{"product_id":"the-gooseberry-fool-isbn-9781569479438","title":"The Gooseberry Fool","description":"Hugo Swart, faithful churchgoer and respected citizen, is found stabbed to death on the floor of his kitchen just before Christmas, on the hottest night of the year. If Mr. Swart's Reverend is to be believed, no one in the world could have a reason to kill him; the murder was most likely a robbery gone ugly, and the chief suspect is Swart's black servant, Shabalala, who has fled to the countryside. But Lieutenant Kramer suspects that not everything is as it seems. While Zondi pursues Shabalala in what turns out to be a treacherous tour of miserable outlying Bantu villages, Kramer tries to wring the truth out of some of Swart's acquaintances in Trekkersburg and Cape Town—it seems not everyone liked the victim quite as much as the Reverend did. But danger lies at every turn—what will this investigation cost the duo?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMcClure's merciless depiction of 1970s South Africa, its many layers of racism, and the gaps between rich and poor make this perhaps the most devourable book in the Kramer and Zondi series yet.\u003cu\u003ePraise for James McClure:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The pace is fast, the solution ingenious.  Above all, however, is the author’s extraordinary naturalistic style. He is that rarity—a sensitive writer who can carry his point without forcing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“More than a good mystery story, which it is, \u003ci\u003eThe Steam Pig\u003c\/i\u003e is also a revealing picture of the hate and sickness of the apartheid society of South Africa.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So artfully conceived as to engender cheers.... A memorable mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Soho completes its reprinting of one of the finest police series to begin in the 1970s, James McClure's eight books about Tromp Kramer and Mickey Zondi, a South African biracial detective team in the days of Apartheid.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A superior story by any yardstick.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePortland Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJames McClure (1939-2006) was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where he worked as a photographer and then a teacher before becoming a crime reporter. He published eight wildly successful books in the Kramer and Zondi series during his lifetime. The first two books in the series, \u003ci\u003eThe Steam Pig\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Caterpillar Cop,\u003c\/i\u003e are available in paperback from Soho Crime.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHUGO SWART ENTERED purgatory just after nine o’clock\u003cbr\u003eon the hottest night of the year. It came as a complete surprise\u003cbr\u003eto him, as it did to his several acquaintances, who, knowing\u003cbr\u003ehim for a pious young bachelor, were unable to reconcile this\u003cbr\u003ewith the thought of his brutal murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis surprise, however, was of a different order—owing\u003cbr\u003enothing to assumption and everything to sudden agony as real\u003cbr\u003eas the improvised weapon with which it was inflicted. And in\u003cbr\u003ehis final flare of consciousness, he acknowledged an inexplicable\u003cbr\u003eoversight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis had been to presume that once inside his house, with\u003cbr\u003ethe front door bolted and the back door locked, he was alone.\u003cbr\u003eHe really should have considered the possibility of an intruder\u003cbr\u003estealing in while he was away at Mass. Even just made the\u003cbr\u003eroutine check carried out by any householder upon arrival\u003cbr\u003ehome, let alone a man in his circumstances. Then he might\u003cbr\u003ehave noticed a shadow flinch as he tossed his Missal across the\u003cbr\u003edarkened study onto his desk. But he did not. Nor did he actually\u003cbr\u003ego into the study, pausing only at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, with much that was pleasing on his mind, he went\u003cbr\u003estraight on through to the kitchen, humming to himself. His\u003cbr\u003eAfrican servant had left the light burning in the ceiling and\u003cbr\u003ehis dinner burning in the oven. The sharp smell of the ruined\u003cbr\u003esteak registered immediately, yet the only thought he gave to\u003cbr\u003eit was to switch off the stove. Thirst, rather than hunger, was\u003cbr\u003ehis dominant drive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe opened the refrigerator door and found everything he\u003cbr\u003eneeded for a long, very cold drink. Vodka was his choice, for\u003cbr\u003ehe believed it left the breath untainted—vodka and orange\u003cbr\u003eand plenty of ice. The simple procedure totally absorbed him.