Best Bookshop for Pulp and Detective Fiction - 2002
The joint was small, sure, and on a dry strip of Broadway, up in the low Nineties. But the sign in the window said MURDER INK. It was the place she was desperate for. She went in, stepped over a sleeping dog, and steadied herself on the counter. "Listen, kid," she said to the clerk. "I need your complete Hammett, Chandler, Cain, and Woolrich, see? And quick. Better give me a few of those plastic-wrapped, vintage pulp novels, too." She paid him and, clutching the bags, whispered, "Thanks, pal, you really helped a girl out," and disappeared into the afternoon.