{"product_id":"the-ice-harvest-isbn-9780345440198","title":"The Ice Harvest","description":"\u003cb\u003e“BITTERLY FUNNY . . . [A] SLEEK FIRST NOVEL . . . NOIR CRIME . . . HAS FOUND A STERLING NEW CHAMPION IN PHILLIPS.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A FUTURE HARD-BOILED CLASSIC–TIGHT, COLD, AND CACKLING WITH IRONY. On Christmas Eve [in Wichita], a mob lawyer is skipping town with the cash. But in this boozy, neo-noir world–James M. Cain meets George V. Higgins–the best-laid plans of bagmen turn brutal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The Dallas Morning News\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“OMINOUS, ACTION-PACKED. . . This is a confident, wry debut . . . [that] may remind readers of \u003ci\u003eFargo\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003ePulp Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e –Detroit Free Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I SIMPLY CAN’T WAIT TO SEE WHAT SCOTT PHILLIPS WILL DO NEXT. [This] funny, tough first novel felt like it was written by an old pro, an Elmore Leonard we’ve never heard about who’s discovered a place where the criminals are really dumb, the low-lifes are oh-so-fun to watch and, if somebody just happens to get what he deserves, there’s no one to blame.”\u003cbr\u003e–RICHARD RUSSO\u003cbr\u003e   Author of \u003ci\u003eStraight Man\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A DARKLY COMIC, SOMETIMES BRUTAL PIECE OF NOIR FICTION.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFinalist for the Hammett Prize\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e?[A] funny, craftily malevolent first novel, an ice-pick-sharp crime story that sustains its film noir energy all the way to an outrageous whammy of an ending.?\u003cbr\u003e?\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e?[An] astonishing debut novel from a writer who manages to put a funny, modernist spin on a piece of our noir past: Jim Thompson frosted with a blast of Jonathan (\u003ci\u003eMotherless Brooklyn\u003c\/i\u003e) Lethem.?\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e?Chicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eScott Phillips\u003c\/b\u003e was born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, and lived for many years in France. He now lives with his wife and daughter in Southern California, where he is currently at work on his second novel.At four-fifteen on a cold, dry Christmas Eve a nervous\u003cbr\u003emiddle-aged man in an expensive overcoat walked\u003cbr\u003ebare-headed into the Midtown Tap Room and stood at the\u003cbr\u003enear end of the bar with his membership card in hand,\u003cbr\u003ewaiting for the afternoon barmaid to get off the phone.\u003cbr\u003eShe was about forty, heavy in a square way, with a shiny\u003cbr\u003eface and dishwater blond hair that looked like she'd got\u003cbr\u003eshitfaced and decided to cut it herself. He knew she'd\u003cbr\u003enoticed him coming in, but she was taking great pains to\u003cbr\u003epretend she couldn't see him. To do so she had to stand\u003cbr\u003eat a peculiar angle, leaning her hip against the back bar\u003cbr\u003eand looking off toward the back door so that she was\u003cbr\u003efacing neither the lawyer nor the mirror behind her. lawyer nor the\u003cbr\u003emirror behind her. neither the lawyer nor the\u003cbr\u003emirror behind her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only other drinker at that hour was a small, very\u003cbr\u003eslender young man in a fully buttoned jean jacket who sat\u003cbr\u003eleaning with his elbow on the bar, his cheek resting on the\u003cbr\u003eheel of his wrist with a cigarette between his index and\u003cbr\u003emiddle fingers, its ash end burning dangerously close to the\u003cbr\u003etip of his oily pompadour. His eyes were closed and his\u003cbr\u003emouth open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lawyer unbuttoned his overcoat and stood there for\u003cbr\u003ea minute, listening to the barmaid's phone conversation.\u003cbr\u003eShe had just the start of a drinker's rasp, and if he were just\u003cbr\u003ehearing her on the phone and not looking at her he'd have\u003cbr\u003ethought it sounded sexy. She seemed to be having some\u003cbr\u003ekind of roommate trouble involving a fender bender, a borrowed\u003cbr\u003ecar, and no insurance, and it didn't look as though\u003cbr\u003eshe'd be noticing him anytime soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe couldn't remember ever seeing the Tap Room in\u003cbr\u003edaylight before, if the failing gray light filtering through the\u003cbr\u003egrime on the front windows qualified as such. It was a deep,\u003cbr\u003enarrow old building with a battered pressed-tin ceiling and\u003cbr\u003ea long oak bar. On the brick wall behind the bandstand\u003cbr\u003ehung a huge black-faced clock with fluorescent purple numbers,\u003cbr\u003eand running the length of the opposite wall was a row\u003cbr\u003eof red Naugahyde booths. All of this was festooned with\u003cbr\u003echeap plastic holly and mistletoe. Around the walls seven\u003cbr\u003efeet or so from the floor ran a string of multicolored Christmas\u003cbr\u003elights, unplugged at the moment. This is my last look\u003cbr\u003eat this place, he thought, mildly surprised at the idea. He\u003cbr\u003ehadn't been out of town for more than two or three days at\u003cbr\u003ea time in fifteen years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA squeal from the barmaid interrupted his reverie. \"Jesus\u003cbr\u003eChrist, Gary, you set your hair on fire!