When sixteen copies of a famous Aztec statue arrive in New York, men will die to find out which one is the real thing A small South American republic has decided to capitalize on its national symbol: a prized gold statue of a dancing Aztec priest. The president asks a sculptor to make sixteen copies of it for sale abroad. The sculptor replaces the original with one of his fakes, and ships the real one to New York City for an under-the-table sale to a museum. The statues travel to America spread out among five crates, labeled to ensure that delivery goes as planned. But it doesn't work. Asked to pick up the crate marked "E" at the airport, delivery man Jerry Manelli, confused by his client's Spanish accent, takes crate "A" instead. The statue disappears into the city, leading him on a baffling chase, which—if he comes up with the wrong Aztec—could cost him his life.

It's the score of a lifetime: easy access to a lavish New York City apartment, hordes of valuables, and an absentee owner avoiding the lawyers of his unhappy ex-wives. But before they pull the job, Dortmunder's crew is startled to find their beloved gin joint, the OJ, in the clutches of the Mafia — who consider it perfect for a little fraud, courtesy of a nice big fire. For tactical and highly superstitious reasons, the fate of the OJ is ever more important to the crew than the enormous score. Now, Dortmunder and his gang are determined to split their time, fighting the mob and robbing the rich simultaneously.

Instead of robbing a bank, Dortmunder tries to steal the whole building Encyclopedias are heavy, and John Dortmunder is sick of carrying them. While in between jobs, the persistent heist-planner is working an encyclopedia-selling scam that's about to blow up in his face. The cops are on their way when his friend Kelp pulls up in a stolen Oldsmobile, offering a quick escape from the law and a job that's too insane to turn down.   Kelp's nephew is an FBI washout who's addicted to old-time pulp novels and adventure stories. He tried being a cop, and now he wants to be a robber. His target: a Main Street bank that has temporarily relocated to a large mobile home. Breaking in is impossible—there are seven guards and a police station down the street—but mobile homes were meant to be driven. Dortmunder just has to drive the bank away.

Dortmunder agrees to do a dangerous favor for a gang of nuns It was supposed to be a simple caviar heist. Dortmunder is almost in the building when the alarm sounds, forcing him up the fire escape and onto the roof. He leaps onto the next building, smashing his ankle and landing in the den of the worst kind of creature he can imagine: nuns.   Although decades removed from his Catholic orphanage, Dortmunder still trembles before the sisters' habits. But these nuns are kinder than the ones he grew up with. They bandage his wound, let him rest, and don't call the cops—for a price. The father of the youngest member of their order, disgusted by their vow of silence, has kidnapped his daughter, locked her in a tightly guarded penthouse apartment, and is attempting to convince her to renounce her faith. The nuns ask Dortmunder to rescue the girl. It's an impossible assignment—but one he cannot refuse.

Due to a foiled burglary in a high-tech lab doing research for cigarette manufacturers, Freddie Noon, the thief, is now invisible. This condition has clear-cut advantages for a man in Freddie's profession, but now everybody wants a glimpse of Freddie. But Freddie doesn't dare show his face, his shadow, anything. Because Freddie Noon has gotten a taste of invisibility--and he can't quit now.

Tom Jimson, the burglar has $700,000 stashed away in a valley town, which has been converted into a reservoir, by the state of New York. Now, the money lies fifty feet below water and the only way in which Jim wants to retrieve it is to blow up the dam. With the fate of nine hundred people at stake, it falls on John Dortmunder to formulate an alternate plan for retrieving the loot. And, as each attempt by Dortmunder fails, Tom’s dynamite finger gets itchier… and itchier.

Edgar Award nominee: A mob boss's right-hand man must track down a missing cache of heroin The corpse isn't anybody special—a low-level drug courier—but it has been so long since the organization's last grand funeral that Nick Rovito decides to give the departed a big send-off. He pays for a huge church, a procession of Cadillacs, and an ocean of flowers, and enjoys the affair until he learns the dead man is going to his grave wearing the blue suit. Rovito summons Engel, his right-hand man, and tells him to get a shovel. Inside the lining of the blue suit jacket is $250,000 worth of uncut heroin, smuggled back from Baltimore the day the courier died. When Engel's shovel strikes coffin, he braces himself for the encounter with the dead man. But the coffin is empty, the heroin gone, and Engel has no choice but to track down the missing body or face his boss's wrath.

When Max Fairbanks, a vastly wealthy and powerful magnate, catches John Dortmunder breaking into his Long Island mansion, he thinks he is dealing with some regular loser. It amuses him to deprive Dortmund of his lucky ring. In Westlake's ingenious and dazzling comic thriller, Fairbanks lives to regret that gratuitous humiliation. The engaging Dortmund gathers a band of cronies, and exacts revenge at a series of the rich man's fancy palaces, from a penthouse on Broadway to a fantasy retreat in Las Vegas.