\u003cbr\u003eHe measured out the spirit first, returning the bottle to its\u003cbr\u003ehiding place in the vegetable tray. Next came two fingers\u003cbr\u003eof fruit juice from a can, then three ice cubes, and finally a\u003cbr\u003etopping of chilled water. Instantly the tall glass frosted over\u003cbr\u003eand droplets began to wriggle down its thin sides. For it to\u003cbr\u003ebe really cold, however, he had to wait until the ice did a\u003cbr\u003elittle of its work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he turned on the radio over by the kettle and caught the\u003cbr\u003enews bulletin. December 23 had been the hottest day of the\u003cbr\u003eyear, according to the South African Weather Bureau, which\u003cbr\u003ewas not news to anyone. But they were right in making the\u003cbr\u003eheat wave the first item; there was an undeniable satisfaction\u003cbr\u003ein being part of the news oneself for a change, to know\u003cbr\u003eprecisely how severe an ordeal it had been, to feel—however\u003cbr\u003emodestly—a survivor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn every level, survival was dear to Hugo Swart, as it is to\u003cbr\u003eany man who anticipates a bright new future.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe idiot kettle began to boil. He thought at first that the\u003cbr\u003esound, an odd wheeze, came from behind him, then noticed\u003cbr\u003ethe air shimmering above the spout—it was altogether too\u003cbr\u003ehot and humid for steam to show. Of course. The kettle\u003cbr\u003eand the radio shared the same wall socket; switching them\u003cbr\u003eboth on at once was a mistake he had made many times. And\u003cbr\u003esure enough, after a moment’s silence, the kettle gurgled\u003cbr\u003eand threatened to melt its element if more water was not\u003cbr\u003eswiftly added. That damn black baboon never left the thing\u003cbr\u003eproperly filled. All it needed, though, was a sharp tug on\u003cbr\u003ethe cord.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gave it one and then took off his lightweight jacket,\u003cbr\u003ewishing he had done so ten minutes earlier, and dumped it on\u003cbr\u003ethe drain-board.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy now the main news was over and the regional summary\u003cbr\u003eunder way. It disclosed that the maximum temperature\u003cbr\u003ein Trekkersburg itself had soared to a record 112 degrees\u003cbr\u003eFahrenheit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the shade,” the announcer added.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo which Hugo Swart, impatient with such pedantry,\u003cbr\u003eretorted aloud, “Jesus wept!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis last words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe dithered for a moment over his drink, then decided to\u003cbr\u003eincrease the pleasure by prolonging the wait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he refilled the ice tray at the tap and put it back in the\u003cbr\u003erefrigerator. He closed the refrigerator door. He opened it and\u003cbr\u003eclosed it again, musing. As children, he and his sister had once\u003cbr\u003eargued bitterly over whether the light in their stepmother’s\u003cbr\u003eGeneral Electric went out when the door was shut. The inspiration\u003cbr\u003efor this had been the claim of a fanciful friend who\u003cbr\u003eswore that a fairy, a sort of enslaved Jack Frost, lived on the\u003cbr\u003einside, ready to douse the light the instant it was no longer\u003cbr\u003eneeded. This was plainly a lot of rubbish, but posed a question\u003cbr\u003enonetheless. He had held it was only logical that the light should\u003cbr\u003ego out, while his sister—who had sweets he wanted to share—\u003cbr\u003eperversely challenged him to prove it did not, in fact, stay on.\u003cbr\u003eNaturally, he was unable to do this, and ended up paying lip\u003cbr\u003eservice to her irrational viewpoint. He knew that the light must\u003cbr\u003ego out, but it was as pointless an argument as that between an\u003cbr\u003eatheist and a priest debating the immortality of the soul: in\u003cbr\u003eboth cases, nothing could be satisfactorily settled this side of\u003cbr\u003ethe door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHugo Swart laughed softly. There was some truth in this\u003cbr\u003etalk of formative years. What he himself had learned was the\u003cbr\u003epractice of adopting whatever belief best served his own ends\u003cbr\u003eat any particular time. And it seemed to be working out very\u003cbr\u003esatisfactorily in this particular instance. Yes, sir.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis drink was ready. The ice cubes were half their size,\u003cbr\u003eand a wet ring was forming on the breakfast table. This had\u003cbr\u003ecertainly been a moment worth waiting for, yet he decided on\u003cbr\u003eone further delay: a toast to his benefactors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the glass raised high, he turned to the window in the\u003cbr\u003ehope of seeing himself there in a comically cynical pose against\u003cbr\u003ethe night. Unfortunately, the Venetian blinds were down and\u003cbr\u003ehe could see nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven less than he supposed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor, as he brought the lip of the glass to meet his own,\u003cbr\u003esomebody struck him from behind with a steak knife. This first\u003cbr\u003eblow caught him on the left shoulder