“A Vonnegut tinged absurdist satire . . . (a) tightly paced, expertly drawn comic romp” from the New York Times–bestselling author of The Mosquito Coast (LitReactor). Paul Theroux, one of the world’s most popular authors, both for his travel books and his fiction, has produced an off-beat story of 1960s weirdos unlike anything he has ever written. During the time of Lyndon Johnson’s presidency, Herbie Gneiss is forced to leave college to get a job. His income from the Kant-Brake toy factory, which manufactures military toys for children, keeps his chocolate-loving mother from starvation. Mr. Gibbon, a patriotic veteran of three wars, also works at Kant-Brake. When Herbie is drafted, Mr. Gibbon falls in love with Herbie’s mother and they move in together at Miss Ball’s rooming house. Since Herbie is fighting for his country, Mr. Gibbon feels that he, too, should do something for his country and convinces Miss Ball and Mrs. Gneiss to join him in the venture. They decide to rob the Mount Holly Trust Company because it is managed by a small dark man who is probably a communist. There are some complications. Combine Donald E. Westlake with Abby Hoffman, add a bit of Gore Vidal at his most vitriolic, and you will have Murder in Mount Holly. “Parodies the American political fringe at a time when flags burned, hippies protested and commies lurked everywhere . . . you’ll have little difficulty inserting today’s fringe characters into Theroux’s lampoon.” —Star Tribune “The geezer psychopath finally gets his due . . . The fun here is in how hateful the characters are.” —The New York Times Book Review

Winner, ISHS Best of Illinois History Award, 2019 In this riveting true story of coming of age in the Chicago Mob, Charles “Charley” Hager is plucked from his rural West Virginia home by an uncle in the 1960s and thrown into an underworld of money, cars, crime, and murder on the streets of Chicago Heights. Street-smart and good with his hands, Hager is accepted into the working life of a chauffeur and “street tax” collector, earning the moniker “Little Joe College” by notorious mob boss Albert Tocco. But when his childhood friend is gunned down by a hit man, Hager finds himself a bit player in the events surrounding the mysterious, and yet unsolved, murder of mafia chief Sam Giancana. Chicago Heights is part rags-to-riches story, part murder mystery, and part redemption tale. Hager, with author David T. Miller, juxtaposes his early years in West Virginia with his life in crime, intricately weaving his own experiences into the fabric of mob life, its many characters, and the murder of Giancana. Fueled by vivid recollections of turf wars and chop shops, of fix-ridden harness racing and the turbulent politics of the 1960s, Chicago Heights reveals similarities between high-level organized crime in the city and the corrupt lawlessness of Appalachia. Hager candidly reveals how he got caught up in a criminal life, what it cost him, and how he rebuilt his life back in West Virginia with a prison record. Based on interviews with Hager and supplemented by additional interviews and extensive research by Miller, the book also adds Hager’s unique voice to the volumes of speculation about Giancana’s murder, offering a plausible theory of what happened on that June night in 1975.

The sleepy town of Mt. Holly, New Jersey, was more than it seemed. In the unsettled years following the Great Depression, it hosted the Secret Casino at Red Mens Hall, an underground playground that attracted Mafia bosses and players alike. Under the watchful and protective eye of author Samuel Valenza Jr.s father, the casino was a thriving den for craps, roulette, poker, and slots players. The continuing cooperation of local law enforcement was assured each Saturday morning, when Officer Bucky Squires made his pickup of payoff money held for him in Moms icebox. Growing up in this environment, the authors young life was scarred with violence, fear, hunger, betrayal, and homelessness, while his father enjoyed the high life with his powerful gangster associates. The author was just six years old when Frank Paulie Carbo, a prolific Murder, Inc. assassin, raided the casino and slaughtered his uncle, the casino handyman and goferas a warning. The murder was the beginning of the end at Red Mens Hall, which fell under intense scrutiny from the authorities. Using the narrative style of a crime novel, Valenza recalls the intimate and often dangerous days of a life lived in the shadow of the Mafia.

