Cover image for Gold coast
Title:
Gold coast
Author:
Leonard, Elmore, 1925-2013.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Harper Torch, 2002.

©1980
Physical Description:
320 pages ; 18 cm
General Note:
Contains an excerpt from the author's Tishomingo Blues ([323]-336).
Language:
English
Geographic Term:
ISBN:
9780060084059
Format :
Book

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Summary

Summary

"Lean, mean, darkly funny."
--Boston Globe

"A zingy thriller by the master of hard-boiled suspense."
--Dallas Morning News

"Elmore Leonard may be the greatest crime novelist in the world," declares the Seattle Times, and truer words have never been written. Just follow the Grand Master of mystery and suspense to Florida's Gold Coast and you'll quickly discover that it's so. In this classic Elmore Leonard thriller, a beautiful mafia widow stands to lose everything her late mob boss husband left her if she succumbs to her desire for an attractive Detroit ex-con--so the two conspire to outwit the thugs the dead capo assigned to make sure she stays chaste. Superior crime fiction in the vein of John D. MacDonald, Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain, and Robert Parker--chock full of the eccentric characters, black humor, and razor-sharp dialogue for which the acclaimed creator of U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens (of TV's Justified) is justifiably famous--Gold Coast is gold standard Leonard.


Author Notes

Elmore John Leonard, Jr. 10/11/25 -- 8/20/13 Elmore John Leonard, Jr., popularly known as mystery and western writer Elmore Leonard, was born in New Orleans, Louisiana on October 11, 1925. He served in the United States Naval Reserve from 1943 to 1946. He received a Ph.D. in English from the University of Detroit in 1950. After graduating, he wrote short stories and western novels as well as advertising and education film scripts. In 1967, he began to write full-time and received several awards including the 1977 Western Writers of America award and the 1984 Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe award. His other works include Get Shorty, Out of Sight, Hombre, Mr. Majestyk, 3:10 to Yuma, and Rum Punch. Many of his works were adapted into movies.

Library of America recently announced plans to publish the first of a three-volume collection of his books beginning in the Fall of 2014. Leonard died on August 20, 2013 from complications of a stroke he had earlier. He was 87 years old.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 1

