“You wanted Bobby Deo, you got him.”
(after another gratuitous murder by the hired thug)
There was a book several years ago that was a crime novel by a group of well-known Florida writers, each doing one chapter. The problem was, each author put in his own characters, to give them a little publicity.
I watched them read part of their own chapters down at the Union Square bookstore. Leonard had the job of writing the next-to-last chapter, and he decided to kill all the other authors’ characters off.
As he finished recounting the slaughter, the whole place went 100% wild.
Then he autographed anything you wanted him to autograph (not all authors do this, because they want to sell their latest book; Leonard was beyond caring about penny ante stuff like that). I had a first edition library copy among my other treasures. He said, “What did you do, steal this?”
My favorite author was Michael Crichton. I read everything he wrote. But then he died.
My next favorite author was Vince Flynn. I read everything he wrote. But then he died.
My absolute favorite author was Elmore Leonard. I read everything he wrote. But then he died.
I no longer want a favorite author.