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.
“Books,” Papa said. “What are you going to learn about this business from books?” He tapped his head and breast. “Don’t you know — here and here — when you see a masterpiece? Do you have to look everything up?”
“I was looking up the Ardebil Carpet,” I said.
“Ardebil — from the mosque, you mean.” He stared at me. “You think Maksoud?”
Selak came in from the washroom, then, looking troubled. I heard the word “Bokhara” and “blood” but the rest was too garbled for me.
Papa nodded, “A Bokhara will bleed. They must be washed carefully, Selak. Careful, you must be.”
Some more I couldn’t understand, and then Papa went back to the washroom with Selak.
It was quiet in the shop. Outside, on the street, people went by, traffic went by. But it seemed unusually quiet in the store.
When Papa came back in, his eyes were questioning. “A Bokhara will bleed, but not blood it won’t bleed, Levon.” He looked tired. “What has happened, today? This woman, this rug—” He extended his hands, palms up. “What are you hiding from me?”
“I’ll know more after tonight,” I said. “I’m going back there tonight.”
His face was grave. “The dance is tonight. The Junior League of the A.G.B.U is having their spring dance tonight, Levon. You aren’t going with Berjouhi?”
I shook my head. “Maybe I can get there, later. Sam will take Berjouhi, and I can meet them there, later, maybe.”
Sam was Sarkis’ boy. Sam was my rival. And Berjouhi? She’s a lovely, quiet girl. I’d been going with her, more or less, for three years. If Papa had had his way, we’d be married, right now.
“You promised you would take her? You are going to break your promise to her?”
The only answer to that was to use his own weapon, the one he’d taught me. “Business first, Papa,” I said.
He opened his mouth to answer, and then clicked his teeth. He sighed, and went over to look out the huge plate glass window, the one where it says, N. Kaprelian and Son, in big, gold letters.
We don’t get a paper downtown. We get the home edition. That’s why I didn’t read about Henri Ducasse until just before supper.
Henri, who’d been described by Claire as smart and rich, was now something else. Henri Ducasse was dead.
He’d been found in a deserted garage stabbed to death. He hadn’t, according to the authorities, been stabbed in the garage, as there was very little blood on the cement floor, and it was obvious he had bled a lot. He was identified as a connoisseur of rugs and tapestries — and a bon vivant.
My sister, Ann, was reading the society page across from me, and I asked her: “What’s a bon vivant, Ann?”
“Oh, a lover of good living,” she said. “A man who likes fine foods. Thinking of taking it up, Lee?”
“Not until business gets better,” I answered. And then, at something in her voice, I looked up.
The paper was in her lap, and she was regarding me. “Papa says you’re not going to the dance, tonight.”
“He told you the truth.”
“You’ve called Berjouhi?”
“From the store, before I left.”
Ann shook her head, and her dark eyes were quizzical. “You get away with murder. I know six boys who’d like to take your place with Berjouhi. How do you do it?”
“With mirrors,” I said, and went back to reading about Henri Ducasse.
At the supper table, Papa was unusually silent. He would look at me from time to time, and I had the impression he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.
Ann and Mom got into a discussion about one of Ann’s customers at the hat shop. They carried the conversation.
After supper, Papa said: “A game of tavlu, Leon?”
“O.K.,” I said.
It’s called backgammon in this country, but Papa and his cronies still called it tavlu. Also, they don’t use a cup to throw the dice, a point I insisted on tonight.
“You think I would cheat, Levon?”
“No, of course not. But you get too many double sixes.”
“That’s the dice.”
It was an old argument; there are more sixes than any other number, they claim, and play accordingly. They get them and it isn’t due to manipulation. What those experiments at Duke are trying to prove now, they knew for ages, these old-timers.
As we set up the board, Papa said: “I’ve been thinking about that Bokhara. I sold that rug, once. I’m trying to remember who I sold it to.”
His memory was unbelievable, even for ordinary pieces.
“Maybe — Henri Ducasse?” I suggested. I kept my eyes on the board.
He shook his head. “Twenty years ago, or more, I sold that rug to somebody in this town. I can’t remember.” He tapped his forehead.
He played a sound game, making no mistakes, covered all the time, making all the traditional and routine moves. The only thing his game lacked was daring, and that’s why I beat him three straight.
Which didn’t prevent him from telling me: “You play a dangerous game, Levon. As you get older you will be more careful.”
“I won,” I said.
“You were lucky.” He folded the board carefully, and put it in the bookcase. “You be careful tonight, Levon.”
“I will,” I promised, and went into my room to dress.
There wasn’t any reason I couldn’t wear the clothes I’d worn all day. No reason but that weakness in the legs. I wore my new gabardine suit and my best oxford shirt. I wore a tie of rich and simple dignity. I was, I realized, also wearing a smirk and I left that back in the bedroom, before going out into the living room.
Papa’s gaze covered me over the top of his Mirror-Spectator. He said dryly: “You will remember the firm’s reputation, Levon. You will make no promises for the firm before you talk to me.” He went back to his reading.
I didn’t answer him. He didn’t expect an answer.
It was a warm night, a false summer night, and the moon was almost theatrical. The little convertible seemed to be humming to herself, as I cut over to Prospect.
The Prospect Towers were alive with light, the white brick reflected the moon’s glow, the full-length windows of the top floor were like a battery of beacons against the sky.
Over at the Parkleigh Hotel, the party would just be getting under way and I felt a moment’s regret. I hadn’t seen the gang all together for a long time.
Across the street, a broad, poorly dressed man stood under the shadow of a budding maple tree. For a moment, I stared that way, for it looked like Selak. But he made no move to leave the shadows, and I couldn’t make out his face clearly from here. There’d be no reason for Selak to be up at this end of town, anyway.
As I waited outside of Claire’s door, I could hear music inside. It was Aram Khachaturian’s Saber Dance, a current juke box favorite. The timing was too pat; I felt like a fly waiting outside a spider’s web. But perhaps I could turn into a bee, or perhaps this web wouldn’t be as strong as its creator thought it.
Claire Lynne was wearing something misty in a pale green, something about as substantial-looking as a cloud. “You’re on time,” she said, her smile warm and friendly.
This didn’t look like the start of an ordinary dealer-customer relationship.
We went in, and she asked: “Recognize the music?”
“Strauss, isn’t it?” I answered.
She sighed. “And all the work I went to—” She chuckled. “No, it’s not Strauss, Lee.”