blade, skittered across the\u003cbr\u003eflat bone, and snagged between two vertebrae. Such was the\u003cbr\u003eviolence of the blow, its force was transmitted to the extremities\u003cbr\u003eand the glass flew, untouched, from his hand. He saw it\u003cbr\u003eshatter and felt the terrible pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStrangely, he just stood there—hating the thought of waste,\u003cbr\u003ewondering what could conceivably be happening to him, noting\u003cbr\u003ethat the next program would be a short interlude of chamber\u003cbr\u003emusic. It startled him to finally realize there was someone else\u003cbr\u003ein the room, someone who wheezed when he breathed and\u003cbr\u003emust hate him very much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was his first surprise. There were others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe staggered into a turn, grabbing at a fork that lay at\u003cbr\u003ethe place set for his late supper. But he missed and never\u003cbr\u003egot to identify his assailant either. Before he could raise his\u003cbr\u003ereeling head, he was blind with his own blood—a wild slash\u003cbr\u003ewith the knife having opened up the puffiness beneath his\u003cbr\u003eeyebrows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the cello’s introductory note came the punched stab\u003cbr\u003eto the chest that knocked him back against the table. It was\u003cbr\u003eno good; all he could do was allow himself to sprawl onto\u003cbr\u003ethe broken glass and try to think of something to say. Like\u003cbr\u003eHail Mary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, in the two beats of silence that followed, artfully\u003cbr\u003econtrived by the composer to key listeners for a bright gush of\u003cbr\u003evital sound, Hugo Swart had his Adam’s apple cored, and bled\u003cbr\u003eswiftly to death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLasting just long enough to hear his hearing aid being\u003cbr\u003ecrushed underfoot—and then to reflect on what a fool he\u003cbr\u003ehad been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLIEUTENANT TROMP KRAMER of the Trekkersburg\u003cbr\u003eMurder Squad sat alone in the third-floor lavatory and wondered\u003cbr\u003eif anyone would be giving him a birthday present. He was\u003cbr\u003estark naked and held in his right hand a crumple of paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMan, it was hot. So hot it did things to the mind. His own\u003cbr\u003ehad spent the day preoccupied with thoughts chill and sparkling\u003cbr\u003eand as far removed from homicide as a swimming pool from\u003cbr\u003ean acid bath. It had also evolved some extraordinary theories\u003cbr\u003ethat had nothing to do with work either; such as a notion that\u003cbr\u003ethe sun, having drawn up close, was watching, like a boy with\u003cbr\u003ea magnifying glass, its brightness burn holes in the map. If this\u003cbr\u003ewas not the way it was, it was the way it felt—particularly in\u003cbr\u003ea hole like Trekkersburg. Right then he hated the skew hook\u003cbr\u003ebehind the door and hated the backs of his knees, which he\u003cbr\u003efound impossible to press against the cool porcelain pedestal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe outer door squeaked open on its spring and slammed\u003cbr\u003eback. The tap at the basin was turned on and left to run in the\u003cbr\u003evain hope its tepid flow would give way to cold water. Meanwhile,\u003cbr\u003ehe of the sanguinary disposition performed an ashesto-\u003cbr\u003eashes routine with what sounded like a gallon of bleached\u003cbr\u003eCoke aimed at the wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKramer frowned, displeased by this intrusion on his privacy.\u003cbr\u003eHe determined not to invite any exchange, not as much as a\u003cbr\u003ehearty vulgarity by way of greeting, and remained very still.\u003cbr\u003eHe was also careful to make no sound. Not even when knuckles\u003cbr\u003erapped perfunctorily at about the height his clothes were hanging.\u003cbr\u003eWhich was really a pity, because after the door had squeaked and\u003cbr\u003eslammed a second time, the lights were switched out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBugger. Now it was not only bloody hot but pitch bloody dark\u003cbr\u003eas well, and that put paid to the reading matter he had brought\u003cbr\u003ewith him. He drew breath sharply. Another mistake, for it was\u003cbr\u003elike inhaling cheroot smoke on a dark night: dry, stifling, and\u003cbr\u003enasty. Ah, well, this was where his self-indulgent little schemes\u003cbr\u003eusually landed him—right where he was perched. Back in his\u003cbr\u003estuffy cupboard of an office, with its tease of a telephone and a\u003cbr\u003equeue of half-wits wanting their noses wiped, the idea of a trip\u003cbr\u003edown the passage had seemed a master stroke of contingency\u003cbr\u003eplanning. For a full ten minutes before leaving his chair, he had\u003cbr\u003esavored the thought of stripping off and sitting undisturbed,\u003cbr\u003eemptying an occasional mugful from the cistern down his front\u003cbr\u003ewhen the mood took him. Yet another ten minutes later, it was\u003cbr\u003eplain this was not to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBugger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood up, bent over, pushed the paper between his lapels\u003cbr\u003eand into his jacket pocket, then began to dress. The absurdity\u003cbr\u003eof convention in such a climate, however temporarily extreme,\u003cbr\u003ewas stressed once more as the warmth of his shirt, slacks, and\u003cbr\u003esocks, imperceptible on a winter’s morning, engulfed him.