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Summary
Author Notes
Stuart Woods was born in Manchester, Georgia on January 9, 1938. He received a B. A. in sociology from the University of Georgia in 1959. He worked in the advertising business and eventually wrote two non-fiction books entitled Blue Water, Green Skipper and A Romantic's Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland. His first novel, Chiefs, was published in 1981. It won an Edgar Award and was made into a TV miniseries starring Charlton Heston. His other works include the Stone Barrington series, the Holly Barker series, the Will Lee series, the Ed Eagle series, the Rick Barron series and the Teddy Fay series. He won France's Prix de Literature Policiere for Imperfect Strangers. His autobiography, An Extravagant Life, was published in June 2022. Stuart Woods died on July 22, 2022, at his home in Lichfield, Connecticut. He was 84.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Tony Roberts strikes just the right note in his reading of Woods's latest Barrington Stone adventure. Stone unwillingly takes on as a client the perpetually clueless trouble magnet Herbie Fisher, who has just come into several million dollars of lottery money. In addition, Stone is hired by Felicity Devonshire of British Intelligence to try and find an ex-agent who may, or may not, have resurfaced after 12 years under a new identity. As the story unfolds (and his clients multiply), Stone wonders if any amount of money is worth the trouble he runs into. Filling the story with thrills, titters, and titillation, Woods moves the story along, and Roberts keeps pace with him step for step. He delivers the author's prose with a wry arch of an eyebrow that tells the listener to sit back and enjoy the ride, but don't take it all too seriously. A Putnam hardcover (Reviews, Feb. 15). (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Hot on the heels of Kisser (2010), Woods' new Stone Barrington mystery features the charismatic lawyer juggling an unwanted new client and a hunt for a former British intelligence operative. Stone is less than thrilled when Herbie Fisher, the feckless nephew of his friend Bob Cantor, walks up to him at Elaine's and drops $1 million in his lap in exchange for representation. But Stone has bills to pay, so he helps Herbie with everything from a real-estate deal to a prenuptial agreement. But soon Stone has more pressing matters on his hands: Felicity Devonshire, a beautiful member of British intelligence, has need of his services, in and out of the bedroom. Felicity is on the hunt for Stanley Whitestone, an agent who defected and may be in New York. Felicity wants Stone to find Whitestone, a task he takes on wholeheartedly, until his investigation leads him to believe that Whitestone might not be the nefarious traitor British intelligence claims he is. Fans of Woods' long-running series will not be disappointed by this romp, which is peppered with plenty of humor courtesy of the hapless Herbie.--Huntley, Kristine Copyright 2010 Booklist
Kirkus Review
Jet-setting New York attorney Stone Barrington's old acquaintances present him with a fistful of new problems. Herbie Fisher, the most clueless member of the New York bar (Fresh Disasters, 2007), turns up in Elaine's announcing that he's won a $30 million lottery prize, shoving a handbag full of hundreds in Stone's face and insisting that he needs a lawyer of his own because somebody wants to kill him. Moments later, he's followed by Dame Felicity Devonshire of MI6 (Capital Crimes, 2003), who offers Stone the relatively piddling sum of 100,000 to find Stanley Whitestone, who since retiring from Her Majesty's Secret Service a dozen years ago has been selling classified information on the open market. Since Felicity offers a sweetener Herbie can't hope to match, Stone agrees to her terms as quickly as he declined Herbie's. Next morning, he awakens to find that he's inadvertently accepted both clients. If Herbie's constant demands for help and Felicity's for sex aren't draining enough, Stone also learns that Dolce Bianchi, the homicidal Mafia princess to whom he was once married for a heartbeat (L.A. Dead, 2000), has stabbed her minder and gone off the rez, presumably gunning for Stone and his ladylove. Things get even more complicated when Jim Hackett, the security expert Felicity is convinced is really Stanley Whitestone, takes to Stone so warmly that he offers him a job at his firm, Strategic Services, creating what passes for moral conflict in Woods's world of frothy wish-fulfillment. Will Stone ace his first assignment for Security Services by qualifying to fly Hackett's private jet? Will he, and should he, convince Felicity that Hackett isn't Whitestone? Will Herbie get killed? If he isn't, will Stone be able to spring him from a jail cell? And what will become of Dolce, armed, dangerous and demented? Some of these riddles are handily resolved, others fade away, and then this weightless tale is done, setting the stage for the inevitable next installment. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 Elaine's, late. Stone Barrington and Dino Bacchetti were sitting at their usual table, eating penne with shrimp and vodka sauce, when a young man named Herbert Fisher walked in with a tall young woman. Stone ignored him. Herbie Fisher was the nephew of Bob Cantor, a retired cop with whom Stone had worked many times. Bob Cantor was Herbie's only connection with reality. Herbie Fisher, in Stone's experience, was a walking catastrophe. Herbie seated his girl at a table to the rear, then walked back and took a chair at Stone's table. "Hi, Stone," he said. "Hi, Dino." "Dino," Stone said, "you are a police officer, are you not?" "I am," said Dino, spearing a shrimp. "I wish to make a complaint." "Go right ahead," Dino said. "What's going on, Stone?" Herbie asked. Stone ignored him. "There is an intruder at my table; I wish to have him removed." "Remove him yourself," Dino said. "I'm eating penne with shrimp and vodka sauce." "You are a duly constituted officer of the law, are you not?" Stone asked. "Once again, I am." "Then it is your duty to respond to the complaint of an upstanding citizen." "What kind of citizen?" "Upstanding." "I'm not at all sure that the word describes