Secret Agent Gals
Richard Gid Powers
Coming February 23rd 2023!
Pre-Order Available! 

"Wickedly funny. Who's to say gorgeous FBI gal agents couldn't have thwarted J. Edgar Hoover, Hitler, and Stalin to win WW II?  Few writers could have cooked up a plot this unexpected plus a surprise ending you’d have to be as far outside-the-box as Powers to figure out. I wish you a wild ride on this crazy roller-coaster of a read!"

 Cathy Cash Spellman, Author of Paint the Wind, and A Murder on Jane Street



ISBN 978-1-60489-329-8, trade paper, $18.95




Excerpt from Book:


to the

New “Big Reveal” Edition of Secret Agent Gals

You know the kind of long lost documents Dan Brown and Daniel Silva are always finding, usually after gunfights, stab­bings, beatings, torture, getting dropped out of plans, tossed into a snake pit (I think that was Indiana Jones), the inconveniences Robert Langdon and Gabriel Allon have come to expect before the Big Reveal? Where they come up with the long lost (but now recovered) document that proves everything we thought we knew about Jesus, the Catholic Church, the Founding Fathers, Pearl Harbor, and the Kennedy assassination was just 180 degrees from the truth. Have I forgot anyone? Elvis?

Everything we believed (and that Mom taught us) about everything and everybody was just a crock. So now we’ve got the true gen, as Hemingway would say, kind of a bargain for 30 bucks and a few hours of reading.

This new edition of Secret Agent Gals is something like that, with a twist. The first edition – the first nineteen chapters of this version – was a best seller in 1950, the story of how two celebrity art collectors and museum founders, Peggy Guggenheim

and Baroness Hilla Rebay, were recruited by J. Edgar Hoover to expose the Nazi spies who infiltrated the painters they helped es­cape from the Nazis.

Everyone who read that book knows how the Secret Agent Gals won the “Good War” against Hitler and his Nazi ratbastards, not to mention the sneaky Japanese who attacked Pearl Harbor. Also how they kept the Stalin’s Commie ratbastards from getting the A-Bomb until the heroes of the Strategic Air Command were good and ready to stop the Red Hitler’s plans to kill us all. (What I’m trying to say in that last sentence, which got a little confusing, is that Stalin aka ‘The Red Hitler” planned to dump A-Bombs on America, and the G-Girls stopped him. Sorry.)

And everyone knows how Baroness Hilla Rebay built the Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue in New York, and how she and Peggy Guggenheim put together the Museum’s great collec­tion of modern painting and sculpture, you know, the kind of art that doesn’t look like anything you or I or any sane person would buy and in fact looks like something your five-year-old or a chimp named J. Fred Muggs cudda done. You and I can both see through that kind of crap, but let’s not go there. Some people like it and pay big bucks for it, but there’s a sucker born, etc, etc.

We thought we knew all that. But...

Now, because of the declassification of supersecret FBI files in response to Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests (really demands) by Crusading Truth-Collector and Lie-Detector Richard “Gid” Powers (Me), we learn everything we believed about XXXXX and XXXXX and especially XXXXX (no spoilers here, sorry) was just a load of bullshit, and that’s putting it mildly.

As I prepared this “Big Reveal” Chapter Twenty for pub­lication, I had to figure out how exactly to drop this bombshell on you all. I decided that readers should share my (that is, Truth Col­lector and Lie Detector Richard “Gid” Powers’s) own excitement as he (I) discovered the truth.

And so what you now have is (first) the original first edi­tion, word for word as it appeared in 1950, followed by the au­thor’s own suppressed account of how and why the G-Gals em­bargoed Chapter Twenty, and then . . . the earthshaking revelations of Chapter Twenty itself. And the FBI’s desperate attempts to intimidate me (Truth Collector and Lie Detector Richard “Gid” Powers) from publishing the TRUTH, the truth that will shatter what is left of the Bureau’s reputation already in tatters from its Hillary E-mail and Russian Collusion fiascoes. So now the truth can finally be told. But again, no spoilers here! Ya gotta read to the end to get to the good stuff.

As you probably have gathered, we (meaning you) have gotten a little more sensitive to “offensive” reading material over the past seventy years since the first edition. A sp*de is no longer a sp*de but a manually operated digging implement. What you are going to read is not suitable for children under five or some of you snowflakes due to filthy language (the s-word, the f-word, and the c-word all over the place) and if you know what those words mean you should stop right now and wash your mouth out with brown soap with pieces of Brillo® pad stuck into it.

There are also scenes in which cigarettes are smoked (which can cause, according to the Attorney of General of Some­thing or Other, serious harm to pregnant women and operators of machinery like snow blowers, chain saws, or electric toothbrush­es), so if you find yourself reaching for a pack of unfiltered Cam­els® or Kools® after reading this book, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

There is also one scene in which our heroes “black” up with burnt cork, and if your tender little woke hearts can’t take that kind of shock you better skip that section (but it was for a good cause, sneaking up on murderous Nazi and Commie ratbas­tards with flashlights just like John “Duck” Wayne in The Green Berets or Leonardo “Leo” DiCaprio in Inglourious Basterds), and if you’re so goddam sensitive, and you don’t think trying to stop the Holocaust is worth bending a few rules, I wanna know right now if you’re willing to admit or deny that the Holocaust did or didn’t happen, and that calls for a simple “yes” or “no” answer, you equivocating phony fuck. I nailed ya.

