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Summary
Summary
The bestselling American mystery writer of all time brings back his world-famous PI Mike Hammer for his biggest--and most dangerous--case.
In the midst of a Manhattan snowstorm, Hammer halts the violent robbery of a pair of college sweethearts who have stumbled onto a remarkable archaeological find in the Valley of Elah: the perfectly preserved femur of what may have been the biblical giant Goliath. Hammer postpones his marriage to his faithful girl Friday, Velda, to fight a foe deadlier than the mobsters and KGB agents of his past--Islamic terrorists and Israeli extremists bent upon recovering the relic for their ownagendas. A week before his death, Mickey Spillane entrusted a substantial portion of this manuscript and extensive notes to his frequent collaborator, Max Allan Collins, to complete. The result is a thriller as classic as Spillane's own I, the Jury , as compelling as Collins's Road to Perdition , and as contemporary as The Da Vinci Code .
Author Notes
Mickey Spillane was born Frank Morrison Spillane in Brooklyn, New York on March 9, 1918. He briefly attended Fort Hays State College in Kansas, but dropped out, moved back to New York, and began his writing career in the mid-1930s. His first stories were published mostly in comic books and pulp magazines. He created Mike Danger, a private detective, and also wrote for Captain America, Captain Marvel, and The Human Torch. During World War II, he worked as a flying instructor for the U.S. Army Air Force.
His first novel, I, the Jury, featured Mike Hammer and was published in 1947. His other novels include Vengeance Is Mine; My Gun Is Quick; The Big Kill; Kiss Me, Deadly; The Long Wait; and The Deep. Between 1952 and 1961 Spillane stopped writing full-length novels after converting to a Jehovah's Witness. In 1962, he brought Hammer back with The Girl Hunters, which was followed by Day of the Guns, The Death Dealers, The Twisted Thing, and Body Lovers. He also wrote two children's books, The Day the Sea Rolled Back, which won a prize from the Junior Literary Guild, and The Ship That Never Was. In 1995, he received the Grand Master award from the Mystery Writers of America. In the mid-1990s, he returned to comic books, by co-creating a futuristic Mike Danger. He died following a long illness on July 17, 2006 at the age of 88.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
This isn't your father's Mike Hammer. More like your grandfather's. Though he's now a self-admitted "member of AARP," Hammer remains as tough as a boiled owl as he sleuths a series of murders involving the femur of the original giant Goliath, a collectible more valuable than even the Maltese Falcon and considerably more political, thanks to its significance to factions in the Middle East. As Mike hammers terrorists, extremists and slinky seductresses, almost every sentence refers to his senior citizenship, but this audio renders such reminders unnecessary. Stacy Keach, arguably the private eye's best interpreter, has been aging along with him. His well-trained voice carries the perfect combination of unwithered age, strength and determination. According to Collins's afterword, though three more incomplete manuscripts exist, the late Spillane had planned Goliath to be his hero's chronological farewell. And a fine send-off it is, reflecting back to the very first, I, the Jury, with Keach adding a poignancy that even a tough guy like Spillane would have appreciated. A Harcourt/Penzler hardcover (Reviews, Aug. 25). (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Before Spillane died in 2006, he left several unfinished manuscripts in the hands of frequent collaborator Collins (such as Dead Street, 2007). This one is noteworthy both because it marks the return of legendary PI Mike Hammer (last seen in Black Alley, 1996) and because Spillane intended it to be the final entry in the Hammer saga. The story starts with a bang when Hammer rescues a young couple who are being hunted because they possess a MacGuffin of biblical proportion: the thighbone of Goliath. In a post-9/11 world, Hammer's foes aren't mobsters but terrorists; the bone becomes a symbol for warring Middle East factions, and everyone, from al-Qaeda to Hollywood, wants a piece of it. While there's something almost touching about watching Hammer navigate a new millennium ( Plenty of Muslims are as horrified by this zealotry as we are, he duly informs an Israeli diplomat), the notion that the relic would set off World War III seems as 1950s as the word clamsville, used in dialogue here. The writers have fun with both Hammer's old-timer status and his oft-delayed marriage to secretary Velda. But whether it's Hammer's age, or the age we're living in, the sleuth seems like a relic himself: too tired for vengeance, or maybe unsure where to direct his anger. A suitable swan song, but don't be surprised if some out-of-sequence Hammers show up in the future.--Graff, Keir Copyright 2008 Booklist
Guardian Review
The moment the legendary Mike Hammer pulled out a cellphone, I lost the will to read on. Mickey Spillane is said to have written the beginning and end of this book, and outlined the middle section, before he died in 2006 aged 88. The rest has been filled in by Max Allan Collins who, although an accomplished crime writer in his own right, is no Mickey Spillane. Hammer, surely, was a creature of 60s and 70s New York, and if he has to be placed in contemporary New York with cellphones, satnavs and 9/11 terrorists, he'd also have to be around 80. The rest of the plot, about the pursuit of archaeologists who appear to have discovered the femur of the biblical giant Goliath, is as absurd as it sounds. Spillane was a true giant of the tough private eye thriller genre, and his reputation here is in danger of being beaten to death with a large bone. Caption: article-janthrills.3 The moment the legendary Mike Hammer pulled out a cellphone, I lost the will to read on. Mickey Spillane is said to have written the beginning and end of this book, and outlined the middle section, before he died in 2006 aged 88. - Matthew Lewin.
