Don't Ever Get Old (Buck Schatz Series)
When Buck Schatz, senior citizen and retired Memphis cop, learns that an old adversary may have escaped Germany with a fortune in stolen gold, Buck decides to hunt down the fugitive and claim the loot. But a lot of people want a piece of the stolen treasure, and Buck's investigation quickly attracts unfriendly attention from a very motley (and murderous) crew in Daniel Friedman's Don't Ever Get Old, nominated for an Edgar Award for Best First Novel.
Grandpa knows from the war is in a retirement home up there,” Tequila explained. “We’re going to pay him a little visit.” “Oh, that will be nice,” said Fran. “They can catch up on old times.” She peered at me in the rearview mirror. “I hope you won’t be driving, Buck.” “No, I’ll be taking care of that,” said Tequila. “But I thought we had some things to do here first, though. We have to visit Grandpa’s friend Norris Feely and pay a condolence call on Reverend Kind’s widow.” “No, we don’t,” I
eyes were red, and a fat, throbbing vein stood out on his forehead. Rain was falling in sheets from the slate gray sky, plastering his yellow hair to his scalp. He peeled off his wool uniform jacket, with the SS lightning bolts pinned to the collar, and stood bare-chested in front of the prisoners. “Do you men want to leave?” he shouted at us in English. None of us answered. He shouted something in German to his guards, and one of them opened the front gate. The prison was an evacuated village
caught her by surprise, hit her over the head,” Tequila suggested. Sure; lots of maybes and no way to get concrete answers, since I didn’t have access to the coroner’s report. Jennings might let me see it; maybe he was sincere about wanting my help on the case. But I didn’t understand what he was up to, and he was not a friend. It seemed a bad idea to ask a favor of him if I didn’t understand the ramifications. The real nut of it was, Feely could have been responsible for both killings. He had
mulled that over for a second. “So you want me to give it to him?” I nodded. “It would mean a hell of a lot to me.” “No secret messages in here, are there?” “That’s not my style,” I told him. He frowned. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Buck, for not trusting you.” “You can read it if you want to,” I said. “But keep it safe and see that he gets it.” “That’s your life, there, in that little book?” “Yeah,” I said. “The parts that matter, at least.” “Shit, man. That’s pretty sad.” I
two words would be “Second Amendment.” “Buck Schatz.” Oy gevalt. * * * Something I don’t want to forget: “It just isn’t right,” Tequila said. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to end.” “How do you mean?” “We went to all that trouble, and all we got was hurt.” The Memphis City Council had pushed through a special resolution diverting Ziegler’s fortune to something called the executive discretionary fund. There was an urgent need to build a new guesthouse behind the mayor’s mansion. Tequila