What gene of books do you like to read? Do you like the old time writers? Have you ever listened to an audio of a book?
Most of my readers know of my problem with reading, as I have Glaucoma. I recently had the wonderful opportunity to receive complimentary Golden Age Stories audio books from Galaxy Press. A normal book would take me 4 to 5 months to read but these audio books were something that I could listen to and really made a difference. They were written by L. Ron Hubbard, a well known author of many books from the 1930's and 1940's. These books, known as the Golden Age Stories, are being brought back to life by Galaxy Press.
L. Ron Hubbard- born Lafayette Ronald Hubbard( better known as L. Ron Hubbard) was born in 1911 and died in 1986. He was an American Pulp Fiction author and founder of Scientology. He was best known for his writing of science fiction, fantasy, westerns, detective mysteries and action adventures.
The Stories of the Golden Age~
When I think of the word " Pulp Fiction", I do think of the movie but that is not what the meaning of the literary word means. Pulp Fiction was the literary phenomenon and leading source of entertainment in the 1930's and 1940's that produced thousands of short stories. These short stories still influence writers as of today. These books/audio are popular among genre fans, old time radio fans ( for the audio books ) and younger audiences. Galaxy Press has obtained the rights to these books and has assembled the collection of books, audio and short stories.
This is the array of audio books they sent me. Out of all of them, I chose to review False Cargo by L.Ron Hubbard.
False Cargo~
The unabridged audio tape is 2 hours in length. I really enjoyed listening to this audio book. The story line held my interest. It keep me interested in the story line. I really like mystery's and that is why I chose this one. I can tell if I really like a book, when I am pulled into the story line and it keeps me guessing at every turn. This book had all the twists and turns you'd expect in truly great mystery.
Set on the high seas, the main character is hired by Loyd's to ensure the safe transport of Barclay from Hawaii to San Diego. The plot is a scheme to where the skipper is involved but runs into a known Killer. The skipper finds that he needs to protest a passenger and her sister, who happen to be the skippers best friends. Read the excerpt below to learn more....
Excerpt: Spike O'Brien's bull bellow was deceptively hearty, gratingly cheerful. With one foot planted on the brass rail before the Honolulu bar, with a slopping glass of liquor tottering before his gross face, he roared, “Come on up here, every one of you sons! You’re goin’ to drink to the toughest man that ever sailed the Pacific. Snap into it, me buckos!”
A Kanaka-Chinese breed moved cautiously away, his black eyes bright with fear of the swaying bulk beside him. Spike O’Brien caught the movement out of the corner of his bloodshot eye. With a jerk of his thick wrist he sent both glass and liquor hurtling into the half-caste’s face.
With a scream, the small yellow man clawed at his eyes and stumbled away. Blood was running down into his mouth from a cut jaw.
O’Brien laughed. The sound shattered even the noisy turmoil of the Honolulu dive. Men stopped and stared.
“Come up here, every one of you!” snarled O’Brien with a leer. “Come up here and drink to the toughest man on the Pacific. Spike O’Brien. S-P-I-K-E, Spike. O-B-R-I-E-N, O’Brien. The man who killed Shen Su. The guy who whipped the governor of Borneo. I’ll take on any two of you—any three of you. I’ll fight the whole damned bunch of you with both hands tied. Come on up here and drink!”
The fat barkeep stopped dispensing coolyhow and swabbed his greasy forehead. His eyes were pleading with someone, anyone, to do something about this. Men were stumbling up the steps that led to the dock street, deserting the place, trading its external and internal warmth for Honolulu’s wet fog.
O’Brien turned around and swept his apparently drink-glazed eyes across the room and its remaining occupants. He was a tremendous bulk of a man, clad in black pea jacket, white-topped cap. His coat swung open and light fell on the brass buckle against his waist.
O’Brien’s eyes rested on the far side of the room, went away and came back again. His mouth twitched with annoyance.
