The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps
- Автор: Anderson Lars, Barr Randolph
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Vintage Books
- ISBN: 978-0-307-28048-0
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps». Краткое содержание книги:
Weighing in at over a thousand pages, containing over forty-seven stories and two novels, this book is big baby, bigger and more powerful than a freight train — a bullet couldn’t pass through it. Here are the best stories and every major writer who ever appeared in celebrated Pulps like Black Mask, Dime Detective, Detective Fiction Weekly, and more. These are the classic tales that created the genre and gave birth to hard-hitting detectives who smoke criminals like packs of cigarettes; sultry dames whose looks are as lethal as a dagger to the chest; and gin-soaked hideouts where conversations are just preludes to murder. This is crime fiction at its gritty best.
Frost shifted his arms and got his pistol, and as he came near the window he swung again and again; then of a sudden he became aware that his legs were not moving. They were imprisoned in a human vise.
He fell forward.
But he did not hit the floor. He fell on top of several squirming bodies; and realized he had been pulled down in the confusion. Fearful lest he be trampled, he yanked himself up again by means of somebody’s coat and was thankful he still had his pistol. He came to his knees, then full up, and, finding he had sufficient space to move his legs, kicked lustily at the form on the floor. There was an oath.
He reached for the window, anchored his hand and pulled. He finally made it. He climbed up and literally fell into the night. With the first intake of air he thought of the woman and Stuart.
Where were they? Safe? There had been, he reflected, but two pistol shots. So far as he could determine neither had found a mark. Mexican marksmanship is, notoriously, bad; their first love is the blade. And the blade is, generally, silent. Had?... The thought sent Frost into a rage. Still, Stuart was a veteran. He had been in hundreds of brawls... and yet...
Regardless of everything now, Frost lifted his voice:
“George! George!”
As if in answer to his reckless cry, George Stuart tumbled through the window.
“Thank God!” Frost panted. “Hurt?”
“Nope!” Laconically. Then: “You?”
“Bruised.” Then: “George, I’ve got to find the woman!”
They moved quickly across the street. The melee in the cafe continued. The police were puffing at their whistles and occasionally shouting in an official voice that did no good; there was general discord.
“In the meantime,” George said, “we’re in a fine shape to stop a slug or two. Let’s step on it.”
They walked rapidly towards the international bridge.
Stuart said, “Who the hell was that dame?”
“A newspaper woman the Old Man sent down — but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I don’t blame you,” Stuart said. “You had a swell idea — bringing her to this town. She damn near got us messed up.”
“I know that now. But it could have been worse.” He went on quietly, “You saved my life, George.”
George Stuart rubbed his chin reflectively and pretended he didn’t hear.
“Where do you suppose she went?” he asked.
“I tried to tell her what was coming,” Frost said. “If she was smart she went across.”
They had gone so far now the sounds in La Estrellita were but murmurs. Overhead the stars blinked on; once in a while the Rangers caught the music of guitars as an indolent part of Algadon, impervious to the excitement, sang on.
“Know those yeggs who started the fight?” Stuart asked, matching the strides of the long-legged flyer.
“Never saw ’em before,” Frost said. “I guess they were hired by the gang. I wonder,” he mused, “where it’ll all end?”
Stuart had no answer for that one. They walked along silently.
“I hope,” Frost went on, as if to himself, “she got back okey. I sort of had the idea she could look out for herself.”
“Well,” put in Stuart truculently, “she had a swell opportunity of doing that little thing tonight.”
“And she wasn’t bad looking,” Frost went on in the same tone.
“Yeh — I saw that, too.”
At the international boundary they exchanged pleasantries they did not feel with the customs officials. Frost asked for the woman. The officers said they were sorry, but no woman had passed into the States. Frost stoutly insisted they must be mistaken; they insisted just as stoutly they could not be.
George Stuart was familiar with their technique. He said, “Well?” to Frost in such a tone his meaning was clear.
“A mess,” Frost exploded—” a first-class mess. God,” he breathed, “if anything’s happened... Well,” resolutely, “I can’t go back without her. That much is a cinch.”
Stuart lighted a cigarette and said, “Anything you say, Jerry. Wanna take a look at La Estrellita?” thus leaving the plan of action to the flyer.
“It’s not a question of wanting to, George. But the Old Man sent her—”
“Sure.” Stuart turned to the officials and requested, with a trace of belligerence, that if the woman who had crossed with Frost returned she be detained. He then divested himself of certain pertinent remarks. “Jerry — you’re the biggest damn fool I ever saw. You know how you stand around here,” and, having unburdened himself, he again became the fighting man with a terse, “Hell, let’s go!”
And with no more than that they swung back to La Estrellita, whence they had so recently and so narrowly escaped with their lives.
The cafe had quieted somewhat when they returned. Stuart and Frost made their way inside. A few patrons had come back (a great many had never left), but many of the tables were over-turned and everywhere there were unmistakable signs of the fight, notwithstanding the expeditious work of the cafe’s ubiquitous emergency corps. The five-man Mexican orchestra was back on the platform playing in the same listless fashion which forever characterizes their music. This was a bland lot of musicians. A brawl, a pistol fight, a knife duel — nothing to them. Every night was just another night.
Their hands on their hips, the Rangers stood inside the door of the cafe and returned glare for glare. There were low murmurs of recognition as they entered.
They summoned the proprietor.
“I know this guy Rasaplo,” Stuart said. “Lemme do all the talking.”
Rasaplo waddled up solicitously, portly after the vogue of Mexican cafe owners, with long mustachios and sagging jowls that could be either fierce or cherubic. At this moment he chose for them to be cherubic. He rubbed his hands as if Frost and Stuart were patron saints who had stepped from their nichos, and smiled broadly.
“Señors,” he said, “I am sorry — vair sorry.” He looked from one face to the other, seeking some indication of official forgiveness. There was none. The Rangers stared at him and through him. Rasaplo quailed somewhat.
“Now lissen,” Stuart said, his voice steely. “The capitan here brought a woman with him — la mujer Americana. Ella desvaneca — disappeared. Sabe what that means?”
Rasaplo’s eyes widened in surprise. His whole person registered consternation. Great actors, those fellows. Rasaplo lifted his hands in horror.
“Imposible!” he managed. “Never in La Estrellita. Never! La Estrellita ees—”
“Yeh,” Stuart cut in; “I know that speech backwards! La Estrellita is a little nursery where mommas leave their children.” He clucked heatedly. “Nix on that patriotism stuff, Rasaplo! Your dump ain’t no different from any of the others along this creek. Now get this — the woman disappeared in here tonight — and she’s got to be found. Tell me something before I—”
“But,” Rasaplo wheezed, “I am in the back room when a gun go boom! and the place get dark. I know no more.”
Stuart looked at Frost and nodded. “Well, in that case,” he began, his meaning clear, “I guess we’ll—”
Rasaplo said quickly, “Mebbe Pete know. Pete always know.” He went briskly to the bar and engaged a bartender in conversation. He was the one Frost had seen moving down the rail before the lights went out. From the way the patrons eyed the scene the Rangers could tell they still were annoyed at having their evening interrupted. They were content, however, merely to stare.