The Mile High Club is a novel of intrigue, irreverence, international terrorism, humor, suspense, and cross-dressing, in which the intrepid Kinky Friedman gets more than his leg pulled when he encounters a mysterious vamp on an airplane.
It all starts with a casual flirtation, two people on a flight from Dallas to New York. She is gorgeous and mysterious; he is a private detective. When the plane lands, the detective -- our hero Kinky Friedman -- finds that he's been left holding the bag, in this case literally holding a bright pink cosmetic bag. The mysterious woman, having asked the Kinkster to watch her luggage while she visits the dumpster, has taken a powder and somehow has vanished.
Confident that he'll find the mystery woman again, Kinky holds on to the bag. Sure enough she does turn up, but not before Kinky has excited the interest of an array of "suits" from the State Department, been party to a thwarted kidnap attempt by Arab terrorists, and found a dead Israeli agent parked on the toilet of his downtown Manhattan loft.
Employing the able-bodied assistance of his usual sidekicks, the Village Irregulars, Kinky eventually gets to the bottom of all the comings and goings and comings of the many visitors to his loft -- including two late-night visits by the mysterious, and suddenly affectionate, woman from the plane and one not-so-late visit by her angry brother. Before it's over, the bag is gone.
Despite the many comparisons made by the critics, citing his resemblance to one great writer after another, the truth is that no other writer combines intriguing mystery with bawdy one-liners quite like Kinky Friedman. Alternately raunchy, offbeat, and hilarious, The Mile High Club, complete with a surprise ending, is Kinky at his very considerable best.
"If there's one thing I hate," I said to the beautiful woman on the airplane, "it's meeting a beautiful woman on an airplane."
"How terrible for you," she said, briefly looking up from her FAA-mandated copy of John Grisham's latest novel. The sleeves of her blouse were thin green stems. Her hands, holding the book, were fragile, off-white flowers bathed in the memory of moonlight. I glanced out the window of the plane but there was no moon. There was nothing out there at all. Not even an extremely tall Burma Shave sign. She was reading the book again.
"It was over twenty years ago," I said, "but every time I meet a gorgeous broad on a plane it reminds me of Veronica."
"Is this where I'm supposed to ask 'Who's Veronica?'" she said rather irritably, without looking up from the book. I was working religiously on my Bloody Mary, the third since we'd left Dallas. When I got to New York I planned to hit the ground running.
"Veronica Casillas," I said, staring ...
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