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 relocked it and went out of the office, back to the bar. The bartender was lounging against the cash register. He said, “I tol’ you,” and then backed away in alarm when Shayne bunched his hand in his coat pocket over the .38.
“Where,” asked Shayne, “do Blackie and Lennie hang out?”
“I dunno. I swear to God I don’t. I never seen ’em in here before tonight.” He was frightened and he sounded truthful.
“Where will I find the boss?”
“Home, I guess.”
“Where’s home?”
The bartender hesitated. He pouched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger and said sullenly: “Mr. Renaldo don’t like—”
Shayne said: “Give it to me.”
The bartender wilted. He mumbled an address on West Sixtieth Street.
Shayne went out and got in his car. He started the motor and hesitated, with his big hands gripping the wheel. He got out and went back into the tavern. The bartender looked up with naked fear in his eyes and put down the telephone hastily.
Shayne said: “Don’t do it, Fatty. If Renaldo’s been tipped off when I get there, I’ll come back and spill your guts all over the floor. The name is Shayne if you think I’m kidding.”
He went out again and swung away from the curb. He drove north a dozen blocks and stopped in front of a sign on Miami Avenue that said, CHUNKY’S CHILI. It was crammed in between a pawnshop and a flophouse.
Shayne went in and said, “Hi, Chunky,” to the big man picking his teeth behind the empty counter. The long, narrow room was empty save for the proprietor.
Chunky said, “Hi, Mike,” without enthusiasm.
Shayne asked: “Any of the boys in back?”
“Guess so.”
Shayne got out his wallet. He extracted the ten-dollar bill and folded it twice lengthwise. Chunky kept on picking his teeth. Shayne extended the bill toward him. “Blackie or Lennie in there?”
Chunky yawned. He took the bill and said, “Nope. Ain’t seen either of ’em tonight.”
“Working?”
“I wouldn’t know. Gen’rally hang out back when they ain’t.”
Shayne nodded. He knew that. Chunky’s chili joint was a front for a bookie establishment in the back that served as a sort of clubroom for the better-known members of Miami’s underworld. He asked: “Seen John Grossman around since he was paroled?”
Chunky took the frayed toothpick from his mouth and squinted at it. “A guy’s on parole, he don’t hang out much with the old gang. Not if he’s smart.”
“Have you seen him around?” Shayne persisted.
Chunky put the toothpick back in his mouth and chewed on it placidly. Shayne grinned and got out his wallet again. Chunky watched him fold another bill twice lengthwise. He took it and suggested: “Might ask Pug or Slim. They usta work for John, some.”
“Are they in back?”
Chunky shook his head. “Went out ’bout an hour ago.”
Shayne said: “Tell them I’m passing out folding money.” He went out and climbed into his car, drove north to Sixtieth and turned west.
Henry Renaldo’s address was a modest one-story stucco house in the center of a block containing half a dozen such houses. It was the only one with lights showing through the front windows.
Shayne drove past it to the end of the block, swung around the corner and parked. He got out and walked back, went up the concrete walk lined with a trim hedge on both sides, and rang Renaldo’s doorbell.
He got the gun out of his pocket while he waited.
He showed the weapon to Henry Renaldo when he opened the door. Renaldo was in his shirtsleeves with his vest hanging open. The cigar in his mouth looked like the same one he had been chewing on some hours previously. He blinked, wrinkled lids down over his eyes when he saw the gun in Shayne’s hand, and backed away, lifting his hands, palms outward, and mumbling: “You don’t need to point that at me.”
Shayne followed him in and heeled the door shut. The living room was small and crowded with heavy overstuffed furniture. A gas log glowed in the small fireplace at one end. There was no one else in the room.
Shayne gestured with his gun and asked: “Where’s Miss Hastings?”
Renaldo rolled up his wrinkled lids and looked at him stupidly. “Who?”
“The girl who left your place with me.”
“I sure don’t know anything about a girl,” Renaldo told him earnestly. “Look here—”
Shayne’s eyes were bright with a fierce light. He palmed the gun, took a step forward and hit Renaldo in the face. He staggered back with blood oozing from a cut lip.
Shayne said coldly: “Maybe that’ll help your memory.”
Renaldo took another backward step and sank down on the red divan. He got a handkerchief from his hip pocket and dabbed at his cut lip. He moaned: “Before God, Mike—”
Shayne rasped: “Where are your two gun-punks?”
“Blackie and Lennie?” Renaldo shook his head from side to side. “How should I know?”
“They grabbed Miss Hastings from her hotel half an hour ago.”
“I don’t know about that.” Renaldo looked at the blood on his handkerchief and shuddered. “I haven’t seen them for two hours.”
“Didn’t you have them tail me when I left your place?”
“What if I did? But I didn’t tell them to grab any girl.”
Shayne narrowed his eyes. It sounded like the truth. He said: “I’ll search this dump anyhow.”
Renaldo got up slowly. There was a certain dignity in his posture as he objected: “This is my house. If you haven’t got a search warrant—”
Shayne said: “I’m not the police.” He turned toward a passageway leading to the rear of the house.
Renaldo moved in front of him. He folded his arms stubbornly. “My wife and kid are asleep back there.”
“We’ll take care of him, boss,” Lennie’s voice rapped out behind Shayne.
Renaldo’s eyelids twitched and his eyes showed frantic terror. “I told you to stay in the kitchen, Lennie.”
“To hell with that. Drop the gat, shamus,” he rasped.
Shayne dropped the gun on the rug. He turned slowly and saw Lennie hunched forward and moving toward him from an open door. Blackie sauntered through the door after him.
Lennie had a heavy automatic in his right hand and his eyes glittered. His face was twisted and tiny bubbles of saliva oozed out between his tight lips. He was coked to the gills and as dangerous as a maddened snake. He glided soundlessly across the rug, and the muzzle of his .45 was in line with Shayne’s belly.
Renaldo said: “Wait, Lennie. We won’t want any trouble here.”
Lennie’s hot eyes twitched toward the tavern proprietor. “He come here lookin’ for trouble, didn’t he? By the sweet Jesus—”
“Hold it, Len,” Blackie said coolly from behind him. “Stay far enough back so’s you can blast him if he starts anything.” He moved around Lennie on the balls of his feet, one hand swinging his blackjack in a short, lazy arc.
Shayne jerked his head back and it struck him on the side of the neck just above the collarbone. It was a paralyzing blow and he hit the floor before he knew he was falling. He heard Renaldo cry out: “Watch it, Blackie. Keep him so he can talk. If he croaked the old man he’s maybe got some info.”
Blackie said: “Sure. He’ll talk.” He drew back his foot and kicked Shayne in the face.
The detective saw the kick coming but he couldn’t move to avoid it. He closed his eyes and lay inert, pushing with his tongue at two loosened teeth.