 There is also a scene where a Secret Agent guy dresses up like a Secret Agent girl, and if you’re not willing to grant “trans” Americans equal rights under the law and equal employment op­portunities (and equal pay) you’re not the kind of reader I want.

Okay, I think I’ve covered all the “trigger” stuff that might give Me-too-ers and “Cancel Everything” vigilantes heart attacks, so you can start reading.

Part 1


The Baroness Hilla Rebay rang the bell and the door of the split-level ranch in Washington Northeast opened. She found herself staring into the business end of a .45 caliber Police Spe­cial. She raised her eyes to the bulldog features of the man holding the gun, J. Edgar Hoover, a face familiar to the millions of kids who belonged to his Post Toasties® Junior G-man Club and their parents who believed anything whipped up by Hoover’s crack publicity wizards in the FBI’s Crime Records Division.

“You must be the Baroness,” Hoover said, greeting her with a grin as phony as the smiley face on the welcome mat at Sing-Sing.

“And you must be the gentleman who’s gonna get his fucking arm broken if he doesn’t put down that gun.”

J. Edgar Hoover, reflexes crippled from decades of breath­ing lead dust while trying (unsuccessfully) to pass his proficiency test at the Bureau’s gun range and slowed even more from years of pounding down martinis with Walter Winchell (his #1 infor­mant) at New York’s Club 21, failed to lower his pistol quickly

enough to suit the Baroness. She sidestepped, grabbed his gun arm and twisted hard, sending the hapless hero’s sidearm clattering to the parquet floor, and sending the man himself up in the air for a full-gainer with a twist.

The Baroness scooped up the revolver as Hoover almost landed on his feet but lost style points as he slipped on the first ba­nana peel of the slippery yellow trail the Baroness spotted leading to the living room. The Ol’ Trail-of-Banana-Peels Burglar-Baf­fler, the Baroness thought, pretty primitive for the head of a mod­ern scientific law enforcement outfit.

“That’s no way to treat Public Hero Number One,” the director blubbered as he struggled to his feet, only to slip and fall on the second banana peel as he bent to retrieve the fedora lost during that first tumble.

The Baroness toyed with the pistol. “This thing loaded?” she wondered and answered her question by shooting out six bulbs from the foyer chandelier. I guess it was.

As Hoover once again struggled to his feet, the Baron­ess counted the remaining banana peels and calculated eight more pratfalls, summersaults, and other aerial acrobatics, for a total of ten – Study arithmetic, kids, comes in handy – before the Crimes­topper Commander in Chief would make it to the living room couch. So she stepped over the once-again supine (Supine means flat on his ass, kids. Study your vocabulary) crimefighter to score a drink on her own.

“Gimme back my gun,” Hoover whined.

“You forgot the magic word.” “Magic word? What’s that? Oh! How about ‘Hocus-po­cus’? – No? – ‘Alakazam’? – ‘Booga-Booga’? – ‘Mother May I’?”

“Getting close.”

“Aw, come on. Gimme a hint.”

“Sorta rhymes with ‘police.’”

The Sage of Scientific Sleuthing couldn’t think of the Magic Word as he slipped and fell on the third banana peel.

In the living room a well-dressed lady was doubled over in laughter and a tall handsome gent wearing what the Baron­ess recognized as the G-Man de rigeur of three-piece navy blue pin-striped suit, wing-tipped shoes, and a snap-brim fedora was trying unsuccessfully to hide his hilarity by covering his mouth with both hands. He finally gave up and slapped his hands on this thighs and yelled, “You look like such a moron, Boss. I tol’ ya that ol’ banana skin trick wasn’t going to fool any burglar who wasn’t already brain dead.”

“Like him,” the lady added, pointing at the Galumphing Gumshoe, who had just gone down for the fourth time.

The Baroness stuck out her hand to the tall dark stranger, and said, “I’m Hilla Rebay.”

“Clyde Tolson, Public Hero Number Two, and best buddy of the boy on his back over there,” as Hoover went down for what the Baroness calculated was the fifth time.

“And you I’d know anywhere: Peggy, you slut,” she said to the finely-coutured female, as the Director hit the deck for the sixth time.

“Won’t somebody help me?” the Nation’s Top Cop wailed.

“Why, Hilla, you gold-digger, such an unwelcome sur­prise. I don’t know why we’re both here, but I haven’t had a drink yet either. Clyde?”

The much-disheveled Law-Enforcement Legend finally crawled into the living room after three more slip-and-falls. “I think that was the last of them,” he told them cheerfully as he tried to stand up. “Whoops!” he went down again. “Forgot about that one. I think that was the last of ‘em, supposed to finish off the burglar. The grand finale. Oh well. I could use one too, Clyde.”

“One-two, quite a way with words,” the Baroness laughed. “And by the way, XYZ.”