The Mile High Club (Kinky Friedman Series #13)

The Mile High Club (Kinky Friedman Series #13)

by Kinky Friedman

NOOK Book(eBook)

$11.99
View All Available Formats & Editions

Available on Compatible NOOK Devices and the free NOOK Apps.
WANT A NOOK?  Explore Now

Overview

“There is only one Kinky Friedman.” —St. Petersburg Times

Raunchy, offbeat, and hilarious, The Mile High Club, complete with a surprise ending, is Kinky at his considerable best.

It all starts with a casual flirtation, two people on a flight from Dallas to New York. She’s gorgeous and mysterious; he’s a private detective. When the plane lands, the detective—our hero, Kinky—finds he’s been left holding the bag, literally. The woman, having asked the Kinkster to watch her luggage while she visits the can, has taken a powder and somehow vanished. Mystery Woman does turn up again, but not before Kinky has claimed the interest of an array of suits from the State Department, been party to a thwarted kidnap attempt by Arab terrorists, and found a dead Israeli agent parked on the toilet of his downtown Manhattan loft.

Employing the able-bodied assistance of his usual sidekicks, the Village Irregulars, Kinky eventually gets to the bottom of all the comings and goings of the many visitors to his loft, including two late-night visits by the mysterious and suddenly affectionate woman from the plane and one not-so-late-night visit by her angry brother.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780743217026
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Publication date: 02/21/2001
Series: Kinky Friedman Series , #13
Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 224
Sales rank: 371,301
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Kinky Friedman lives in a little green trailer somewhere in the hills of Texas. He has five dogs, one armadillo, and one Smith-Corona typewriter. By the time you are reading this, Mr. Friedman may either be celebrating becoming the next governor of Texas or he may have retired in a petulant snit.

Read an Excerpt


Chapter 1

"If there's one thing I hate," I said to the beautiful woman on the airplane, "it's meeting a beautiful woman on an airplane."

"How terrible for you," she said, briefly looking up from her FAA-mandated copy of John Grisham's latest novel. The sleeves of her blouse were thin green stems. Her hands, holding the book, were fragile, off-white flowers bathed in the memory of moonlight. I glanced out the window of the plane but there was no moon. There was nothing out there at all. Not even an extremely tall Burma Shave sign. She was reading the book again.

"It was over twenty years ago," I said, "hut every time I meet a gorgeous broad on a plane it reminds me of Veronica."

"Is this where I'm supposed to ask 'Who's Veronica?'" she said rather irritably, without looking up from the book. I was working religiously on my Bloody Mary, the third since we'd left Dallas. When I got to New York I planned to hit the ground running.

"Veronica Casillas," I said, staring straight ahead at the painful past through the stained glass window of a broken heart. "She was a stewardess for Braniff Airlines."

"A what for what?" she said.

"A stewardess for Braniff Airlines," I said, as she closed her book and then closed her eyes. The FAA-mandated baby in the row directly behind us began crying. I could see Veronica, lithe, lovely, impossibly young, walking through an airport in a dream.

"Should've married her," I said. "But I let cocaine and ambition and geography get in the way. Because I knew I was going to be a star. I guess I never really took the time to make a wish on one. By the time my country music career started to head south I wasn't equipped to do, much but drink Bloody Marys and meet beautiful women on airplanes. Are you Hispanic?"

"My father's side is Colombian."

"Can I have his phone number?"

"Try 1-800-HELL," she said. "He's dead."

I'd been down at the family ranch just outside of Kerrville, Texas, for a few weeks, ostensibly on sabbatical from a hectic spate of amateur crime-solving in New York. The most recent case in which I'd become embroiled, dubbed Spanking Watson by one rather disgruntled Steve Rambam, had been particularly unpleasant. It bad started with my efforts to seek revenge against Winnie Katz, the lesbian dance instructor in the loft above my own at 199B Vandam Street. Toward this admittedly less than Christian goal, I'd managed to convince my friends, the Village Irregulars, that a dangerous investigation was taking place and that it was their duty to infiltrate Winnie's fiercely private Isle of Lesbos. The result of this unfortunate exercise was the unleashing of a campaign of real-life crime and terror aimed at the lesbians, the Irregulars, and, to a somewhat lesser degree, myself. The outcome was that a number of individuals from a number of sexual persuasions were currently no longer speaking to the Kinkster.

The young woman sitting next to me appeared also no longer to be speaking to the Kinkster. I didn't know her name, anything about the maternal side of her family, or why she was going to New York. Possibly we already had exhausted everything we had in common. Possibly she was fired of hearing about the lost love and loneliness of a country singer-turned-private investigator. Possibly she hated meeting fascinating middle-aged men on airplanes.

"You never know when you might need a private dick," I said, trying a different approach. "Here's my card."

"That can't redly be your name," she protested, holding the card at a guarded distance as if it were a mucus sample.

"It's not my full name," I said in friendly, semiconspiratorial tones. "My full name is Richard Kinky "Big Dick" Friedman."

"I'll just call you Dick," she said dismissively, her eyes straying back to the John Grisham novel.

"What's your name?" I asked, after a short period of uneasy silence.

"Khadija."

"Beautiful, melodic name. Khadija. Does it mean anything?"

"It means 'Woman Who Understands Why You Have Trouble Meeting Chicks On Airplanes.'"

"You've got to admit it is amazing. Every time I meet a beautiful girl on an airplane it always turns into some kind of hideous, star-crossed relationship. Invariably, there's a tragic, unhappy ending."

"Don't get your hopes up," she said.