\" Young Gary\u003cbr\u003elooked up in cross-eyed bewilderment at the hiss of the wet\u003cbr\u003erag she was patting against his smoldering forelock. He protested\u003cbr\u003eweakly and unintelligibly as she snatched his cigarette\u003cbr\u003eaway from him and ground it out in the ashtray, then\u003cbr\u003eput the ashtray behind the bar. \"It's obvious you can't be\u003cbr\u003etrusted with these anymore,\" she said as she confiscated his\u003cbr\u003ecigarettes and lighter. He started to say something in his\u003cbr\u003eown defense, but stopped and closed his eyes again, resting\u003cbr\u003ehis cheek back down on his hands. \"You'll get these back\u003cbr\u003etomorrow,\" she said. \"You want another drink?\" Gary nodded\u003cbr\u003eyes without opening his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she looked up at the newcomer, feigning surprise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, hi. Didn't see you come in.\" She gave his membership\u003cbr\u003ecard a perfunctory glance. \"What can I get you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"CC, water back.\" She turned without a word and busied\u003cbr\u003eherself making his drink, following it with another for\u003cbr\u003eGary. \"Is Tommy in back?\" the man said as she set the\u003cbr\u003edrinks down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nope. He'll be in tonight.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Could you give him this for me?\" He handed her an\u003cbr\u003eenvelope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sure,\" she said. She took the envelope from his hand\u003cbr\u003eand turned it over a couple of times as though looking for a\u003cbr\u003eset of instructions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tell him it's from Charlie Arglist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Charlie Arglist?\" There was genuine surprise in her\u003cbr\u003evoice this time. She lowered her head, cocking it to one\u003cbr\u003eside, giving him a close look. \"Charlie, is that you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah . . .\" At that moment he was certain he'd never\u003cbr\u003eseen the woman before in his life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jesus, Charlie, it's me, Susie Tannenger. Wow, have\u003cbr\u003eyou ever changed.\" She stepped back to let him get a better\u003cbr\u003elook at her. The Susie Tannenger he remembered was a\u003cbr\u003elithe, pretty thing, at least six or eight years younger than\u003cbr\u003ehe was. He had handled a divorce for her about ten years\u003cbr\u003eearlier, and in the course of the proceedings her husband,\u003cbr\u003ea commercial pilot, had threatened several times to kill\u003cbr\u003eCharlie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe came around the bar and gave him a hug, a hard\u003cbr\u003eone with a discreet little pelvic bump thrown in. Her ex\u003cbr\u003ehad had good reason to want to kill him; he had taken out\u003cbr\u003ehis fee in trade, at her suggestion, on his desktop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Isn't life funny? Are you still a lawyer? Hey, Gary,\u003cbr\u003echeck it out--this is the guy that did my first divorce!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGary looked up, focused for a split second, then grunted\u003cbr\u003eand returned to his private ruminations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Charlie, this is my fiance, Gary. Shit, I didn't even know\u003cbr\u003eyou were still in town; we gotta get together sometime.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, we should do that.\" Charlie knocked back his\u003cbr\u003edrink and set a five-dollar bill on the table. \"Well, I got\u003cbr\u003esome Christmas shopping left to do. Nice to see you again,\u003cbr\u003eSusie.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe swept up the bill and handed it back to him. \"Your\u003cbr\u003emoney's no good here, Counselor. Merry Christmas!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thanks, Susie. Same to you.