By Elmore Leonard
Beautiful working-girl Jackie Burke is in a good spot. She's simply been picked up at Palm seashore foreign with fifty grand and a few blow stashed in her flight bag. Lucky for her, the Feds wish whatever Jackie's got: the inside of tune to Ordell Robbie, the notoriusly slick fingers dealer. And they're able to deal--Ordell in trade for her freedom. But Jackie's bought one other ace up her sleeve. . .Enter Max Cherry, bail bondsman. Big, tricky, primarily good Max is at the verge of divorce and bored with the standard grind. That's the place Jackie comes in. The fifty vast ones are peanuts in comparison to what Ordell's bought locked away in Freeport. But while a blowsy blond blowhead and a none-too-bright ex con attempt to muscle in at the motion, it's time to drag and outdated bait and switch--where the great men are performed off opposed to the undesirable guys--and the place Jackie and Max wish to stroll off into the Florida sundown with a scorching part million in chilly funds.
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Additional resources for Jackie Brown (Rum Punch)
I know. ’ Dexter raised his head and stared bleakly at the grimacing samurai. ‘When it came to it, I didn’t . ’ Joan shook his shoulder, irritated by him. ‘So what? Nobody does. ’ ‘I had the balls . ’ Dexter calmed her with his quirky smile. ‘What I didn’t have was hope, or trust. I was relying on myself. For me, those children were already dead. I should have remembered who I was trying to be. ’ I waited for Dexter to reflate himself, jaw flexing as it reengaged with his scarred face. ‘The travel agency you tried to attack.
The planet is full. ’ Her voice rose to a derisive hoot. ‘Gangs of coolies who mix the cement and lay the runways. ’ They’re the real victims. ’ I held my ribs, no longer thinking of whether I could walk as far as the King’s Road. Kay Churchill was launched into a well-rehearsed rant, counting off the chipped beads in her catechism of obsessions. According to Henry Kendall, the tape found in the Heathrow air vent had contained a similar tirade. I remembered the amateur video of Laura lying among the glass and suitcases, and listened to Kay addressing her real audience, the weary magistrates who would finally consign her to a cell in Holloway.
Laing and a familiar figure on CND marches, joining Bertrand Russell at anti-nuclear sit-ins and being glamorously dragged away by the police. Late-night discussion programmes on television were as much her natural home as the consulting room. As a child I watched her on my grandmother’s TV set, deeply impressed by the caftans, waist-length black hair and fiercely articulate passion. Free love and legalized drugs meant little to me, though I guessed they were in some way connected to the friendly but unfamiliar men who appeared on her weekend visits, and to the home-made cigarettes she taught me to roll for her and which she smoked despite the protests of my wearily tolerant grandmother.