\u003cbr\u003eHis shoes, which had wandered off behind the brush container,\u003cbr\u003eseemed damp within and his toes enjoyed this. But his purple\u003cbr\u003etie tightened like a tourniquet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDone. The tedium of life—and death, for that matter—\u003cbr\u003ecould begin again. With a pull on the chain for appearances’\u003cbr\u003esake, an old habit he had never been able to lack, he unbolted\u003cbr\u003ethe door and felt his way out into the passage—catching\u003cbr\u003eColonel Muller with his finger on the light switch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Still here, Kramer?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Excitement too much for you, hey?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Always is, sir. But I’m on my way right now, never worry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Kramer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sir?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re the one with the worries. I’m off to the Free State\u003cbr\u003eover Christmas, and your old mate Colonel Du Plessis is taking\u003cbr\u003echarge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKramer mouthed a short word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just what I had in mind,” said the Colonel, grinning, as he\u003cbr\u003edisappeared through the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike the good little Kaffir he was, Bantu Detective Sergeant\u003cbr\u003eMickey Zondi had the Chevrolet waiting, its passenger door hanging\u003cbr\u003eopen, right outside the main entrance to the CID building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re bloody keen,” grunted Kramer, sliding in beside\u003cbr\u003ehim. How the hell Zondi managed to stay alive in that buttoned-\u003cbr\u003eup suit was more than he could imagine, wog or no wog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt must have been ten degrees hotter in there. Still, it did a lot\u003cbr\u003efor his image.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZondi smiled, licking away a sting of saltiness from his upper\u003cbr\u003elip. His expression was parboiled boredom, his face bright with\u003cbr\u003esweat streaks. He started the engine, then teased the car against\u003cbr\u003ethe hand brake. He needed directions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The note I had said the address was 40-something Sunderland\u003cbr\u003eAvenue,” Kramer responded, digging into his jacket\u003cbr\u003epocket. “No time to read it properly. That’s right, 44.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt takes a lot to make tires screech on soft asphalt, but Zondi\u003cbr\u003eachieved this with a U-turn only he saw happen. In seconds, air\u003cbr\u003ewas rushing in through the side vents so fast Kramer’s eyeballs\u003cbr\u003edried up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe blinked casually and said, “I get the free funeral, you mad\u003cbr\u003ebastard. Remember that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Better,” sighed Zondi, easing off for the traffic lights ahead.\u003cbr\u003eHe stuck his right hand out of the window to funnel the false\u003cbr\u003ebreeze up his sleeve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The note,” Kramer began, his tone didactic, “the note says\u003cbr\u003ethat the deceased is one Hugo Swart, aged thirty-three, a bachelor.\u003cbr\u003eHe lived alone, worked for the provincial administration\u003cbr\u003eas a draftsman, and was a big churchgoer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZondi clicked his tongue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Multiple stab wounds—can mean anything. Last seen alive\u003cbr\u003eeight-thirty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“By, boss?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“By his priest, Father Lawrence, leaving the church.\u003cbr\u003eSame priest discovered the body when he came round about\u003cbr\u003enine-thirty to discuss something or other. Steak knife; no\u003cbr\u003efingerprints.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where was this body?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the kitchen. Don’t ask me how the priest got in. I don’t\u003cbr\u003eknow yet.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Boss Swart was a Catholic? The Roman Danger?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not everybody’s Dutch Reformed who’s got an Afrikaner\u003cbr\u003ename, man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZondi gave Kramer an impertinent sideways look and,\u003cbr\u003efending the half punch neatly, took off on a show of green. His\u003cbr\u003emaster was, at most, nonconforming agnostic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Any suspects, boss?