Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
|---|---|---|
Searching... Stillwater Public Library | FICTION WOO | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
The second novel in the thrilling Stone Barrington Series by #1 New York Times Bestselling author Stuart Woods
"Blackmail, murder, suspense, love--what else could you want in a book?" -Cosmopolitan
Feared and loathed for her poison pen and ice queen persona, Amanda Dart has made her share of enemies. Then the tables are turned. An anonymous gossipmonger is faxing Amanda's personal and private peccadilloes to anyone who can read. Desperate to save her reputation, she enlists the help of New York lawyer and private investigator Stone Barrington to learn the identity of the faxer. And everyone in the world of tabloid journalism becomes a suspect.
But the faxes don't stop. In fact, they get worse. And Stone winds up with more leads than one man can handle, until Amanda takes matters dangerously into her own hands and turns the world of gossip on its head. As the circle of suspects shrinks, Stone discovers that even the most respected members of the social scene will stop at nothing--even homicide--to clear their sullied names.
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 (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
It may be his fifth novel in three years, but this slickly entertaining suspenser displays Woods at the top of his game with no signs of flagging. A sizable supporting cast of paparazzi-challenged beautiful people share the action as Stone Barrington, the suave ex-cop attorney-hero of New York Dead, makes his comeback. In this superbly paced tale, Stone gets involved in a blackmail scheme involving Amanda Dart, a much-feared, nationally syndicated gossip columnist. After Amanda is photographed in bed in a Manhattan hotel with a married real-estate magnate, a fax headlined "DIRT" and presenting both the photo and details of Amanda's tryst is sent to a weighty list of prominent people and major media outlets. The DIRT fax-web quickly expands to snare the gay but closeted editor of a sleazy L.A. tabloid. When Stone is hired by Amanda to sniff out who's spilling the pearls about these jealously guarded privacies, one of his operatives, a retired N.Y.C. cop, is murdered. The intrigue deepens when one of the perps is identified as closely resembling a male model in a Vanity Fair cologne ad. Dripping with name-dropping, haute couture and pricey playthings, and spiced with hormonal aerobics as Stone trolls the siren-infested waters of upscale Manhattan, the narrative rockets toward an abrupt but absolutely stunning denouement. Using all his skills here, and subtly reminiscent of the waggish P.G. Wodehouse, Woods delivers a marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern old-fashioned read. $275,000 combined (with the simultaneously published HarperPaperback edition of Choke) ad/promo; simultaneous HarperAudio edition; author tour; U.K., translation, dramatic rights: Janklow & Nesbit. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Syndicated gossip columnist Amanda Dart, accustomed to puncturing the reputations of others, finds her own image has sprung a leak. A mysterious someone has put together a scandal sheet titled Dirt. Issue one, detailing her tryst with a prominent married businessman, has been distributed via fax to media types nationwide, threatening her fastidiously maintained facade of propriety. Unhappy at being on the receiving end of the poison pen, she seeks the assistance of debonair former cop turned private dick Stone Barrington, precipitating an announcement of the investigation in issue two. As Stone tries to track down the mole on Amanda's staff, Dirt just keeps on rolling out of the fax machine--outing the deeply closeted editor of a supermarket tabloid and naming the teenage mistress of Amanda's publisher. When the retired policeman Stone hired to check out Amanda's assistants is murdered, the investigation takes on a personal urgency. Woods, author of Imperfect Strangers (1994) and New York Dead (1991), which introduced Stone Barrington, has appropriated the jaded, waspish tone of a society gossip column, which necessarily keeps his characters at a certain remove but makes for an amusingly catty novel. Fans of glitzy pop fiction will find brisk sex, designer name-dropping, and the voyeuristic tingle of dishing dirt on the rich and famous. (Reviewed Aug. 1996)0060176660June Vigor
Kirkus Review