Critically acclaimed for his recent bestseller, "The Ax, " Westlake returns with a tale of twisted psychological suspense involving two cunning authors--and one deadly proposition.Amazon.com ReviewMystery grand master Donald Westlake (who also writes under the name Richard Stark) is nothing if not prolific: his publishing career includes juveniles, westerns, and short stories. He is perhaps best known by mystery enthusiasts for his comic crime novels (Smoke, Baby, Would I Lie?, Trust Me on This) and his Dortmunder series (What's the Worst That Could Happen?, Don't Ask, Drowned Hopes). The Hook, however, moves beyond the machinations and deduction-driven plots of traditional mystery, following the path Westlake spearheaded with The Ax into the twisted labyrinth of psychological suspense. The Hook is a harrowing story, told with a crisp incisiveness, and its riveting central characters are extraordinary: Bryce Proctorr and Wayne Prentice are fascinating, compelling tangles of neuroses and ambitions, both wonderfully drawn.Bryce Proctorr has a multi-million dollar contract for his next novel, a wife who is trying to extract the last pound of flesh (but money will do just as well) from him in an ugly divorce, a fast-approaching deadline, and a serious case of writer's block. Wayne Prentice is an author drifting ghost-like through a world that has forgotten his novels; he's gone through two pseudonyms, has watched his sales plummet, and is wondering whether the academic life might be better than this, all things considered. When the two meet by chance in the New York Library, Proctorr has a proposition: if Prentice will give him his unsold manuscript to publish under Proctorr's name, the two will split the book advance fifty-fifty. But as in all Faustian bargains, there is a significant catch: Wayne must kill Bruce's wife.The murder itself is almost insignificant, a small and sordid endeavor. The novel's real appeal lies in its shadowy reflections of the links between the two protagonists: a bond has been created that neither can break--nor wants to. Westlake cleverly questions the boundaries between actual and vicarious experience, fact and fiction. The novel is strikingly self-referential as it plays with the irony of authors trying to "compose" their own realities: "There are moments in almost any novel when it's necessary to move a character from one point to another, so that you can go on with the story, and this was like that." But what happens when the characters, instead of dutifully obeying the wishes of their creators, strike off on their own in unanticipated and fearful directions? --Kelly FlynnFrom Publishers WeeklyThis is a very savvy tale of two writers, instantly recognizable to anyone in the publishing world. Bryce Proctorr is a megaseller who gets million-dollar deals; Wayne Prentice, after a promising start, has fallen into the dread midlist, where his sales records haunt him and he publishes under a succession of pseudonyms to present an unsullied record. The problem is that while Proctorr has hit a major writer's block, Prentice is still productive, though his advances are dwindling. So Proctorr, involved in a protracted and draining divorce from a harridan wife, comes up with this terrific notion. He proposes to Prentice, a friend from earlier days: you take my name, I take your book, and we split the proceeds, on one condition: Lucie must be killed. It's a very promising notion, and once Westlake is over the hump of how the very pleasant Wayne will agree to the deed, and actually manage to accomplish it, much to his own surprise, he is left with a very delicate situation. What will the knowledge of the crime do to the relationship between the two men? How will it affect their work habits? Will the dogged New York police detective find out anything? How will Bryce's editor react to Wayne becoming, in effect, his star's ghost? All these issues are skillfully dealt with in Westlake's super-clean, unfussy narration, which manages to make the plight of the left-behind writer almost as lacerating as that of the downsized executive in his brilliant The Ax. In the end, though, he cannot quite bring his story to an unexpected conclusion, and his last scene, though effective enough, seems to have strayed in from a much less subtly told story. 9-city author tour. Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.

In the comfort station at Bryant Park, worlds collide and lives are changed foreverLook past the grandeur of the famous New York Public Library and you will see the true architectural marvel of Forty-Second Street: the comfort station. A small building, modest in its proportions but undeniable in its importance, its handful of stalls and urinals provide a haven for rich and poor alike. The restroom's keeper is Mo Mowgli, a meek man whose only trouble is chronic tardiness, and who is about to have the encounter of a lifetime. Today, a strange cast of characters descends on the comfort station: a mobster and a cop, a countess and a dictator, colliding with a force that will upend Mo Mowgli's world. When this globetrotting group gets together, no stall is too small for adventure.Written in the style of Hotel, Airport, and—perhaps more accurately—Airplane!, Comfort Station shows the genius of Donald E. Westlake at his comic best.

The three-time Edgar Award–winning Grand Master of Mystery serves up a dangerous case of mistaken identity in "the best spy comedy I have ever read" (The New York Times). J. Eugene Raxford is not what anyone would call a debonair man of action. He has no class, no skills, and all the physical prowess of a napping tree sloth. James Bond would think twice before letting him park the Aston Martin. Though he is a devoted pacifist, Raxford is also—thanks to a tragically consequential typo—the supposed leader of a half-baked and violent radical organization. That's why the FBI wants him to go undercover and spy on the consortium of real-life terrorists and deadly assassins. Now, with the help of his girlfriend—who is even more clueless than he—Raxford is about to enter a realm of danger and deception unlike any he has ever imagined. And the safety of the entire world depends on his every move....