Dirty Martini is J.A. Konrath's fourth thriller in a series featuring a Chicago cop named Jack Daniels.He applied the "Page 99 Test" to the novel and reported the following:
My page 99 uses the villain's POV, while the other 90% of the book is written from the hero's perspective (first person past tense with a lot of humor), so I wouldn't say it's an entirely accurate representation of the book as a whole.Read an excerpt from Dirty Martini and learn more about J.A. Konrath and his writing.
Page 99:
The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial than she appeared on television.
“Dirty martini, up,” she orders.
My my my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.
A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to the Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies room is.
He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.
The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.
Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.
He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.
A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips—
—and drinks the whole thing.
He ticks off the seconds in his head.
One...
Two...
Three...
Four...
Five...
She touches her head.
Six...
Seven...
She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.
Eight...
Nine...
She rubs her eyes, then stands up.
Ten...
Eleven...
He cranes his neck up for a better look.
Twelve...
Thirteen...
She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.
Too late. Vomiting won’t help.
At fourteen seconds, she falls over.
--Marshal Zeringue
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