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.
“No, Cellini, it’s—”
“All right, Duck-Eye. Let me use my imagination. We’ll discuss it later. Right now try to concentrate on the next fight. Something smells about it.”
From his pocket Cellini took a plain envelope that bore no return address. He extracted the typewritten note it contained and studied it once again: Let me know if you think the main event isn’t on the level.
The envelope had been addressed to Cellini’s office and also contained a crisp twenty and two tickets to the fight. That was all. But Cellini didn’t have to guess its source. It had to be Dan Turner, the gambler. Turner trusted him, Turner had thrown jobs his way before. Turner had an occupational disinclination to sign his name to anything and, finally, only Turner was sufficiently tight-fisted to think that a twenty was adequate pay for a job like this.
Celebrities took bows and the lights were dimmed. After a while, the two fighters came down the aisles and ducked through the ropes. They were lightweights, with Eddy Bly weighing one forty and giving Hank Wheaton two pounds.
Bly was from Fresno and Wheaton was a Seattle product. Both had excellent records, with a fair quota of knockouts, but they were records made against local, hometown talent. They had the long, loose arms of natural boxers and they looked ring-wise. The substantial blonde, who had come in just before intermission, yelled something to Eddy Bly and he waved a greeting.
Cellini said to Duck-Eye: “Pay attention, daddy.”
Duck-Eye shuddered. The bell sounded for the first round and the stools were whisked from under the fighters. Wheaton rushed for the center of the ring and stopped short when he saw that Bly wasn’t coming to meet him. For a long moment, Eddy Bly leaned against the ropes and measured his opponent. Then slowly, deliberately, he walked forward.
As they closed, Wheaton’s left arm shot out and Eddy Bly took three jabs to the face in rapid succession. Bly did not step back, did not even bother to defend himself. He kept moving in and took a rapid one-two to the heart. The shoulders of the two men were now almost touching. Suddenly, Bly’s right hand shot up. It moved no more than six inches but it was sure and powerful. Wheaton’s mouthpiece flew into the air and he sagged to the floor.
The count was hardly more than a formality and people began leaving before it was finished. Bly helped Wheaton to his corner and watched anxiously till the fighter was fully revived.
“Well,” asked Cellini Smith, “what do you think?”
“That sock was no fake,” said Duck-Eye Ryan.
“I suppose not,” Cellini conceded, but he was worried. Perhaps Wheaton had left his chin hanging out on purpose. It wasn’t easy to detect a fix in a fight, let alone in one that lasted only thirty-five seconds.
The stadium was nearly empty before Cellini finally moved. He said: “Come on. And stick close because there might be trouble.”
“Where will I get the two hundred bucks?”
“Right now I’m trying to earn just twenty.”
They left the building, walked down an alley to its left and reentered the stadium from the rear. A few fight fans were still in the corridor arguing the night’s card.
Cellini decided that he’d let someone else take the chances for twenty dollars and said: “I’ve got another job for you, Duck-Eye.”
“Sure, Cellini.”
“I want you to hit somebody when I tell you to and to stop hitting him when I tell you to. Is that clear?”
“Sure.” It never occurred to Duck-Eye to question or to doubt his friend.
They walked down the corridor and stopped by a dressing room. Through the half-open door they could see Hank Wheaton buttoning his shirt and they entered. There were three others in the room, watching as the scowling fighter dressed himself. Emphasizing his every word with a cigarette holder, Jerry Lake was talking to Wheaton in a high-pitched, angry voice. A handler, who had seconded the fighter, listened interestedly. The third member was the over-sized, unhandsome woman who had escorted the small blonde into the stadium.
Jerry Lake cut himself short and whirled on the intruders. “What are you looking for now, Smith?”
“Don’t let me interrupt. Go on with your conversation.”
“Is he the guy I hit, Cellini?”
“No, Duck-Eye. I’ll designate the right party when the time comes.”
The gambler said: “What the hell’s the matter with you, Smith? Has everybody gone crazy?”
“What else has gone crazy?” countered Cellini. “The way the fight turned out?”
Lake made no answer. Cellini nodded to Hank Wheaton. “That’s the one, Duck-Eye. Try hitting him.”
Duck-Eye lumbered forward. The blow he let loose could have flattened a case of K-rations. Hank Wheaton leaped to one side but could not entirely escape the huge fist and he staggered back, tripping over a bench.
Cellini had seen enough. “O.K., Duck-Eye. Let’s go.”
Duck-Eye said: “I’ll kill him. I’ll murder the guy. I’ll—”
Cellini grabbed the back of his collar. “Stop making speeches. Wheaton’s liable to realize he can take you.”
Jerry Lake caught up with Cellini Smith and Duck-Eye Ryan in the corridor.
“What was the meaning of that, Smith?”
“I’m trying to earn an honest nickel, Lake. I wanted to find out just how good Hank Wheaton is.”
“Did you?”
“Uh-huh. He’s slow on the take. Duck-Eye couldn’t touch any first-class man with a little speed. Besides, Duck-Eye threw his fist too high, but instead of ducking under it and moving in, Wheaton tried to jump to one side. That’s not being bright.”
“Go on,” said the gambler.
“That’s where it stops. I like this kind of thing to be give and take, and you don’t give.”
“Where do you get that idea?”
“You know damned well,” said Cellini impatiently. “I asked you what you were betting on the fight and what the odds were, but you didn’t seem interested. Then, a half hour later, I find you in Hank Wheaton’s dressing room, reading him the riot act. If you know him that well, you’d know whether to take bets for or against him. What have you got to say to that?”
Jerry Lake had nothing to say to that. He turned on his heels and walked away.
Cellini said: “We’ll try it again, Duck-Eye. And try to let me do the talking this time. You just take the beating.”
“Sure, Cellini, sure.”
There was no need to hunt for Eddy Bly’s dressing room, for they could see him coming down the corridor with the small, tightly packed blond number hanging on his arm. The dark, set face was out of place for a fighter who had just won the main bout.
Cellini stepped in front of them. The blonde’s eyes gave him a practiced glance. She didn’t seem to like what she saw.
Bly said: “All right. I did a great job and I’m terrific. Thanks, and now get out of our way.”
“That’s not the idea,” said Cellini. “My friend here claims he’s tougher than you are. Try it again, Duck-Eye.”
Cellini got out of the combat area. Automatically, Eddy Bly’s arm came up and knocked Duck-Eye’s first pass aside. The boxer leaned back against the corridor wall and then bounced forward with a fast, chopping blow. It was a smooth and efficient right that jarred Duck-Eye’s huge form down to the patched toes of his socks.
Cellini called: “Cut.” He took Duck-Eye’s arm and they walked out, leaving the puzzled pair behind.
“I need two hundred bucks,” Duck-Eye Ryan said.
“You won’t make it with fighting.”
They found Dan Turner tallying the night’s bets in front of the stadium. When he saw Cellini he said: “You can drop that matter I wrote you about.”