Copyright © 2000 by Kinky Friedman

Table of Contents

What People are Saying About This

Willie Nelson

Kinky Friedman is the best whodunit writer to come along since Dashiell what's-his-name.

Introduction

September 2000

In his 13th novel of hip intrigue, fiendishly clever plots, and shameless puns, trash-talking detective Kinky Friedman must solve the mystery of what links a beautiful woman on an airplane, a band of international terrorists, a cat with bad litterbox habit, and a hot pink leatherette cosmetic case. Yes, Kinky is back -- and in The Mile High Club, he's better than ever!

When our intrepid hero agrees to hold a pink cosmetic bag for the beautiful woman seated next to him on an airplane, he thinks he's just performing an act of chivalry -- and when she forgets to relieve him of his duty, he feels certain he'll see her again. (He can charm the best of 'em, can't he?) Sure enough, she does turn up, but not before Kinky has excited the interest of an array of "suits" from the State Department, been party to a thwarted kidnapping attempt by Arab terrorists, and discovered a dead Israeli agent parked on the toilet of his downtown Manhattan loft. A mystery peppered with his signature bawdy one-liners, The Mile High Club is Kinky at his offbeat, one-of-a-kind best.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Mile High Club (Kinky Friedman Series #13) 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
Needing a vacation, private investigator Kinky Friedman flies to the old Texas homestead to relax. On the return trip to the Big Apple, Kinky attempts to speak to his beautiful row mate. She brushes him off until she asks him to hold her pretty, pink suitcase while she goes to the ladies room. The plane lands but there is no sight of Khadija Kejela anywhere. The Kinkster is not worried because she has his business card while her name and address is on the luggage.

Kinky receives strange telephone calls including one from the airlines and one from the State Department both claiming Khadija¿s bag. The parties want Kinky to call them when she gets in touch with him. Inside the suitcase, Kinky finds thirty passports with the names and faces of Middle Eastern men and women. Khadija seems Middle Eastern and Kinky immediately thinks she has something to do with terrorism. Kinky being the nosy person he is decides to investigate the situation and hides the passports at the bottom of his cat¿s filled litterbox. He and his friends (dubbed the Village Irregulars) find themselves involved in a situation that has deadly international ramifications.

The Kinkster is an irresistible, sexist, vulgar and uncouth fifty-three year old man who has a raunchy appeal to fans of Lenny Bruce. In THE MILE HIGH CLUB, the audience is treated to Kinky¿s view on life, women, happiness and politics told as the pseudo-serious story line unfolds. The supporting cast, being friends with Kinky, naturally have the same philosophy. The dialogue is funny, suspenseful and fast paced, making THE MILE HIGH CLUB one of Kinky Friedman¿s best works to date.

Harriet Klausner

Guest More than 1 year ago
If you want to read about a guy who smokes cigars all of the wakeing time, drinks too much booze and seems to only drink strong cappuccino and eat very little of anything...not to mention since he keeps the cat litter box in the bathroom shower and hasn't cleaned it for 7 years and moves it out of the shower infrequently to cleanse himself...he has got to stink and yet some hot terrorist performs oral sex on him and other masterful acts...Any person who enters his loft has to walk an obstacle course around the cat excrement, that he does not seem to mind...and rarely if ever cares to clean it up. Then this book is for you...but...not for me. The author tried to be funny but the slap stick was old and mostly vague...I never laughed out loud only prayed silently that I would near the end of this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
wow! i was able to get a hold of an advanced reading copy of MILE HIGH. if you loved kinky before, then your gonna absolutely dig him now. and if you have never been exposed to the kinkstah, i can think of no better way to get started then with this book. its all there: beautiful women, cigar smoke, Jamesons for the phlegm, Ratso, Rambam, Stephanie, and even the coolest character of them all (aside from kinkstah himself) the Cat! This book had me in stitches. Had some of the funniest dialoge i have read in a long time! Kinky rules the publishing world yet again. Never mind Clancy, Read Kinky!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Never mind that a qualified reader could guess the solution to the mystery 100 pages before Kinky could. Surely that would be annoying in a Christie, or a Hammett, or such; but, having greedily gobbled all but one of the man's works I feel qualified to say that, one doesn't read Kinky Friedman for the mystery, one reads Kinky for his reactions to the antagonistic 'mystery.' Funny thing is -- just when you are getting used to knowing what happens long before our befuddled hero does, the Kinkster springs MILE HIGH CLUB. The ending is such a delightful, the-butler-did-it that you expect the cat to finally say something ennuyne about it. The mystery to MHC is the perfect love-child of tie-dyed noirishness and paranoia for the new millennium. With its Beat standpoint (or, rather, perspective, for surely no self-respecting bohemian would stand when there is the opportuinity to recline) on terrorists vs. the State Dept. vs. every other major official power in the face of sexual adversity, MHC is Kinky's singular, grooviest, pageturningest, cat-poo infected seedy extravaganza yet. With great Siskel and Ebert hauter, I give this book two shots of Jameson's (up) and a complimentary crate of airline peanuts.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
?.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I couldn't agree more with another reviewer who says the author tries way too hard to be funny. Friedman does try too hard and consequently misses the mark. Most of the humor is vulgar and raunchy. He uses tired cliches and phrases repetitively. This book almost seems like it could have made a decent short story but instead it got turned into a novel that doesn't seem to have a very coherent plot line. The novel is relatively short but took me a long time to read. The end kept seeming further and further away. With all the books out there, don't waste your time on this one. Read something more worthwhile.