eye is sharp, funny and irresistible.


    From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts-
  • From the book

    One

    Harry Introduces Himself

    Harry Lipkin. Eighty-seven. Eighty-eight next birthday. You think that's old? My mother lived to be a hundred and three. So. Make a note. Send Harry Lipkin a card and a box of soft candy. Something he can chew easy. No nuts. I don't digest nuts. Make yourself at home. Relax. You got some spare time? A little? I got plenty.

    When I first started in this business, I rented a place in the center of Miami. Two rooms and a closet. I had a hand-painted sign on the door. Big gold letters: Harry Lipkin. Private Investigator. Standard Rates. It was on the third floor of a block on Camilo Avenue and cost me forty bucks a month.

    Now I work from home. My card says 1909 Samuel Gompers Avenue, Warmheart, Florida. There's also a zip code I can never remember. Since no one writes anymore it doesn't bother me. My license I keep in the desk drawer, along with my .38, a box of slugs, my clothes brush, and a spare set of dentures. I might not be the best but I am certainly the oldest.

    These days I deal mostly with the sort of cases the cops don't want. Cops want serial homicide. It makes them feel good when they catch someone. But how tough is it to catch a serial killer? You put his picture on TV. Nationwide. You wait. Ten days later a schoolteacher on her lunch break spots him. He's walking out of a Baskin Robbins in a hick town somewhere in Montana. That's him. The guy whose picture was on TV. Before you know it he's surrounded by a million armed cops telling him to drop everything and freeze. And then they shoot him. Ninety-nine cents' worth of vanilla, banana, and pistachio ice cream wasted.

    You want to know about my home? The place I leave for the grocery store. The place I come back to from the grocery store. I'll tell you.

    Warmheart is an architectural folly. A mix of Flemish and Florida. It was put up by a homesick Belgian called Herman Van Dood. He built it to look just like the town he left behind when the Germans took over in 1914. The houses are single story but with slate roofs thirty feet high. The incline is sixty-five degrees. Everyone else in Miami has a flat roof. You can stand on it and watch the sun go down. On mine you'd need to be a mountaineer.

    Last month a hurricane took half the tiles off. Big heavy gray slate tiles. Van Dood imported them from Liege. They landed on the grass. They're still there. Some busted into bits. Some are half buried in what used to be the lawn when I cared about lawns. The tiles don't bother me either. But they bother the woman next door. Mrs. Feldman.

    "When you gonna get those tiles put back?" she yells. "You think this is Gaza? It looks like a bomb zone."

    I tell Mrs. Feldman I don't pay rent to climb ladders.

    So. Here I am. No family and no buddies. Issy. Joe. Angelo from Napoli. Big Mal. Little Mal. Manny. Ike. All gone. My oldest buddy died last Purim. Abe Schultz. Born the same year. Same street. Abe's parents were Dutch Jews. Old man Schultz made cigars. They both had mustaches. His was a handlebar with waxed ends. Hers? Well. You couldn't wax the ends. Abe was a dentist before he retired. He made the spare set I keep in the desk drawer. He only charged me for the materials. Abe was that kind of a mensch.

    People ask me. Clients. Usually clients. Clients with time on their hands. Were you ever married? I don't mind. They can ask what they like. I charge by the day.

    I did try marriage. But it didn't last. I married Nancy. She had long legs and soft lips. Nancy was twenty years old when we got married. Just twenty. Twenty-one when she walked out. I came home one night late from a stakeout and she was gone. No note....

About the Author-
  • BARRY FANTONI was the chief contributor and writer for Private Eye magazine, and a diary cartoonist for the Times. He is the author of several detective novels published in the 1980s, one of which was published in the United States.

Reviews-
  • AudioFile Magazine ÒI might not be the best, but I am certainly the oldest,Ó Harry Lipkin, as voiced by Arthur Morey, tells listeners. He's almost 88 and, yes, there are jokes about aches and dentures as the detective seeks a thief in Coral Gables, Florida. Morey delivers Lipkin's lines in a lightly grizzled self-deprecating voice that shamus fans will immediately accept. A slight formality in Lipkin's words keeps the gumshoe effect from being perfect, but Morey makes it work nonetheless. The novel puts noir touches to a story that's more about the effects of aging than a mystery. Even so, crime fans will find something likable about the persistent private eye. J.A.S. © AudioFile 2012, Portland, Maine
  • Booklist, starred review

    "[A] truly fine detective novel--....[the ending is] as startling to Harry as it is to readers. It's moving, too, and that's another break from the classic rules of the game. An offbeat beauty."

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    All copies of this title, including those transferred to portable devices and other media, must be deleted/destroyed at the end of the lending period.

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A Novel
Barry Fantoni
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A Novel
Barry Fantoni
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