of a number of men for the pursuance of
policies which they dare not admit in public.
—MARK TWAIN
You know the one where James Bond goes speeding by the café and its startled patrons, pursued by bad guys on machine-gun-mounted motorcycles, in fact, they run right through the café and give all the regular peeps a fright? Well this ain’t it. Instead, my novel, Heaven, Inc., is concerned with the café patrons themselves, the nameless men and women thrust center stage as their lives are invaded and upended by spies running around doing crazy spy stuff, and the great rollicking mess that follows.
Heaven, Inc. is about an aging, would-be rockstar chasing his last shot at fame and redemption after seven years in prison; an FBI agent sick of ‘saving the world’ yet called upon once more to find a missing scientist infected with the Doomsday Virus; a mobster suffering career burnout and the indignities of a karaoke-obsessed crime boss and a wife striving for the world’s biggest boobs; a glamorous, international spy trying to steal the most important State secret since the atom bomb while posing as an exotic dancer; a homicide detective assigned to finding and arresting a hit-and-run driver with connections to the world’s most powerful people while tending to her emotionally troubled son; and a demented carpet cleaner driving around in a van loaded with dead bodies, two bottles of Jack and a fat bag of tweak. The last is the proverbial fly-in-the-ointment, setting off a chain reaction that hurls all of them into the midst of a clandestine, decades-old plot to create a master-race of genetic supermen, and the hunt for the infected scientist who has gone missing somewhere in the blighted barrios of San Diego.
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