How American bicyclists shaped the landscape and left traces of their journeys for us in writing, illustrations, and photographs. In the later part of the nineteenth century, American bicyclists were explorers, cycling through both charted and uncharted territory. These wheelmen and wheelwomen became keen observers of suburban and rural landscapes, and left copious records of their journeys—in travel narratives, journalism, maps, photographs, illustrations. They were also instrumental in the construction of roads and paths (“wheelways”)—building them, funding them, and lobbying legislators for them. Their explorations shaped the landscape and the way we look at it, yet with few exceptions their writings have been largely overlooked by landscape scholars, and many of the paths cyclists cleared have disappeared. In Old Wheelways, Robert McCullough restores the pioneering cyclists of the nineteenth century to the history of American landscapes. McCullough recounts marathon cycling trips around the Northeast undertaken by hardy cyclists, who then describe their journeys in such magazines as The Wheelman Illustrated and Bicycling World; the work of illustrators (including Childe Hassam, before his fame as a painter); efforts by cyclists to build better rural roads and bicycle paths; and conflicts with park planners, including the famous Olmsted Firm, who often opposed separate paths for bicycles. Today's ubiquitous bicycle lanes owe their origins to nineteenth century versions, including New York City's “asphalt ribbons.” Long before there were “rails to trails,” there was a movement to adapt existing passageways—including aqueduct corridors, trolley rights-of-way, and canal towpaths—for bicycling. The campaigns for wheelways, McCullough points out, offer a prologue to nearly every obstacle faced by those advocating bicycle paths and lanes today. McCullough's text is enriched by more than one hundred historic images of cyclists (often attired in skirts and bonnets, suits and ties), country lanes, and city streets.

A New York Times bestseller | Soon to be a major motion picture “Witty, endearing and greatly entertaining.” —Wall Street Journal “Don’t trust anyone, including the four septuagenarian sleuths in Osman’s own laugh-out-loud whodunit.” —Parade Four septuagenarians with a few tricks up their sleeves A female cop with her first big case A brutal murder Welcome to... THE THURSDAY MURDER CLUB In a peaceful retirement village, four unlikely friends meet weekly in the Jigsaw Room to discuss unsolved crimes; together they call themselves the Thursday Murder Club. When a local developer is found dead with a mysterious photograph left next to the body, the Thursday Murder Club suddenly find themselves in the middle of their first live case. As the bodies begin to pile up, can our unorthodox but brilliant gang catch the killer, before it's too late?

In 1992, while working for the Tulare County Probation Department, assigned to the Tulare County Courthouse, I first ran across copies of transcripts of taped interviews with a murder suspect accused of murdering an ll year old girl. The case involved rape, sodomy, and brutal damage to the victim. The transcripts were captivating. Because of my duties, I couldn?t personally follow the trial which was still in progress, but I followed the case in the daily tabloids. Because of the length of the trials (and there was more than one) I eventually lost track of the proceedings until a conviction was finally rendered. It would take a decade and the ?Freedom of Information Act? before I gave thought to writing about April?s murder. The ?thought? would eventually give me reason to question my sanity. I had been doing research on April?s death for several months: death certificate, birth certificate, old newspaper articles, talking to old acquaintances at the Tulare County Sheriff?s Office. The work was interesting, but often tedious, boring labor. The process of compiling data is very impersonal and has no life of its own. Early in 2002, I decided to visit April?s grave at the Tulare District Cemetery, Tulare, California. I did my research prior to visiting the cemetery; April was located in the southeast section, marker 544. My daughter, Sheri, accompanied me for the purpose of photographing the site. We wandered around the approximate location with negative results, and decided to separate to cover more territory. After a short time, Sheri yelled out, ?Dad, her she is!? My knees almost buckled. I was shocked, what was going on? I didn?t move for a moment; it dawned on me slowly?April was no longer just an interesting story, set in black and white print, April was a person who had walked this earth. The steps I took towards the marker were small, and staggered. I looked down at the small marker bearing her name, pinched in tightly between two other headstones. APRIL HOLLEY-Apr. 24, 1977-Dec. 3, 1988 . You cannot etch in stone, ?Here lies a young child, taken early in her life by someone who decided she did not need to live any longer.? As I was getting ready to leave the cemetery, a couple of thoughts crossed my mind as I glanced down at the headstone one last time. On one side lay an uncle almost unknown to her, the other side a complete unknown. April would be forever alone. The second thought was a resolve to tell her story to the best of my limited ability.