The Missing Link: A Gil Yates Private Investigator Novel [Hardcover]

Boyle's rookie novel is inventive, quirky and utterly implausible from start to finish. Humble L.A. realtor Malvin Stark reinvents himself one day as ace sleuth Gil Yates. Soon he's looking for an arms dealer's missing daughter, who holds a large chunk of the dealer's cash in trust, and getting himself romantically involved with the dealer's ex-wife, who waits tables in a diner. Gil has no phone, no office, no business cards. He doesn't drink, has two kids that he likes and a pushy wife and pushy father-in-law/boss whom he pretty much hates. Salvation comes through his Mitty-esque new life and his unusual hobby: cultivating palm trees. Boyle is a transplanted Brit whose narrative voice tends to wobble, drawing from both sides of the pond. His main character isn't believable for a split second, and his notions of crime plotting are absurd-but charm oozes from his pages, with Gil passing up the big bucks in deference to his heart's allegiance. It's hard not to pull for the guy, especially when considering the family he's saddled with.
Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc.

The charming protagonist of this debut mystery, Malvin Stark (a.k.a. Gil Yates), bluffs his way into a private-eye job as a means of escaping personal constraints. His mission involves locating the missing bulimic daughter of a wealthy, controlling California arms dealer known for his jealousy. While not actually present, the young daughter plays a pivotal and essential role in the plot: as Gil learns more details about her, her character becomes more real. A simple style, short paragraphs, a lighthearted sense of humor, a little romance, and an overall feeling of enjoyment make this a breeze to read.
Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc.

"Do you have children, Mr., ah, what was it?"

"Yates. I have a girl and a boy."

"And a wife?"

"Alas, yes."

He seemed perplexed.

"Is that bad?" I ventured. It may not have been so hot from my standpoint, but I didn't see why it should bother him.

"No, no," he hastened to assure me. "It's just that, well, I thought most of you guys were single, divorced, foot-loose-and-fancy-free, hard-drinking sports."

I shook my head. "The small-timers, maybe. I don't even drink."

Was that admiration I saw on his stoic kisser?

"She was anorexic," he said softly, a little ashamed. "Bulimic. I tried to help her. I couldn't do anything. I put her in an institution. The best money could buy," he hastened to add, unnecessarily. He paused to control his breathing - to drain the flush from his face. "She escaped. Hasn't been seen since."

"How long ago?"

"Nine months or so."

"Been to the police? The FBI? Missing persons?"

He stared at me as though it were a naive question. "She's an adult. They seemed to spit on me. They went through some motions," he said. "Nothing came of it." Then he added, as though it surprised him, "I think they resented me."

"Why?"

"The way they acted. What do cops make now - twenty, thirty a year? Bound to be some resentment," he said, waving his hand to encompass his expensive property. "I never felt comfortable with them."

"Do you feel comfortable with me?"

He gave me the frozen fish eye. "I don't know yet."

"What is it you want? Just a notice that she is alive, or dead, or physical possession?"

He looked at me as though his nose were a gun-sight. "Well, I would expect to see her," he said. "I mean, I don't doubt your integrity, but I'd have to have the physical evidence." --

She bent down to kiss his cheek.

"Darling," she purred, "I'm going shopping." She looked like she'd be very good at shopping and a lot of other things.

Hadaad didn't introduce me. I was strangely flattered by that omission. Any contact I had with a woman that gorgeous would be strictly fantasy. If I ran into her in a parking lot and she propositioned me, I would most likely faint dead away. Sometimes I think all of life is repressed sexuality. Chalk it up to another personal flaw.

As she left, I hoped that my staring at her sensuously undulating gluteus muscles was not obvious to my host. It was a forlorn hope. But rather than anger him, it seemed to please him. She had been chosen, I later realized, like everything else: because of her price.

"All right," he drawled, signaling his desire to return to the business at hand. "Let me recap this. You have no license, no references and you don't charge a fee or expenses unless you complete the job to my satisfaction?"

I raised my hand to show the captain. "Now that's a loophole big enough to drive a battleship through. We agree in advance on parameters. I achieve that, I get my fee." I paused for my bomb. I had thought about this a long time and it just seemed right for this pigeon. "And that fee will be four, five times what you'd pay a run-of-the-mill shamus."

He blanched. "And how much would that be?"

"Tell me what you want accomplished."

He sank back in his seat. The moment of truth for the captain. Will he really go down with the ship? When he started to tell me his story, I knew I was close to home.

"I have one child," he said wistfully. "A daughter named Alecia. I loved her very much."

I noticed the past tense, but held my tongue.

He frowned, then rubbed the back of his neck under his longish dark hair. Did he realize he used the wrong tense? "She had problems - I don't say they were any worse than your normal teenager's problems, and maybe I did overreact. It's so hard to know what the perfect response is to any challenge your kid throws at you. --

"Is it possible she won't want to see you?"

Darts came through the eyes. "Why would she not?" he faltered. I think I heard his voice break. "Of course...it's...possible." He put a spin on "possible," like anything was possible but he would just as soon not think it could be in this case. When he regained his composure, he asked, "So what would you charge?"

Here we were at the moment of truth. I had rehearsed my response to this inevitable question in front of the bathroom mirror in our tract house. I had honed it to as near believable perfection as I was capable of bringing off. But now my tongue seemed to stick to my lower teeth. Michael Hadaad didn't let his gaze waver. Finally I shook my head, once. "Phew," I said with as much bravado as my thumping heart would allow. "Gonna be expensive."

"How expensive?" he asked, cocking an eye of suspicion.

"Not so simple," I said. "I bring her here and she's happy to come, I'd settle for two hundred."

"Two hundred dollars?" He thought he had gotten lucky.

"Two hundred thousand," I corrected him.

"Two..." he choked. "That's ridiculous!"

This is where my art came in. I nodded, the soul of understanding, and stood to leave. I nodded again, in acknowledgment of his hospitality, and said, "I quite understand. My fees are a lot higher than the run of the mill. There are many available for a lot less."

He just stared at me, as though I were the first person to ever walk out on him. For my part, I was not as bummed at the prospect of losing the case or the fee (it was a lark anyway) as I was of losing the opportunity to see his palm collection.

I turned to leave. I had not taken three steps when I heard the mighty Michael Hadaad say, "No, wait."

I smiled to myself before I turned. Now I cocked my eye as he had done so expertly.

He answered: "You had the guts to get up. Most people can't see past their fee. Sit down."

I did.

"Is there room for negotiation?"

"I don't nickel and dime," I said. "I don't submit chits for meals and gas. But I'm afraid I've only given you the low side."

Up went the eyelids.

I nodded. God, I thought, is he buying this? But how could he? "If she doesn't want to come, it will be a half-million."

He sank back in his chair. I stood again, but faced him. "I quite understand your reluctance, Mr. Hadaad. I am used to working for the extremely wealthy, exclusively."