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.
Al Berryman smiled without moving his eyes away from Monkly’s. Over on Tenth Avenue there was the sharp sound of a back-fire. Al jerked his body nervously. He stopped smiling.
“Think you’d find out — down in the basement, Gus?” he snapped.
The manager said: “What basement — what the hell are you talking about, Al? You’ve been hitting the stuff hard.”
Al Berryman smiled again. His face was very white.
“I ain’t drinking — not these days,” he said slowly. “This yours?”
He took his left hand from the pocket of his soiled suit. In the fingers he held a leather case. There was still one long cigar in it.
Gus whistled softly. “Sure it is,” he said. “Where’d you get that? I’ve been looking for it since that stud game up here the other night.”
Al Berryman’s voice pitched higher. “You’re not coming through, Gus,” he said. “This wallet wasn’t down there an hour ago.”
Gus Monkly reached out and took the wallet. He started to put it back in the upper pocket of his coat, checked himself. There was a dirty mark beneath the pocket. Al’s bloodshot eyes were on his.
“You were down there!” he stated. “If you get me in bad, Gus—”
The manager shoved the wallet in his pocket. He put the cigar in his mouth, lighted it. It was crushed and didn’t draw well. He said slowly:
“I’m not taking any orders from you, Al. I’m asking you about Lou. Did he leave for Chi?”
Berryman nodded. His eyes were frowning into those of Monkly.
“He just left,” he said in a surly tone.
Gus sighed heavily. He turned a little. Al Berryman took his right hand out of the suit pocket. Gus moved like a cat. He got fingers over Al’s right wrist, lifted his arm. His right hand went into Berryman’s pocket, pulled loose the gun. Gus backed away, smiling.
“Where did Lou go — and why did he go?” he said slowly. “Don’t hold back, Al.”
Al Berryman’s eyes were staring at him, wide with fear. Gus said:
“Better be careful, Al. I’ve got a big money shot just ahead of me. You know that. It means a lot. Lou’s been living here with you — and you know things. You always knew things in Chi. You two may have a sister in that burg — but she wasn’t hit by any truck. Come on — what’s Lou’s game?”
Al Berryman stood motionless near the desk and shook his head from side to side. From the floor above there came the faint sound of whistling. A door slammed. Gus moved his head forward a little and said in a very hard tone:
“Hurry Lassen hates my guts. He hates Lou’s too. But he could slam Lou down, where he had to go easy with me. And maybe Lou would see things different like, see? That’s what I want to know.”
He moved the gun a little. Al Berryman swallowed hard. He shook his head again.
“Lou went — to Chi. A truck hit—”
“Shut up!” Gus snapped. “I’ll put a slug in you, sure as hell — if you lie! Lou did one thing — or another. He got yellow — and ran like a rat. He’s looking for a crawl spot. Or he went over — to Hurry!”
Al Berryman said in his grating voice:
“Ella — got hit by a truck—”
He checked his words as Gus walked up close to him and shoved the muzzle of the gun against his stomach. He spoke softly.
“You’re going out. I think you’re riding with Hurry, and you’ve got to go out. You should have had the dose before. Walk to the stairs in back — go down. If you’ve got anything to think about—”
Berryman’s eyes stared into the beady ones of the fight manager. He said slowly, shakenly:
“For God’s sake, Gus — don’t do it—”
The whistling up above grew louder. Gus Monkly shoved the gun forward a little. Berryman’s body stiffened. Gus said:
“Get moving—”
Al Berryman made a choking sound. He said weakly:
“It’s — Pardo, Gus. They’re going to—”
His face was ghastly. His voice was a little whisper.
“Lou — made a duck — Hurry was coming right after—”
Al Berryman’s body jerked, relaxed. It slumped towards the floor. Gus got an arm around the man, dragged him back of the desk to a battered chair. He touched Al’s right wrist — there was no pulse beat.
The fight manager swore softly. He wiped the gun off with his handkerchief, wiped it carefully. He slipped it into a pocket of Al’s faded suit. Then he went around to the front of the desk, looked towards the door that led to the street. It was still closed.
Upstairs he heard the wavering voice of the hotel porter, Conlon. The porter was calling Al’s name. Gus smiled grimly and went towards the rear stairs again. As he went down he heard Conlon call in a louder, shriller voice:
“Hey, Al! How about them chips in number eight?”
Gus went along the concrete floor of the basement, reached the street. It was snowing hard. He walked towards the river, watching the cabs. A man on horseback, riding ahead of a huge locomotive, appeared faintly through the snow. Gus turned southward, hailed a cab at the next square.
“The Manger,” he told the driver. “And take it easy — I’ve got a bad heart.”
The driver grinned, nodded. Gus Monkly settled back in the seat and shook the snow from his soft hat. He said, half aloud:
“That’s a hell of a lot better — than no heart — at all.”
Chapter IV
Giant Pardo was playing pinochle with Eddie Leach, one of the handlers, when Gus got inside the room. He grinned at the manager.
“It’s snowin’ out, Gus,” he said.
Gus grunted. “You’ve been peeking,” he replied. “Feel all right?”
The big slugger nodded. “I feel swell,” he replied. “I like it cold.”
Gus swore. “Not too cold, big boy,” he reminded. “That’s the way we want Bolley to like it — cold.”
The big slugger blinked stupidly. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, Gus.”
The manager said: “Where’s Connors?”
Eddie Leach gestured towards one of the connecting rooms.
“Readin’ about how good Bolley is,” he stated. “Or maybe he’s washin’ his neck. It’s the right month.”
The Giant threw back his big head and roared with laughter. Things rattled in the room. Gus frowned at his fighter, then grinned.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “The right month, eh?”
Pardo rocked from side to side with laughter. Gus grinned at the fighter until he turned his head away. Then he frowned. He went across the room and met Connors at the doorway.
“What’s goin’ on?” the second muttered.
Gus forced a grin. “Eddie told a joke,” he stated. He walked past Connors, said in a low voice: “Come on in and shut the door — I’ll tell another one, not so funny.”
Connors closed the door. Gus took off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair. He threw his hat on top of it, went over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Listen, Connors,” he said in a low tone, “you stickin’ with me?”
Connors narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he replied. “Why not?”
Gus lighted a cigarette and shrugged. He kept his small eyes on the blue ones of Connors, and didn’t reply for several seconds. When he spoke his voice was toneless.
“Lou Berryman isn’t heading for Chi because his sister got hit by a truck, Connors. Maybe he isn’t heading that way at all. He ran out on me. He got yellow.”
Connors whistled softly. “Say, Gus,” he said slowly, “is this fight on the level?”