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Local station say it must have been a Bantu intruder. They\u003cbr\u003ewould; their bloody answer to everything. But I suppose they could\u003cbr\u003ebe right. When last did anything really happen in this dump?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When the elephants lived here, I think.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Too right. Stop if you see a tearoom that’s open.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was a late-night cafe a few blocks farther on, and\u003cbr\u003eKramer had him buy them each an ice lollipop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll have the chocolate one,” he said, when Zondi got back\u003cbr\u003einto the car. “Can’t have you turning into a bloody cannibal\u003cbr\u003eor something.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese delicacies went down very well, lasting all the way\u003cbr\u003eout of the city, across the national road, and into the southern\u003cbr\u003esuburb of Skaapvlei. They ditched the sticks as Sunderland\u003cbr\u003eAvenue, lined by the ubiquitous jacaranda tree, twitched off\u003cbr\u003eto the left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust the name of the street would have been enough. Zondi\u003cbr\u003ehad no need to check the house numbers; the address they\u003cbr\u003esought was clearly indicated by an assortment of vehicles,\u003cbr\u003eranging from the District Surgeon’s Pontiac down to the\u003cbr\u003emortuary van and two bicycles, parked haphazardly outside.\u003cbr\u003eThere was also a crowd of servants on the far pavement,\u003cbr\u003ewhispering and giggling behind cupped hands—and a few\u003cbr\u003ewhites who had suddenly decided to walk the dog themselves.\u003cbr\u003eThings that only happen in films get all the extras\u003cbr\u003ethey can use.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the Chevrolet had completely stopped, Kramer was\u003cbr\u003eout and standing, thumbs hooked in hip pockets, looking the\u003cbr\u003ecrowd over. He was careful how he did it, as somebody there\u003cbr\u003emight have something useful to say. Later on, that was. First\u003cbr\u003ehe had to inspect the scene of the crime itself and get his bearings.\u003cbr\u003eSo Kramer swiveled around to take in what the exterior\u003cbr\u003eof number 44 had to offer, nodding to Zondi to proceed as he\u003cbr\u003edid so.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bungalow was the runt in a long line of handsome\u003cbr\u003ehouses. Each of them had been born of a separate, conscious\u003cbr\u003eact of creation—of that blessed union between boom wealth\u003cbr\u003eand architectural talent which, because money is a dominate\u003cbr\u003egene, invariably produces a brainchild as individual as its\u003cbr\u003esire. That there were duplications of basic styles—Spanish\u003cbr\u003ecolonial, early Cape Dutch, Californian aerodynamic, and\u003cbr\u003erestaurant Tudor—only went to show that nobody is quite\u003cbr\u003ethe individual he believes himself to be. There was, however,\u003cbr\u003enothing of the single-litter look of a speculator’s estate about\u003cbr\u003ethem, even where the bungalow was concerned. Doubtless\u003cbr\u003eits stunted growth had been the result of some nasty fright\u003cbr\u003eduring gestation, perhaps a bull running wild in the stock\u003cbr\u003eexchange. Poor little sod, for it was plain that, had it risen\u003cbr\u003eanother floor, then its roof would not have seemed so unnaturally\u003cbr\u003elarge, nor its truncated Doric pilasters so stumpy. How\u003cbr\u003eout of place it must have felt, and yet quite unable to mix in\u003cbr\u003eany other company.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a choice of abode, the bungalow was something else—\u003cbr\u003eunusual, to say the least, for a single man, and a humble civil\u003cbr\u003eservant at that, Kramer expected the first stirrings within him\u003cbr\u003eof interest in the case. None occurred.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe walked over to the other side of the road and stopped.\u003cbr\u003eInstead there was this awareness that in some strange way\u003cbr\u003ehe despised himself. Despised himself as he would a jaded\u003cbr\u003eDon Juan moving compulsively toward another whorehouse,\u003cbr\u003eanother stranger’s body, another act of professional intimacy,\u003cbr\u003eanother striving to climax and release, all without feeling a\u003cbr\u003ething. Not a damn thing. Just feeding a lust, then walking away\u003cbr\u003eagain. Back past the loungers waiting outside, ready to grab\u003cbr\u003eyou, eager to know what you knew and what you had done,\u003cbr\u003etoo afraid to do it themselves, yet yearning. And how weary a\u003cbr\u003ebugger felt even before it began.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301398532325,"sku":"NP9781569479438","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781569479438.jpg?v=1767739606","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-gooseberry-fool-isbn-9781569479438","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}