Dorothy B. Hughes

"This was Fiesta. Overhead were strings of colored lights. In the center of the square was a small green park, trees and benches and a draped in red-and-orange . A low cement wall ran around the park with entrances at each corner. Entrances hung with grotesque standards. In the street that circled the park, were thatched booths, smelling of food, the acrid smell of ; stacked with cases of , decorated with s, cheap canes topped with celluloid dolls wiggling feathers, and cheap sticks with flimsy yellow birds floating from them, balloons on brittle wooden sticks.This was Fiesta: a run-down carnival."

"“We didn’t know it was only the first then. It was a girl down on . She was a nice enough kid for the life she lived, I guess. Danced in a bump-and-grind house down there. We found her in an alley. Strangled.: He picked up his glass, emptied it. “No clues. Nothing. …”"

"Reading Dorothy B. Hughes’s novel ' for the first time is like finding the long-lost final piece to an enormous . Within its s, its -scented shadows, you feel as though you’ve discovered a delicious and dark secret, a tantalizing page-turner with sneakily subversive undercurrents. While only intermittently in print for much of the last half century, its influence on crime fiction is unsung yet inescapable. From Patricia Highsmith and Jim Thompson to Bret Easton Ellis and Thomas Harris, nearly every “” tale of the last seventy years bears its imprint—both in terms of its sleek, relentless style and its claustrophobic “mind of the criminal” perspective. But its larger influence derives from Hughes’s uncanny grasp of the connection between violence and misogyny and an embattled masculinity. And its importance extends beyond form or genre and into cultural mythos: the birth of ."