Library Journal Review
During a Manhattan snowstorm, Spillane's legendary Mike Hammer (I, the Jury) saves two Columbia University archaeology students from a violent mugging. It turns out the couple had uncovered what might be the greatest find since King Tut's tomb, the leg bone of Goliath, the biblical giant. Spillane, who died in 2006, entrusted his incomplete manuscript to longtime friend Collins, who completed the work, which serves as a refreshing reminder of a writer who illustrates old-fashioned pride in his priceless body of work. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter 1 The snow had stopped. Barely an inch of it had come down to cover the icy sheet that made New York City shine with strange new prisms of light. The temperature was twelve degrees below freezing, and it wasn't going to get any warmer. Traffic barely moved, and a lot of it was pinched against curbs where they had slid earlier. Nobody bothered to stay with their vehicles. Sitting shut up with an engine going was inviting trouble, and with all the lights on outside the bars in the adjoining blocks, it was a night to play until it thawed or somebody came and got you. I had enough of being parked on a bar stool, brushing off the half-drunks and the chippies who were making the most of a bad night on the street. I paid my tab, nodded good night to the bartender, left a full Scotch and soda for the doll baby who was trying to give me a rush job, and went outside. Damn, it was cold. I buttoned up the old pile-lined trench coat and snugged the belt around my waist, glad I wasn't on a job where Id need the .45. This time it was in a belt holster on my right hip, accessible through my pocket. Nothing was happening, but the precaution of keeping my hands stuffed in my coat wouldnt be a noticeable gesture. Everybody else had their hands in their pockets, too. Across the street a battered sedan was parked, a gypsy cab, the hood and top under a layer of snow. The front wheels were angled out and the distance from the car in front of it was enough to make sure it wasn't trapped. The windshield wipers had kept the snow off. Briefly, there was a dark blur of a face in a rear window up front, the driver, a guy in a stocking cap, was bored and slumped behind his wheel; but behind him, the blurred face slowly scanned the sidewalks before sinking back into the darkness. Whoever this passenger was, he'd been sitting there for over an hour freezing his ass off, waiting for something to happen. And paying a cabbie for the privilege. I had seen too many nights like this on streets like these. There is an atmosphere that goes along with it, like smelling smoke from a fire a long way off. There was nothing you could put your finger on, but the years of living under the shadow of violence gave me an alertness I never tried to shrug off. Something was going to happen. Two drunks came out of a bar trying to sing. One got as far as the curb and threw up. The sight and smell of it caused the other one to make it an upchuck duet. Then they both argued about which way to go, decided to head toward the dull glow of Sixth Avenue, and lurched off. A fat guy carrying a couple of packages came by, and when he waddled past, I stepped out, went about ten feet, and stepped into a doorway beside an abandoned old store. Nothing was happening. But it was getting ready to. I could feel it. Pat Chambers of Homicide always told me thats what cops felt. Old cops. Real street cops. He always said I should have stayed one instead of taking the money road of being license Excerpted from The Goliath Bone by Mickey Spillane 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.