Eased out of the NYPD, lawyer/shamus Stone Barrington (New York Dead, 1991) is free to mix with an even sleazier crowd: a vicious pair of blackmailers and their equally slimy victims. Stone's client, gossip columnist Amanda Dart, has no rivals in dishing dirt on New York celebs until the faxes headed ``DIRT'' start to spew from her own machine. The faxes know about her cozy liaison with an out-of-town developer; they know who she had dinner with, and who each of her dinner guests is sleeping with; they know that she's hired Stone to stop the flow of faxes; and they gleefully predict that it won't do a bit of good. Meantime, DIRT is also being dished on American Infiltrator editor Allan Peebles, a cut below Amanda in class and courage; and DIRT is warming up for the coup de grâce against a third target. Stone isn't taking all this unauthorized faxing lying down, of course; he's allowing Amanda to seduce him, putting the moves on aspiring journalist Arrington Carter, and even (in Woods's most hilariously gratuitous scene) getting naked with a suspect's sister. In between bouts, he's discovering a passel of wiretaps encumbering the privacy of himself and those who sign his paychecks, and sending a retired NYPD colleague out on a surveillance detail that'll end in the morgue. The first half of the novel, highlighted by the bevy of willing, well-toned women taking their turns at Stone's shrine, is confidently, even amusingly predictable. But once Amanda's publisher Dick Hickock, presumably impressed by Stone's flurry of activity, decides to hire him on his own hook, the case begins to fall apart, as Stone's clients begin to pull in contrary directions and finally take matters into their own vigorous, aimless hands. Unmoored from their formulaic roles, Woods's tawdry avengers don't have enough substance to go it on their own. Besides, it hardly seems fair to the poor blackmailers when they're badly outnumbered by well-armed victims too despicable to root for. ($275,000 ad/promo combined with paperback publication of Choke)
Library Journal Review
There's gossip about gossip columnist Amanda Dart, and murder soon follows. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Dirt Chapter One Dinner had been wonderful--twelve around a gleaming oval table of burled walnut in a dining room a dozen stories above the light-flecked carpet of Central Park, the cooking by the chef of a famous restaurant a few blocks away, the wines from the host's superb cellar, and the company carefully chosen by a couple who could cast a wide net. Amanda Dart felt quite at home among them. As they moved from the table into the library next door for coffee and brandy, Amanda reflected that her presence there was as much a tribute to her position as to her personality, though she could certainly hold her own in any company. Of those present--a movie star and his gorgeous companion, a captain of industry and his dowdy wife, and a former British prime minister, her dinner partner, among them--Amanda alone possessed the power to tell the world just who her hosts had attracted to their table, something the couple wanted very badly for the world to know. It was vulgar to drop names; Amanda Dart, queen of gossip columnists, would do the dropping for them. Lord Wight, the former prime minister, was taking a keen interest in Amanda, attention that, on another night, would have been a great deal more interesting for her. Tonight, however, she had other plans, other company in mind, and the thought made for a weak feeling in her crotch. "I chose my title from the island of my birth," Lord Wight was saying. "Oh, yes, the Isle of Wight," Amanda said, returning his serve. "I believe the town of Cowes there is the capital of British yachting." Point made. "The capital of European yachting," his lordship replied. "And that's where you sail your little yacht?" "Actually, it's quite a large yacht," Wight replied testily. "And I don't just sail it, I race it." "Tell me, Lord Wight," Amanda asked innocently, "just how does someone amass enough of a fortune to buy a large yacht during a lifetime of public service?" "Fortunately, my dear lady," Wight said, smiling softly, "in my country the amassing of a fortune is not incompatible with a life in politics. One acquires knowledgeable friends who advise one on how to invest one's money." Amanda winked at him. "One understands," she said. Her hostess joined them. "Amanda, dear," she said, "you made me promise to tell you when it was midnight, and it is. You're catching a plane?" "To St. Bart's," Amanda said, moving forward in her seat in preparation for standing. "Surely there's no plane out of Kennedy at this hour," Wight said, consulting a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. "They do have noise regulations, don't they?" "Not at Teterboro," Amanda replied. "One is fortunate enough to have friends with jets." She stood up, bringing Lord Wight with her. "My dear," he was saying, "I do hope I can see you when I'm next in New York." "Of course, Lord Wight," Amanda replied, fishing in her little clutch purse for a card. "I would be delighted to hear from you." Any night but tonight, she thought. She made her goodbyes, collected her coat from the butler, and slipped out of the huge apartment. Downstairs, her trusty driver, Paul, and her elderly Cadillac were waiting. Amanda slipped into the back seat, and in a moment they were moving. "The Trent, Paul," she said. "Yes, ma'am," Paul replied. It was Amanda's fiftieth birthday, though no one knew it; she was in spectacular shape, her firm body the product of a regular program with a trainer in her own little gym. Amanda allowed no other person to see her perspire. She placed two fingers on her carotid artery and glanced at her watch. Her resting pulse was normally forty-five; tonight, it was seventy. Amanda lived her life in very public view, and she took great care