Norman Bogner wrote a soiled if highly energized novel about the rag business called Seventh Avenue (1967): this one while equally ravenous to begin with, falls apart with its characters when you're halfway through. Teddy Franklin, who has made more than his million before he's forty, has a madonna complex, for the first time fulfilled in the nubescent flesh of Barbara Hickman, who actually has a whore complex. She works at the U.N., speaks five different languages, but her natural lingua france consists of obscenities. All of which has fuller explanations on the tapes of her psychiatrist which he secures via an armed robbery; it ends in the murder of a nice, old Negro attendant. Informed on (he believes by Barbara) Teddy makes his way across the border to Canada, but returns voluntarily from the wilderness to face trial and absolve his conscience whereas he can never appease his desire for Barbara. . . . For others who tom-peep like Teddy, a livid libidream but a silly story.