you, Stone." Herbie, whose head was following the conversation as if he were seated in the first row at Wimbledon, said, "No kidding, Stone, what's going on?" Stone continued to ignore him. "Dino, am I to understand that you are ignoring a citizen's complaint?" "You are to understand that," Dino said, mopping up some vodka sauce with a slice of bread. "Do your own dirty work." "Stone," Herbie said, "I'm rich." "That's rich," Dino replied. "No kidding, I'm rich. I won the lottery." "How much?" Dino asked. "Don't encourage him," Stone said. "Thirty million dollars," Herbie replied. "How much you got left after taxes and paying off your bookie and your loan shark?" Dino asked. "I'm warning you," Stone said. "Don't encourage him, he's dangerous." "Approximately fourteen million, two," Herbie replied. "I want to hire you as my lawyer, Stone," he continued. "Why do you need a lawyer?" Dino asked. "All rich people need lawyers," Herbie said. "Could you be more specific?" Dino asked. "Dino," Stone said, "stop this, stop it right now. He's sucking you in." "Prove you're rich, Herbie," Dino said. "I'll be right back," Herbie said. He got up, walked back to where the girl sat, picked up her large handbag, came back to Stone's table and sat down. He lifted up the handbag and opened it wide, displaying the contents to Stone and Dino. "What do you think that is?" he asked. "Well," Dino said, gazing into the purse, "that would appear to be approximately twenty bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills each, or two million dollars." "Absolutely correct," Herbie said. "Do you always walk around with that much money, Herbie?" Dino asked. "Only since I got rich." "Oh." "Stone, I want to retain you as my lawyer. I'll pay you a one-million-dollar retainer in cash, right now." Stone stopped eating. "Dino, have you had any recent training at recognizing counterfeit bills?" "Funny you should mention that," Dino said. "We had a guy in from Treasury the day before yesterday who gave us a slide-show presentation on that very subject." "Would you examine the bills in the bag, please?" Dino dipped into the bag and came out with a hundred-dollar bill. He held it up to the light, snapped it a couple of times and laid it on the table. "Entirely genuine," Dino said, then he turned to Herbie. "They don't hand out millions in cash at the lottery office, you know. Where did you get it?" "I cashed a check," Herbie replied. Stone flagged down a passing waiter. "David," he said, "would you please go and find me a good-sized paper bag?" "Sure," David replied. He went into the kitchen and came back with a plastic shopping bag. "No paper bags. Will this do?" "Yes," Stone said, accepting the bag and handing it to Dino. "Will you please put one million dollars of Herbie's money into this bag, Dino?" "That okay with you, Herbie?" "Sure, go ahead," Herbie replied. Dino held the plastic bag close to the purse and counted out ten of the bundles. He handed the bag to Stone. "There you go." "Just put it on the floor beside me," Stone said, and Dino did so. Stone looked at Herbie for the first time. "All right, you've got my attention; I'll listen for one minute." "They're trying to kill me," Herbie said. "Who is trying to kill you?" "People who want my money." "Are these people aware that you walk around with two million dollars of it in a woman's handbag?" Herbie shrugged. "Maybe." "Herbie, you've been flashing this money around, haven't you?" "Well, sort of." "The hooker must know about the money, since it's in her handbag." "What hooker?" "The one you walked in here with." "She's not a hooker." "Herbie, she's with you; she is, ipso facto, a hooker." "Part-time, maybe," Herbie admitted. "Who do hookers work for, Herbie?" "Me?" "Besides you?" "Madams? Pimps?" "And who do madams and pimps work for, Herbie?" "They're self-employed, aren't they?" "They work for or associate with bad people, Herbie. If a hooker knows you've got two million dollars in her handbag, then her madam and her pimp know it too, and if they've had a moment, they've already sold that information to someone who wants to take it from you." "Sheila wouldn't do that," Herbie said. "She loves me." At that moment, as if for punctuation at the end of Herbie's sentence, a fist-sized hole appeared in the front window of Elaine's, and a loud report rent the air. This was quickly followed by two more shots. Everybody hit the floor. Stone raised his head an inch. "Are you sure Sheila loves you, Herbie?" 2 Dino was up and running at the door, clawing at the gun on his belt. He disappeared into the street. People began cautiously to pick themselves up, look around and brush themselves off. Elaine sat two tables down, unmoving, looking unperturbed. The door opened, and a tall woman of Stone's acquaintance, though not recent, walked in carrying a very feminine attaché case. Her name was Felicity Devonshire, though she was not called that by anyone who worked with her. She was, in fact, a high official of British intelligence who had formerly been called Carpenter but more recently, after a big promotion, had been dubbed Architect. A man had preceded her into the restaurant, and another followed her. They stationed themselves at the end of the bar, near the door, and watched the room. Stone got up from the floor, dusted himself off, spotted Felicity and waved her over. They embraced casually. He could feel her ample breasts through her coat and his. "Stone," she said, "what is going on? Dino is out in the street waving a gun around and shouting into a cell phone, and this place is a mess." "Just a little after-dinner entertainment," Stone said, taking her coat and holding a chair for her, not missing the sight of her cleavage as she sat down. He took his seat, picked up the plastic bag with the million dollars in it and stuffed it into the hooker's handbag. Shoving the bag at Herbie, he said, "Go away." Herbie began to protest, but Stone held up a hand like a traffic cop and then waved him back to his own table and the clutches of the perfidious Sheila. Felicity watched him go. "Isn't that the awful little twit who gave you so much trouble a couple of years ago?" "I'm afraid so." Excerpted from Lucid Intervals by Stuart Woods All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.