HE WAS DRIVING AN MG—a low English-built sports car— and he was a tire-squeaker, the way a wrong kind of guy is apt to be in a sports car. I heard the squeal of his tires as he gunned it, and then I saw him cutting in front of me like a red bug. My car piled into his and the bug turned over, spilling him and the girl with him out onto the street.
By the time our iron touched I'd swung my car to the right, so it wasn't much of a crash. I climbed out in a hurry, angry and ready to go.
The MG pilot was up and ready to go, too. The girl was beside him, brushing the skirt over her long legs. Nobody drew even a scratch out of the bump.
This was a tall, lean lad with a pale face and hot, dark eyes. I saw that much before his left fist smashed into my face. Not a Sunday punch—a real fighter's hard, straight left.
McPartland, John - Big Red's Daughter
The first few lines do not represent this book. This might be one of the first in this first line's series where a great first few lines does not mean a great book.
I've logged great first lines that herald a terrific book (see here). We've had horrible first lines and great and/or good novels (see here). We've had horrible first lines precede horrible novels (see here). This could be the first where we've had a decent/good and even great first few lines and a rotten book.
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