\" He went to the door. It\u003cbr\u003ewas getting dark outside, and Susie hadn't yet turned the\u003cbr\u003eoverhead lights on. From that distance, in that dim, smoky\u003cbr\u003elight, he almost recognized her. \"And a happy New Year to\u003cbr\u003eyou both,\" he said as he pushed the door open and stepped\u003cbr\u003eout onto the ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the door closed Susie sighed and looked over at\u003cbr\u003eGary, whose head had migrated down to the bar and who\u003cbr\u003ehad started to snore. \"There goes the second most inconsiderate\u003cbr\u003elay I ever had,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho gives a shit if I say good-bye to Tommy or not anyway?\u003cbr\u003eCharlie thought. He was warm and dry behind the wheel of\u003cbr\u003ethe company car, a brand-new black 1980 Lincoln Continental,\u003cbr\u003ethe finest car he had ever driven. He was headed\u003cbr\u003ewest with no particular destination in mind. It was dark and\u003cbr\u003eovercast, one of those days where it was impossible to tell\u003cbr\u003ewhether the sun was still up or not, but as yet it hadn't\u003cbr\u003estarted to snow. He passed the Hardee's across the street\u003cbr\u003efrom Grove High, watched the kids hanging around in the\u003cbr\u003eparking lot the way he had when he was in school, back\u003cbr\u003ewhen it had been a Sandy's. His kids wouldn't go to Grove,\u003cbr\u003eclose as they lived to it; they'd be assigned to one of the\u003cbr\u003enewer and presumably nicer schools farther east. Good for\u003cbr\u003ethem; fuck all this nostalgia crap. He pulled a flask from the\u003cbr\u003einside pocket of his overcoat and took a long drink. Now\u003cbr\u003emight be a good time to stop by the Sweet Cage; the afternoon\u003cbr\u003eshift would be ending, and there were a couple of the\u003cbr\u003edaytime dancers he wanted to see one last time. It was a little\u003cbr\u003eafter four-thirty, and he had nine and a half hours to kill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlie had both hands resting on top of the wheel, trying\u003cbr\u003eto screw the cap back on the flask, when he caught sight of\u003cbr\u003ea police cruiser just behind him to the left, gaining slowly.\u003cbr\u003eHe quickly gripped the steering wheel with his left hand\u003cbr\u003eand lowered the flask in his right, spilling a little bourbon\u003cbr\u003eon his pant leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ah, shit . . .\" He looked down at the stain, just to the\u003cbr\u003eright of his crotch. \"Looks like I pissed my fucking pants.\"\u003cbr\u003eHe looked up as he felt the car swerve, catching it at the\u003cbr\u003elast possible moment and swinging back into the right-hand\u003cbr\u003elane. The black and white pulled up alongside him\u003cbr\u003eand Charlie looked calmly over. The cop on the right rolled\u003cbr\u003ehis window down and Charlie did the same.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Road sure is icy, Counselor,\" the cop shouted, his face\u003cbr\u003epinched against the cold wind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sure is, Officer.\" He tried to remember the cop's name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're doing forty in a school zone, you know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Shit. Sorry.\" Charlie let his foot up off the gas, and the\u003cbr\u003ecops slowed down with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Never know who's gonna clock you around here, Mr.\u003cbr\u003eArglist.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thanks. That's one I owe you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Merry Christmas.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Merry Christmas, guys.\" He held up the flask and drank\u003cbr\u003ethem a short toast and they accelerated away, laughing and\u003cbr\u003ewaving. That was a lucky fucking break, he thought. He\u003cbr\u003eswitched on the AM radio and rolled the tuner knob between\u003cbr\u003ethumb and forefinger until he found an adenoidal\u003cbr\u003epolice reporter giving quick but detailed accounts of a fist fight\u003cbr\u003ein a tavern, a foiled daylight burglary, and a rash of car\u003cbr\u003ethefts at a local shopping mall. He closed his report with a\u003cbr\u003emessage from the chief of police admonishing shoppers to\u003cbr\u003elock their cars and take their keys. He was followed by an\u003cbr\u003eequally adenoidal country singer's bland, stringy rendition\u003cbr\u003eof \"The First Noel.\" Charlie took another sip and wondered\u003cbr\u003ewho the hell burgled in the daytime, on Christmas Eve yet.","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300608037093,"sku":"NP9780345440198","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345440198.jpg?v=1742920681","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-ice-harvest-isbn-9780345440198","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}