From the heights of Manhattan skyscrapers to tropical retreats of the ultra-rich, PI Tom Larkin seeks the truth about old manuscripts found in a steamer trunk from the 1920's Lost Generation. When someone kills twice to obtain the rare manuscripts, Larkin runs the gauntlet through hot-blooded vixens and cold-blooded reptiles, but his defeat is never an option.

WEB EXCERPT - Letters in Blood - # 40739 Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, where the most-important reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche's digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan's flooded FDR Drive through sheets of pouring rain. The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrent- ial downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his German-made wet dream. Larkin's greater problem-DWI-was a given they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao's, just to up the prelude's tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri- ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy. Vera, his wife, told him she'd kill him the next time he stumbled in after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third --his bent to self destruction. If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter what. Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver's license number from three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both-without glasses. He'd been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road, he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities. To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction. He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the loser's hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three counts. "Bastards," he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he wondered. My ass. Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home? So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill me if I'm not out of here. What time you got, Pal? I can't read my damn watch." His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between happy hour and an untimely death? He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits who'd kill as soon as spit. "Fuck off " he shouted, shaking their image from his mind. Adjusting the mirror to be sure they were gone, he saw his own reflection as a skeleton and swerved toward the rive

The latest information on how foods, vitamins, and minerals can activate your brain/ body potential and affect all aspects of your daily life, from sleep patters to mood swings to productivity on the job

It seems as if every week there is a new study done on the food we eat and how it affects our health. In "Smart Food," Dr. Arthur Winter, a neurosurgeon and the director of the New Jersey Neurological Institute, and veteran science writer Ruth Winter get a handle on the critical impact foods have on the way we think, feel, and behave. Armed with the most current information, "Smart Food" demystifies the brain/ food link and provides you with the tools to balance and strengthen both brain and body.

"Smart Food" is an easy-to-read sourcebook with up-to-date information including:

Herbal supplements that may energize and stimulate brain function New Information on what makes us crave the foods we crave and how to curb constant cravings Nutritional supplements that may maintain brain alertness and activity, even under stress Current evidence that suggests there may be a separate "brain" in your belly that functions independently of the brain in your head And much more .

This is an EXACT reproduction of a book published before 1923. This IS NOT an OCR'd book with strange characters, introduced typographical errors, and jumbled words. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.

From the heights of Manhattan skyscrapers to tropical retreats of the ultra-rich, PI Tom Larkin seeks the truth about old manuscripts found in a steamer trunk from the 1920's Lost Generation. When someone kills twice to obtain the rare manuscripts, Larkin runs the gauntlet through hot-blooded vixens and cold-blooded reptiles, but his defeat is never an option.

WEB EXCERPT - Letters in Blood - # 40739 Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months before they planned a sailor's funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet's cockpit, where the most-important reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche's digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan's flooded FDR Drive through sheets of pouring rain. The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrent- ial downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his German-made wet dream. Larkin's greater problem-DWI-was a given they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao's, just to up the prelude's tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri- ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy. Vera, his wife, told him she'd kill him the next time he stumbled in after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third --his bent to self destruction. If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter what. Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver's license number from three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both-without glasses. He'd been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road, he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities. To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction. He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the loser's hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three counts. "Bastards," he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he wondered. My ass. Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home? So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill me if I'm not out of here. What time you got, Pal? I can't read my damn watch." His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between happy hour and an untimely death? He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits who'd kill as soon as spit. "Fuck off " he shouted, shaking their image from his mind. Adjusting the mirror to be sure they were gone, he saw his own reflection as a skeleton and swerved toward the rive

A pain in the neck is a common but often medically ignored problem. You no longer need to suffer in silence. This book provides information about such neck-related problems as: Head Turning Pain Whiplash Occupational Disability Dizziness Stiff Neck and Torticollis Shoulder and Arm Pain Numbness or Tingling in The Hands Tension Headache Scalenus Anticus Syndrome Lumps Dr. Arthur Winter is a neurosurgeon and director of The New Jersey Neurological Institute in Livingston, New Jersey. Ruth Winter is the author of 30 bestselling health books. In "A Pain In The Neck" they present an easy to understand guide containing the latest information on the diagnosis, treatment and prevention of dysfunction and pain in the very vulnerable area between your head and shoulders.

Until recently, it was believed that as the years pass, the brain inevitably deteriorates in all of its many functions. Now, according to Dr. Arthur Winter, a neurosurgeon and the director of the New Jersey Neurological Institute, studies show that the brain can continue to develop and repair itself, even in old age, and that with simple daily exercises, the proper diet, and the right kind of mental stimulation, you can learn to strengthen and maintain your brain's power to near maximum capacity throughout your lifetime. "Brain Workout" is a complete regimen with dozens of easy-to-follow exercise in each chapter and tips that include:

• Aiding memory
• Stimulating and improving sight, hearing, and the sense of smell, touch, and taste
• How certain foods affect us mentally and emotionally
• Medicines that improve brain capacity and chemicals that dull brain function
• The importance of oxygen to the brain, and what exercise will increase its flow