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Summary
Summary
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.
Author Notes
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 (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
British author Fantoni, once the chief contributor and writer for Private Eye magazine, introduces a most unusual PI, 87-year-old Harry Lipkin, in the first, one hopes, in a light crime series. Norma Weinberger, an affluent widow in her 70s, hires the geriatric gumshoe, who runs his detective agency out of his home in Warmheart, Fla., to look into the theft of a pillbox with sentimental value from her home. Since the most likely culprit is a member of Norma's staff, Harry interviews the chauffeur, the maid, the butler, the chef, and the gardener in an attempt to uncover financial difficulties that would lead one of them to risk losing his or her cushy job by stealing the item. The headings of the short chapters ("Harry and Mr. Lee Walk to the Kitchen") reinforce the arch tone. While the ending will surprise few readers, Fantoni doesn't make the mistake of giving his lead the capacities of a younger man. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* The author of this truly fine detective novel it's really more of a novella seems thoroughly unimpressed by the conventions of the genre, and his book is all the better for it. Harry Lipkin is an 87-year-old Jewish private eye, plying his trade in Miami, but he's neither cute nor abrasive. He's just a shamus plugging away at his job, with an occasional stop for blintzes. Years ago his wife dumped him, and he tells tales of what the bad city does to innocents, but, really, he brings up all these hard-boiled staples mainly to show his lack of interest in them. The case he takes on would have the old heroes sniggering. Recovering lost lead pencils! Sherlock Holmes would call it. A wealthy widow's heirlooms are vanishing from her house, and Harry interrogates the staff and investigates their lives, looking for a motive. The last chapters play on an older convention the country-house murder when Harry gathers the suspects in the lounge for the reveal. When it comes, it's 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.--Crinklaw, Don Copyright 2010 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Not inclined to retire, 87-year-old Miami PI Harry Lipkin readily takes a case from Mrs. Weinberger, a local dowager who suspects a member of her staff of theft but doesn't know how to proceed. So she hires Harry to investigate. Slowly but methodically, Harry questions everyone from the chauffeur to the gardener, gleaning tidbits as he goes. And so goes the reader: to the boxing club, the racetrack, the dark streets of Miami, and the local hospital. Interviewing retired rabbis, business owners, and others gives Harry a flavor of his client's environment, but not necessarily any definitive clues. A meeting of all parties at the conclusion resolves the case. VERDICT Cleverly modeling his mystery on classic PI novels, Fantoni, a former Private Eye magazine writer and author of several detective novels published in the 1980s, fleshes out a slim semicozy sure to please fans of the genre, particularly those of a certain age. His protagonist's splendid first-person observations about south Florida folks make for a fun afternoon read. (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Harry Lipkin, Private Eye By Barry Fantoni Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group ISBN: 9780385536103 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. Nothing. Just an empty clothes closet and the faint smell of her ten-cent perfume. This office has a lot less space than the one I had before. So when I get a client I sit them in the yard. I got a little table and a couple of garden chairs. Plastic with cushions. Yellow. Bright yellow I can see easy. I picked them up in a garage sale. Three bucks and fifty cents. A table and two chairs. For another fifty cents the guy also threw in an umbrella. Like the suit? I wear it to meet new clients. Brooks Brothers. Seersucker. Classic. 1953. Single-breasted. Loose fit, so the front doesn't go all baggy when I strap on my .38. Perfect for Miami in the summer. It is the same suit that I put on to meet Mrs. Norma Weinberger. Except there was no Mrs. Weinberger. Excerpted from Harry Lipkin, Private Eye by Barry Fantoni 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. Excerpted from Harry Lipkin, Private Eye by Barry Fantoni 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.
