Jenny thought she could get away with murder... loving the men fast, and leaving them flat. She was a red-hot temptress in a scant white bikini, a gal who could have her pick of any muscled male on the beach... and she knew it. Nobody ever say no to Jenny. But one day some unidentified person took her into the water and held her head under... till poor Jenny died.
Another hot, heady Carter Brown thriller, full of fast-paced action, come-hither dames, and sudden death!
Private eye Rick Holman zeroes in on a Hollywood movie colony... as he tries to find out why a babe built for love ends up lonely... and dead!
Carter Brown was the pseudonym of Alan Geoffrey Yates (1923-1985), who was born in London and educated in Essex.
He married Denise Mackellar and worked as a sound engineer for Gaumont-British films before moving to Australia and taking up work in public relations.
In 1953 he became a full-time writer and produced nearly 200 novels between then and his retirement in 1981.
He also wrote as Tex Conrad and Caroline Farr.
His series heroes were Larry Baker, Danny Boyd, Paul Donavan, Rick Holman, Andy Kane, Randy Roberts, Mavis Siedlitz and Al Wheeler.
To be absolutely honest, the famed white bikini never makes an appearance in the narrative except in terms of a memory of Jenny Holt cavorting along the Malibu beach. But perhaps that’s because dear Jenny never makes a live appearance either and she drowned fully clothed, not in her teeny weeny white bikini. Poor Rick Holman, private detective, Hollywood fixer, never gets to meet Jenny, not even in the morgue.
Rick Holman is hired by a Hollywood bigshot, Axel Monteigne, who could frankly give a lesser crap about who killed his dear departed daughter. After all, he disowned her two years earlier. He just wants to know what she’s been up to the last two years since she showed up newly married to a Las Vegas punk and golddigger. The question is anything Jenny was involved in going to rub off on the movie producer or be grounds for blackmail.
Frankly, Holman is not impressed by Axel or the fifteen layers of secretaries and receptionists Holman has to go through just to talk to the bigshot. Holman thinks the old man is callous in not caring about what happened to his daughter. But he’s paying Holman $25,000 to get the dirt and the personal secretary asked him to bring the killer to justice as a private favor.
Holman’s investigation takes him through the sleaze of Las Vegas and Hollywood. He tracks down the loser Jenny married, Johnny Fedaro, who tried to cheat a casino and ended up minus two fingers on each hand and the blonde ringer he was working with ended up with a permanent scar across what was her once beautiful face. The casino toughs are not done demolishing Fedaro, but Holman manages to get from Fedaro that dear sweet Jenny – remember her- would disappear for two days at the beginning of every month and return with a few grand to support Fedaro. Their relationship ended after eighteen months when Jenny replaced Fedaro with a muscle-bound ape she met on the beach in her – drumroll please- teeny weeny white bikini.
Tracking down the second lover led Holman to a hippie coffeehouse with a Joni Mitchell wannabe playing guitar. And from there to the singer’s brother – the muscle bound ape. Through it all, Holman is struck by how little anyone cared about whether happened to Jenny and by who or why.
Holman, of course, eventually dredges up enough family secrets to solve the mystery, but not before returning to Las Vegas and finding more trouble there.
As books in this series go, the White Bikini is well-plotted and really doesn’t lose its focus. It is more of a straight detective story and less of an excuse for Brown to offer erotically-charged scenes than in many of his other books.
Quick, entertaining sleaze about a Hollywood party girl found dead on the beach who may be the daughter of a high-powered movie studio executive. The trail to murder leads private eye Rick Holman to oversexed folk singers in coffeehouses of Venice, psychotic bodybuilders in Muscle Beach, and studio brats spinning roulette wheels in Las Vegas. Trashy good fun that embraces Sixties culture at its wildest.
A quick read from the prolific pen of Allan Geoffrey Yates (Carter Brown) from 1963. It's part of the Rick Holman series and this time out Rick is hired to get to the bottom of the death of a blonde woman whose body has washed up on the beach. It's a reasonably good entry for these types of books from that era, filled with one-liners and over-sexed secretaries and the investigation itself was fun to follow along with.
Enjoyable but not overly fantastic. There were a number of lines and scenes that made this worth the read but overall not a book in likely to hold on to.