A white man sat there, quietly spinning a small glass between thumb and index finger. His hands were narrow and tapering as are those of an artist. His face was the face of a saint. His shoulders were of awesome dimensions, even though he was noticeably slender. O’Brien’s annoyed glance rested on the quiet face, seeing only the fine features of a gentleman, completely missing the small light which danced far back in the metallic gray eyes. The face might be that of a saint, but the eyes did not match.
O’Brien did not like either face or fingers. He had ordered all up to the bar for a drink and this man had not answered the call.
“Hey, you!” barked O’Brien. “Come up here, unnerstand? You’re going to have a drink with me whether you like it or not, see?”
The face showed very little interest. The small sparkling glass went round and round between the slim fingers.
O’Brien lurched away from the bar. The lurch was exaggerated. It took more than a dozen drinks to make Spike O’Brien that drunk. His eyes were suddenly cold, shining with an animal intelligence.
“You’ll come up to this bar or I’ll drag you up!” promised O’Brien, jolting against the table, spilling the other’s glass.
“You annoy me, Mr. O’Brien. And I don’t like your face. Get out of here before I change my mind about dirtying my hands on you.” In spite of the import of the words, the quiet face did not change or show the slightest interest or emotion. The small lights in the eyes were flaring up steadily.
“You . . . you talk that way to Spike O’Brien?” O’Brien was plainly dumbfounded, aghast. He slapped his hairy hands down on the scarred top of the table and thrust his jaw close to the other’s face. “Maybe—” said O’Brien, “maybe you don’t know who I am.”
“Probably not.”
“Well, I’m Spike O’Brien, that’s who I am. I’m the man Ring and Talbot brought all the way from China to do a job for ’em. I’m tough, get me? I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.”
“Please take your face away,” said the other mildly. “Your breath is bad. Haven’t you any friends to tell you?”
O’Brien rocked back on his heels. His red-rimmed eyes focused on the other’s face. His coarse lips moved soundlessly for a moment and then words exploded from them.
“Say, I know you . . . you’re Brent Calloway!” he yowled.
The other nodded. “Yes . . . Brent Calloway. What were you saying a moment ago about being the toughest man on the China Coast? That scar on your jaw looks familiar, O’Brien.”
The scarred jaw was jutting. O’Brien rocked on his heels, though he was plainly cold sober. He studied the other’s position. A man sitting down makes good target—he cannot dodge.
O’Brien’s hand snapped to his belt. A short Derringer, smaller than the palm of his hand, capable of throwing two .45 slugs in less than two seconds, gleamed an instant under the hanging lantern.
Brent Calloway’s fist disappeared under the lapel of his jacket. Flame blasted out from the table’s edge. A second ribbon of sparks leaped up to scorch O’Brien’s face.
The Derringer dropped with a clatter. A widening stare of surprise spread across O’Brien’s coarse, flat features. His hands groped for the table edge. Abruptly he dropped, as though something had cut the string that held him up. The stubby fingers closed twice, and then O’Brien lay still.
Brent Calloway shoved the automatic back into his shoulder holster and glanced up at the entrance. Police might arrive any moment. All men had vanished from the basement dive.
Calloway stood for a moment staring down at the loosely sprawled form. A grimace of distaste passed across his face. Bending over, he thrust a hand into O’Brien’s shirt and brought forth a packet of papers wrapped in a strip of oilcloth. Pocketing these, he walked steadily to the door and mounted the steps.
The fog closed in behind him.
O’Brien twisted about with a pain-racked grunt, finding just enough energy to shake his fist at the door and mutter, “This time you won’t get away with it—not this time, Brent Calloway!”
My overall opinion of the book is that it was my kind of book. I wish I could say more but I would not want to give away the ending, I'll leave that for you to judge for yourself. I do give the books a thumbs up and plan on listening to all of them.
Disclosure~ I received 1 or more of the above mentioned complimentary products for the purpose of a written review. All opinions are 100% my own. Whether or not you agree, I only recommend products I personally use and feel would be good for my readers. No monetary compensation was exchanged.
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