The Mile High Club (Kinky Friedman Series #13)
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...
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This irreverent, offbeat, hilarious novel of intrigue, international terrorism, and cross-dressing starts with two people on a flight from Dallas to New York. He is Kinky Friedman, private detective. Gorgeous and mysterious, she leaves him holding the bag -- a bright pink cosmetic bag -- before vanishing.Baltimore SunIf you yearn for assurance that our Puritanical tendencies have not smothered unconventional viewpoints altogether, look no further.
\ 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
\ From Barnes & NobleNew York detective Kinky Friedman gets left holding the bag -- literally -- when he's duped by a femme fatale who's mixed up in state secrets and global terrorism.\ \ \ \ \ New York TimesWorld's funniest, bawdiest, and most politically incorrect country music singer turned mystery writer.\ \ \ Baltimore SunIf you yearn for assurance that our Puritanical tendencies have not smothered unconventional viewpoints altogether, look no further.\ \ \ \ \ Washington Post Book WorldNothing is sacred in a Kinky Friedman book....Therein lies the charm.\ \ \ \ \ San Diego Union-TribuneHis irreverent, bawdy, and often outrageous adventures are like no others.\ \ \ \ \ Publishers WeeklyAficionados of the Kinkster and his gang of Village Irregulars are in for another round of hilarious hijinks. On a plane from Texas to New York, the intrepid detective/humorist/musician agrees to keep an eye on the little pink suitcase of his seatmate, the exotic Khadija Kejela, when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She never returns. After the plane lands in New York, Kinky gets a call from Khadija about the suitcase, which he's taken with him, but she doesn't show up to claim it. Curious about the contents, Kinky and his PI pal, Rambam, force open the suitcase and find a plastic bag full of fake passports for possible Middle Eastern terrorists. Realizing that both he and Rambam may be in danger, Kinky rounds up his old friends Ratso and McGovern to help figure out what's going on. Mayhem ensues. This is guy territory, albeit Greenwich Village '60s style. When necessary, Kinky takes cover with his bottle of Jameson's, a couple of Monte Cristos (preferably No. 2), his espresso machine and his long-suffering cat, whose litter box becomes the hiding place for the passports. Sometime girlfriend Stephanie DuPont adds to the chaos. As usual, the mystery at hand counts for less than the time spent in Kinky's company. The fun is in the ba-da-boom dialogue and the throwaway references. Occasional lyrical passages amidst the raunch surprise and please. The resolution may not convince entirely, but Friedman fans will be too busy laughing to notice. (Sept.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\ \ \ \ \ Library JournalFor the last 14 years, musician Friedman's mysteries (Musical Chairs, Road Kill) have featured the fictional Kinky Friedman, a profane, funny, and semidegenerate detective. While his stories may not be for everyone, no one else writes like Kinky. This latest mystery is served up with a fair helping of dirty jokes and double entendres, all sure to offend somebody and most taking the Kinkster himself as the target. The Village irregulars are back to help Kinky safeguard a piece of lost luggage, going up against international terrorists, the State Department, and Israeli agents in an effort to keep the pretty pink suitcase and its surprising contents from falling into the wrong hands. The mystery is not all that mysterious and is never satisfactorily solved, but Friedman's books are more about the philosophical discussions that go on while the case is being investigated, discussions involving love and loss, or cigars and sexual perversion. This time Kinky and his cat seem to have all the good lines, and readers with a sense of humor will enjoy The Mile High Club. Recommended for all public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/15/00.]--Patrick Wall, University City P.L., MO Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\\\ \