in how she presented herself to her world. Although of a deeply sensual nature, she was known as something of an ice queen, and she was quite happy to keep it that way. Her sexual alliances were few, but athletically maintained, with men who were always wealthy, off her beaten track, very discreet, and usually younger than she. Tonight and for the weekend, she would see her very favorite, a real estate developer from Atlanta named Henry Bell, who made it to New York no more than once every eight or nine months. Perfect for Amanda. Henry was a pillar of Atlanta society, the husband of a retired opera singer and the father of two daughters whose social ambitions were relentless. Amanda had helped them meet tout Gotham while, unbeknownst to them or anyone else, she had established a highly erotic relationship with their father, who was a youthful forty-five. This weekend he was in New York, ostensibly for a board meeting, and he was waiting for her at the Trent, a small, elegant hotel in the East Sixties. They planned to be together until early Monday morning. The car glided to a halt at the Trent's discreet entrance. Amanda looked up and down the block before she got out; she had no wish to run into anyone she knew. "No need to get the door, Paul. Please meet me here after midnight on Sunday--say, two a.m." "Two o'clock Monday morning," Paul said. Satisfied that the block was empty of pedestrians, she slid out of the car and ran across the sidewalk, slipping on a pair of dark glasses. She paused for a moment in the foyer of the hotel and glanced across the little lobby at the front desk, where a man in a tailcoat was working. She waited until he turned away, then scooted across the lobby, unspotted, to the alcove where the elevator was. She pressed "P" for penthouse and waited while the car traveled upward for fifteen floors. When the door opened, she popped her head out to check that the hallway was empty, then walked out of the elevator and to the end of the hall, stopping before double doors. Glancing around once more to be sure she was alone, she stepped out of her shoes, then slipped off her panties. She was not wearing a bra under the little black dress. She took off her coat and unzipped her dress. Then, holding her coat, shoes, and panties in her hand, she rang the bell. Seconds later the door opened, and she stepped inside. Henry Bell stepped back to allow her to enter. He was wearing a silk dressing gown. He said nothing, but untied the belt and whipped it off, presenting a trim physique and a throbbing erection. Amanda dropped her belongings on the floor, wiggled her shoulders, and let the little dress fall off, revealing full breasts and a finely crafted body. She kicked the dress out of the way and stood there, wearing only black stockings and a black garter belt. "Hello, sailor," she said, and went to him. Late Sunday evening, they sat propped up in bed, naked, next to the remains of a room service dinner on a tray. Henry dozed lightly while Amanda watched yet another of his endless collection of erotic Scandinavian videotapes. Henry had a little man in Stockholm who sent them to the Trent whenever he was in New York. Amanda loved them. This one was particularly intriguing, she thought, glancing at Henry. Poor baby, she had given him a real workout for the whole weekend. He deserved his rest; still . . . She reached for his penis and began kneading it gently. A small smile appeared on his sleeping face. "We've just time for one more round, sweetie," she said. Henry didn't open his eyes. "If I can," he whimpered. Amanda rearranged herself slightly, then bent over and took his penis into her mouth. Henry gave a little groan and began to respond. At that moment, the doors to the suite's bedroom burst open with a bang, and the room was filled with light. "Over here, Amanda!" a man's voice shouted as a flashbulb went off. Amanda sat straight up in bed, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Her left hand still rested on Henry's penis. "What?!" she screamed. There were all sorts of lights, those that flashed and those that burned steadily. "Get out!" Amanda screamed, shaking a fist at the lights. Henry sat frozen, dumbfounded. "Just one more, Amanda!" the man's voice shouted. Amanda picked up a heavy clock from the bedside table and threw it at the light as Henry suddenly came to life. He started toward the intruders, but the bedroom doors were slammed in his face. He threw his shoulder against them, then howled in pain. Amanda did what she most wanted to do in the world: she screamed. An hour later, fully dressed but still trembling, Amanda fled the hotel, got into the back of the Cadillac, and was driven home. She looked over her shoulder but saw no witness to her leaving. She was in control again, and she had begun to assess the damage. It promised to be considerable. Amanda walked into the office suite of her penthouse, dressed in her standard uniform of Chanel suit, Ferragamo shoes, plain gold jewelry, and a gold Cartier Panther wristwatch and bracelet. Dirt . Copyright © by Stuart Woods. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Dirt 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.
