The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories
- Автор: Adams Cleve F., Babcock Dwight V.
- Год: 2010
- Язык: английский
- Год: A Vintage Crime/Black Lizard
- ISBN: 978-0-307-45543-7
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
Black Mask was the apotheosis of noir. It was the magazine where the first hardboiled detective story, which was written by Carroll John Daly appeared. It was the slum in which such American literary titans like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler got their start, and it was the home of stories with titles like “Murder Is Bad Luck,” “Ten Carets of Lead,” and “Drop Dead Twice.” Collected here is best of the best, the hardest of the hardboiled, and the darkest of the dark of America’s finest crime fiction. This masterpiece collection represents a high watermark of America’s underbelly. Crime writing gets no better than this.
“That dirty — killer—”
Gus swore softly. He said: “You stay here — I’ll get you a drink. We’ve got to watch ourselves, Berry. It don’t look so good.”
Lou Berryman cursed thickly. Gus Monkly went back along the bar and ordered two drinks. The waiter frowned at him when he set them down, glanced towards the table at which the four of them had been seated.
“They come tough in Chi,” he observed. “That Lassen — he don’t feel good tonight.”
Gus lifted the drinks and smiled with his beady eyes on the yellow-red liquid:
“He might be feelin’ worse,” he said slowly, “some night!”
Chapter III
Little Andy came into Bryant’s gym and stood near the mats piled along the wall. He watched Giant Pardo swinging lazily at a punching bag, moved his eyes towards the figure of Gus Monkly. Pardo’s manager stood alone, a short distance from a group of sports writers who were watching the big fighter.
Little Andy was small; he had red hair and blue, watery eyes. They went to the slightly crouched form of Pardo. He smiled.
“Big brute,” he breathed. “But the slugs fix ’em all.”
He leaned against a mat standing on end, half rolled. After a few minutes Gus Monkly called to his fighter.
“All right, Giant — that’ll do. Get a shower and rub. I’ll see you around here. Make it fast.”
Pardo stopped his slow-motion punching and turned towards his manager. He grinned. Gus looked towards the wall and the mats. He saw Little Andy; his body stiffened. The little fellow made a motion with his head. Gus stared at him. Little Andy leaned against the mat and waited. He smiled pleasantly.
Pardo went away from the punching bag, towards the dressing rooms. A few of the sports writers went with him. Gus moved over and stood looking at Little Andy. They were some distance from the nearest humans.
“You got guts — comin’ up here,” Gus said tightly.
Little Andy continued to smile. It was a lip smile; his eyes held a vacant expression.
“Boss sent me,” he replied. “He told me not to get hurt. He gave me a message for you.”
Gus said: “Yeah?”
The little fellow nodded. “That’s right,” he replied. “He said to tell you that if he didn’t get a cut of that prize hunk of beef — there was a jingle you had better read.”
The manager frowned. “Yes?” he said. “What jingle?”
Little Andy scratched his head and smiled with his eyes, this time.
“Something about ‘the kid’s last fight,’ ” he said very slowly.
Gus Monkly stood close to the little fellow and swayed a bit. He sunk his head down on his shoulders. The half-moon scar on his cheek twitched. He said softly and not too steadily:
“Listen, Andy — this is a money scrap. The big ones are getting aboard. If Hurry does anything that ain’t just nice—”
The little fellow looked blank. “That was the message, Gus,” he said. “That was my job. No use talkin’ to me.”
The manager straightened. He stared at the blue eyes of Little Andy. There had been a time when Andy had been sitting right alongside of Hurry Lassen. Gus had the idea he was still sitting there.
“All right — all right,” he replied. “Tell the boss I listened to you, but I didn’t get the idea.”
The little fellow widened his blue eyes, swore softly.
“Jeez!” he breathed. “I figured you was just as green in the fight game as the paper boys have been sayin’. But I didn’t figure you was green in other things, Gus.”
The manager smiled. “Bolley’ll take the big boy,” he said. “What coin I make — that’ll be made in the sticks, after Pardo is flattened. It won’t be too much, and I ain’t going to split it up any.”
Little Andy whistled softly. “For a guy who figures his scrapper is going to lose, refusing a twenty-grand buy-in — that looks dumb, eh?”
Gus shook his head. “I don’t want to get in a jam,” he said. “I don’t want to be worried about things. I’m saving the boss coin. And I ain’t runnin’ with the mob, anyway.”
Little Andy shrugged. “You’re pickin’ the spots,” he said carelessly. “Well — s’long.”
He went out and down the stairs that led from Bryant’s gym. Gus stared after him, swearing to himself. When he turned towards the dressing rooms Lou Berryman came up to him. He was scowling. In his right hand he held a yellow slip of paper.
“Hell, Gus,” he said, “I got to get back to Chi. My sister got hit by a truck — she’s dying.”
The manager narrowed his eyes on those of the chief second. He said softly:
“Yeah? Say — that’s tough.”
Berryman nodded, keeping his eyes away from Monkly’s. He raised the telegram a little.
“It sure is,” he said slowly. “With the big scrap on tomorrow night.”
Gus reached for the wire, read it. He handed it back.
“That’s tough, Berry,” he repeated. “Yeah — I’m sorry. But you might get back in time — there might be a mistake.”
The second nodded, scowling down at the yellow sheet of paper.
“The big boy’s right, anyway,” he said. “And if I can get back — you know I will, Gus.”
The manager looked beyond Berryman and nodded his head.
“Sure, I know you will,” he said quietly, but his voice held a peculiar tone.
Berryman said: “I’d better get going right away.”
Gus Monkly nodded. He reached into a pocket and drew out a roll of bills. He handed the chief second several of them. They were new and crisp.
“I’m sorry, Berry,” he said. “That enough?”
The second nodded. “Connors can handle Giant — if I don’t get back,” he said. “He knows what the big boy needs. But I’ll try to make it.”
The manager nodded. Berryman met his gaze with half-closed eyes, turned away. He went from the gymnasium. Gus went into the dressing room and found Connors standing near a locker and humming to himself. Connors was a big man, with Irish features and a flat nose. He was an ex-pug.
“Berry’s gone to Chicago,” Gus said slowly, and smiled a little. He touched the half-moon scar with his fingertips, lightly. “His sister’s dying.”
Connors swore softly. “Sick — or was it something sudden?” he asked.
Gus smiled more broadly. “Sudden — she got hit by a truck,” he said. “You’ll be handling the big boy, unless he gets back in time.”
Connors nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “You know, Gus — the palooka’s got a chance, maybe. Bolley’s a sucker for a straight right. Bell made a bad match, the way I see it. We got a chance to take that guy.”
Gus nodded. “I’m puttin’ coin on it,” he said. “Got any relatives in Chi, Connors?”
The handler narrowed his eyes, shook his head. Gus reached into his pocket and slipped the man several bills. He said in a low tone:
“Keep it quiet — that you’re going to be boss in Pardo’s corner. Don’t even tell him — not yet. I’ll do that stuff. And don’t talk much, Connors.”
The handler nodded. “Maybe Berry’ll get back,” he said slowly.
“Yeah,” the manager replied. “He might.”
He went around to the table on which Giant Pardo was being rubbed down. The fighter grinned at him.
“I’m gonna take — this guy, Gus,” he said hoarsely.
The manager nodded. “Sure you are, Big Boy,” he replied. “Like Sherman took Rome. Sure you are. But you got to quit lookin’ for me, after you knock him down, see?”
The big slugger nodded with his head flat on the table surface. The rubbers were working on his legs.
“Me — I go to a neutral corner,” Pardo said thickly.