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.
“He’s never been out this late, before,” she said. “You were at the dance?”
“No. No, we were over to see a friend of mine.”
Selak had left the car, was going up the steps to the porch. He hadn’t said good-night. I didn’t know if he was miffed or embarrassed. He’d probably been hit as hard as I was.
I said good-night to his sister, and turned the little convertible toward home. There was no reason I should sing, but I sang. There was no reason I should feel smug and sophisticated and adventurous. But all these things, I felt.
Papa’s curiosity was greater than his temporary annoyance with Sarkis, evidently. For Sarkis was at the store when I got there the next morning, and Papa was getting the prayer-rug out of the safe.
Sarkis looked at it in awe, and some ejaculation escaped his throat. He knelt like a man in church.
“Maksoud of Kashan,” he read, and, “the year is 940.” He looked thoughtful. “That would not be our calendar. That would be about 1560 or ’62.” He looked at my father. “Where did you get this treasure?”
“It isn’t mine,” Papa said. “Can you believe it’s genuine?”
Sarkis’ broad face was grave. “It’s an antique. But that rug from the mosque. It’s an Ispahan, isn’t it?”
“You could ask Levon,” Papa answered. “He read the books.”
“Not enough of them,” I said. “In three books I got three dates for the Ardebil Carpet and no designation. What do you honestly think about it?”
He shook his head, and looked at it again. “What does it matter? There are none like it, today. A rug like this, if you owned it, you could ask anything, anything the customer could pay. There would be no other limits.”
“Ethics, Sarkis,” I chided him.
“Ethics?” Both of them looked at me blankly.
Then Sarkis said: “Across from me is a picture store. In the window, something you couldn’t call a picture. Two weeks I’ve been seeing that picture every day and can’t figure what it is. But the price card I can read — twenty-five hundred dollars. That’s plain enough. Ethics?”
“All right, then, how much would you pay for that rug, Sarkis?”
“I’m a poor man,” he answered. “My money is all in merchandise. I am a dealer, not a collector.”
“You are a wolf, not a lamb, you mean?” I grinned at him.
He sighed, and looked at my father. “These young ones,” he said.
Papa frowned at me. “You will remember Sarkis is my cousin.”
Yesterday, Sarkis had been his contemporary. Today he was his cousin. Today they shared a reverence for craftsmanship.
I said no more. I concentrated on the Serapi I was repairing. I was only vaguely aware of the small, dark man on the walk outside, looking in through the open door.
Papa was saying: “And how did you make out with Mr. Egan, Sarkis?”
“All carpeting, the whole first floor,” Sarkis answered. “And the rugs that man used to buy... But his wife, you know. His wife has the money, and it’s carpeting for her.” He shook his head sadly.
The small, dark man was in the doorway now, and I looked up. He was staring at the rug still on the floor in front of the safe. I don’t know why I was suddenly nervous, but I was.
He had a thin face, this man, and a nose like a parrot’s beak. He had the small, round eyes of a bird, too, eyes black as sin. He was wearing a black derby, which he removed, now, disclosing a completely bald head, glistening with perspiration.
“That rug, gentlemen—” he said. “It is for sale?” He reached into an inner pocket as he said this.
With one motion, Papa had tossed the rug into the safe and clanged the door shut. There had been something so malevolent about that gesture of his, Papa had reacted instinctively.
But the man had a handkerchief in his hand, now, and he was wiping the perspiration from his shining head. “It is for sale?” he repeated.
Papa shook his head. “It is not ours, sir. We are keeping it for a customer.”
“I may see it? I believe I once owned it.”
Papa shook his head stubbornly. “It is not ours to show.”
The black eyes went from Papa to Sarkis, and back. “It is a secret? Or you do not trust me?”
Papa said: “It is a very valuable rug. It is not ours. I am sorry, sir.”
Silence. The man looked at Sarkis, then at me, as though sizing up his adversaries before making an attack. Finally: “You gentlemen are Christians?” The voice was faintly tinged with contempt.
We all nodded.
“You would not know, then, the value of that rug. In the mosque at Ardebil, it was woven by the slave Maksoud. To Allah it was dedicated, and to his Prophet, Mohammed. It was never intended for Christian use nor Christian admiration.”
“We cannot help but admire it,” Papa said. “We are not using it. If you will pardon me, sir, it is a busy morning... If there is something else, I can show you—”
“There is nothing else you can show me. But you can tell me the name of the one who owns this rug?” A pause. “I can deal directly with him.”
Sarkis said something to Papa in Armenian, and Papa’s face was suddenly stone. Papa said: “You are — Turkish?” There was no “sir” this time. Papa had spent his youth under the Turks.
The man looked at Sarkis and Papa. If he felt any fear, he didn’t show it. But he must have felt it; they were related to me, and still I felt the gooseflesh form on my arms and neck. The two men who stood there near the safe were no longer rug dealers in an American city. They were no longer rational.
“What does it matter?” the man said.
All of Sarkis’ family had been massacred by the Turks. Papa’s sister had been killed by the Turks. What does it matter? the man had asked.
“Answer me, damn you!” Papa’s voice was hoarse; it was a voice I had never heard before. His face was white. “You come into my store in this free country. You speak of my religion with contempt. You interfere in my business. You—”
Now, the man was frightened as Papa stepped toward him.
I was up quickly standing between them. I had my hands on Papa’s shoulders. “Please, Papa, no trouble—” I put an arm around him. “Your heart, Papa.”
Sarkis said to the little man: “You had better go. You had better get the hell out of here quick.”
The man surveyed us all. “I will be back,” he said. “You will see me again.” He turned abruptly and went out the door.
Papa expelled his breath and sat down on a pile of rugs, gasping. His eyes were reminiscent. His mind, I would guess, was back in Sivas, under the Turks.
Sarkis said: “I’m late, now. I must get back to the store. Be calm, Nishan. Do not think about the man.”
Papa didn’t answer. His face was still white; he seemed to be having some difficulty getting his breath.
I went to the washroom and got him a glass of water. Sarkis had left when I came back with it. Papa drank it slowly, his eyes watering.
“You’re in America, now, Papa,” I said quietly. “You must forget the old country and the people you hated.”
He nodded and looked up at me. “I am in America. Levon, one thing you must always, always be thankful for. One thing you must thank God for, every night. You are an American.”
“It’s for me,” I agreed. “How do you feel, now?”
“All right. Better.” He wiped his eyes. “Levon, what kind of business is this you’re in? What kind of people are these you’re dealing with?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I told him. “I’m being careful. Don’t worry about that. George Herro’s in the deal, too.”
“Oh.” His glance traveled to my face. “George is getting old. You are going to be the new George Herro?”