Library Journal Review

Gold Coast is a 1980 novel that largely predates Leonard's (Rum Punch, Audio Reviews, LJ 6/15/93) widespread acknowledgement as one of America's foremost writers of crime thrillers. Karen DiCilia, widow of a Florida Mafia figure, discovers that her sizable inheritance will be withdrawn if she engages in intimate relations with men, thanks to a codicil in her late husband's will. Cal Maguire, sometime petty criminal and part-time dolphin trainer, is attracted to Karen and more than a little sympathetic to her situation. Thus, he devises a plan to get her off the hook. Foremost, as usual, is Leonard's talent for creating quirky, sympathetic, and true-to-life characters. His genius for authentic dialog is complemented by the skills of consummate reader Frank Muller. The craft and popularity of the author and the talent of the reader make this program a winner. For most public libraries.‘Kristen L. Smith, Loras Coll. Lib., Dubuque, Ia. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Gold Coast Chapter One One day Karen DiCilia put a few observations together and realized her husband Frank was sleeping with a real estate woman in Boca. Karen knew where they were doing it, too. In one of the condominiums Frank owned, part of Oceana Estates. Every Friday afternoon and sometimes on Monday, Frank would put his spare clubs in the trunk of his Seville -- supposedly to play at La Gorce, Miami Beach -- and drive north out of Fort Lauderdale instead of south. There were probably others, random affairs. Frank did go to Miami at least twice a week to "study the market" and play a little gin at the Palm Bay Club. He could have a cocktail waitress at Hialeah or Calder. He visited the dogtracks regularly, the jai-alai fronton once in awhile. Cruised for gamefish out in the stream with some of his buddies; went bonefishing in the Keys, near Islamorada, several times a year. Frank could have something going anywhere from Key West to West Palm, over to Bimini and back and probably did. The only one Karen was sure of, though, was the frosted-blonde thirty-six-year-old real estate woman in Boca. Frank's actions, his routine, were predictable; but not his reactions. If she confronted him, or hinted around first, with questions like, "Do I know her?" or, "Are you going to tell me who she is?" Frank would say, "Who're we talking about?" And Karen would say, "I know you've got a girl friend. Why don't you admit it?" And Frank would say -- He might say, "Nobody told you I have a girl friend and you haven't seen me with anybody that could be a girl friend, so what're we talking about?" And Karen would say, "The real estate woman in Boca," and offer circumstantial evidence that wouldn't convict him but would certainly put him in a corner. He might deny it out right. Or he might say, "Yeah, sometimes I go to Boca. Not that it's any of your fucking business." Then what? She'd have to get mad or pout or act hurt. So Karen didn't say a word about the real estate woman. Instead, she drove her matching white Caddy Seville up to Boca one Friday afternoon, to the big pink condominium that looked like a Venetian palace. She located Frank's white Seville in the dim parking area beneath the building, on the ocean side, backed it out of the numbered space with the spare set of keys she'd brought, left Frank's car sitting in the aisle, got into her own car again and drove her white Seville into the side of his white Seville three times, smashing in both doors and the front fender of Frank's car, destroying her own car's grille and headlamps and drove back to Lauderdale. When Frank came home he looked from one matching Seville to the other. Karen waited, but he didn't say a word about the cars. The next day he had them towed away and new matching gray ones delivered. Weeks later, in the living room, she said, "I'm getting tired of tennis." And said to the dog, sniffing around her feet, "Gretchen, leave, will you? Get out of here." "Play golf," Frank said. He patted his leg and the gray and white schnauzer jumped up on his lap. "I don't care for golf." "Join some ladies' group." Gently stroking the schnauzer. "I've done ladies' groups." "Take up fishing, I'll get you a boat." "Do you know what I do?" Karen said. "I exist. I sit in the sun. I try to think up work for Marta and for when the gardener comes -- " She paused a moment. "When we got married -- I mean at our wedding reception, you know what my mother said to me?" "What?" "She said, 'I hope you realize he's Italian.' She didn't know anything else, just your name." "Half Italian," Frank said, "half Sicilian. There's a difference. Like Gretchen here" -- stroking the dog on his lap, the dog dozing -- "she's part schnauzer, part a little something else, so that makes her different." "You don't get it, do you?" Karen said. "Get what? She's from Grosse Pointe. I lived in Grosse Pointe one time. What's that? You buy a house." "She wasn't being a snob. At least not when she said it." "All right, what did she mean I'm Italian? What was she? Hill, maybe it was shortened from Hilkowski. Are you a Polack maybe? What're we talking about?" "What she meant," Karen said, "the way you lived, what you were used to. You'd probably be set in your ways. You'd have your man things to do, and I'd have to find woman things to do. And she was right, not even knowing anything about what you really did, or might still be doing, I don't know, since you don't tell me anything." "I'm retired." Frank said, "and you're tired of playing tennis and sitting around. All right, what do you want to do?" "Maybe I'll just do it and not tell you," Karen said. "Do what?" Frank asked. "Not tell you where I go or who I see. Or make up something. Tell you I'm going to play tennis but I don't, I go someplace else." "Stick to tennis," Frank said. He stopped stroking Gretchen. "You have a very hard time coming right out and saying something. You want to threaten me, is that it? Because you're bored? Are you telling me you're gonna start fooling around? If that's what you're saying, say it. A man comes to me and gives me some shit out the side of his mouth. I tell him that's it, get the fuck out or talk straight. Now I'm much more patient with you, Karen, you're my wife and I respect you. Gold Coast . Copyright © by Elmore Leonard. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Gold Coast by Elmore Leonard 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.