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Murder Is But A Memory


"I don't believe I know you, sir," the man said, looking at me. He was awfully well mannered and well-spoken for a guy that had just put a bullet in some poor schmuck's chest.

"I'm Jake Randolph," I said.

He looked puzzled, "I'm afraid that doesn't help, sir."

Vic spoke up, "He's a private dick, Lanyard."

Paul Lanyard. The hit man Vic hired to kill his second-in-command-turned-stoolie Frank DiNuccio. The man he owed the 250 grand that he didn't have, and who was going to kill him at 5 PM if he couldn't produce it.

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