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 tried, vainly, to free himself and she said: “I’m Toby but you’re sober.” She thrust a glass in his hand. “Try this. Good, huh?”
“That stuff could pull a nail out of a board,” he replied, but he felt better.
Cellini quickly poured more liquid into his glass and drank it down. He asked: “Where’s our host?”
“I thought it was you,” replied Toby, her arm tightening around his neck.
He walked into the next room, the girl trailing after him. Prunella, a fixed, bleary smile on her unlovely face, waved at him from the depths of a club chair.
“I saw him first,” snapped Toby. “He ain’t in public domain.”
“You can keep him, dearie. I just want to apologize about yesterday.”
“What about it?” asked Cellini.
She emptied her glass before answering. “About me and Hank. It was a lie he had no girl-friends. Me and Hank were finished.”
“Was Juno Worden one of his girls?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I never bothered to check. Hank said he’d never divorce me if I let him do what he wanted.”
“I bet that’s a lie,” Toby snarled. “She’s two-faced and I don’t know which one I hate most.”
Prunella struggled to get up and at Toby as Dan Turner and Eddy Bly came by. Bly took in the situation, shoved Prunella back and said: “Relax.”
“Glad you came, Smith,” said Turner. “How’s your drink?”
“I wouldn’t feed it to a robot.”
“You’ll get used to it after a while. Or at least you won’t care after a while. How’s the job coming?”
“I’m still trying to separate the lies from the half-truths. Everybody here or you expecting some more?”
“Everybody except Jerry Lake. He called a little while ago and said he’ll be around later.”
Eddy Bly said: “Smith, Mr. Turner says I had you tabbed all wrong. Why don’t we make up?”
“Good enough.” Cellini shook hands. “If you don’t mind, we’ll have a little talk later.”
“Sure,” replied Bly with well-restrained enthusiasm. “Any time you want.” He nodded and moved off with Turner.
Toby said to Prunella: “Keep your chins up, dearie,” and steered Cellini away.
Cellini refilled his glass from a large pitcher, tasted the stuff and gagged. Toby started laughing. “That’s grape punch, you man.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” He hunted over the sideboard and appropriated a nearly full bottle of bourbon. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and deeply. The party began to seem less dull, the guests much brighter.
A little man, wearing elevator shoes, who had observed Cellini admiringly, said: “I wish I could drink like that.”
He was quite drunk and Cellini replied: “You have.”
“Not like that. I’m not man enough. I’d choke. I got to mix it with all kinds of things so it shouldn’t taste like liquor.”
Cellini guessed that this was Forsythe Worden, the Blond Bomber’s husband. He liked the wispy, mild-looking character and said: “It’s all a matter of how your belly is lined. It has nothing to do with being a man.”
Toby said: “Belly ain’t a nice word, you wonderful thing. Use tummy. Like in soft undertummy of Europe.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel good,” said Forsythe Worden. “There are other things.” He pointed. “Do you know my wife?”
Cellini looked to see Juno Worden entering with Candy Pastor, their arms hooked in friendly intimacy. She disengaged herself and came over.
“I see you met my loving husband, Smith.” Juno giggled and appropriated the drink in her husband’s hand.
The intonation of her words sounded ugly and mean and Cellini shivered slightly. “This one’s my man,” persisted Toby.
Juno said: “Forsythe, watch out what you tell Smith. He’s a peeper and he’s snooping around on Wheaton’s killing.”
Forsythe Worden was puzzled. “In that case don’t you think we should try to help him?”
“You do as I say.”
“He has something there, Juno,” observed Cellini. “How about trying to be helpful for a change?”
“Forsythe is a milkhead,” said the Blond Bomber. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just don’t want him to go around making up stuff about people.”
“What people?”
“I mean generally. Anybody.”
“She means nothing of the sort,” stated Forsythe Worden. “She probably doesn’t want me to tell you about Eddy Bly.”
“Forsythe!” Juno’s voice was sharp and threatening.
Eddy Bly joined the group. “What’s going on here?” His face was flushed and he was drunker than before.
Juno indicated her husband and said: “He’s making nasty cracks about you and me.”
The fighter laughed. “Well, they’re true, aren’t they?”
He put his arms around her waist and started to kiss her. After a moment of struggle, she gave in and her arms coiled around his neck. It was a full half minute before they parted and she said: “Maybe they are true.”
Forsythe Worden leaped to his feet, trembling. “Do you have to do it in front of everybody?”
Eddy Bly chuckled. “Keep your pants on, half-pint.”
With a blind, unreasoning bravery, the little man rushed at the fighter. Eddy Bly barely moved as his right shot out and connected with Worden’s jaw. Bly had not bothered to put any power behind the blow but it was enough to drop Forsythe Worden in an unconscious heap. Eddy Bly sighed. He went to the sideboard, got the pitcher of grape punch and poured it over Worden’s face. The harassed Filipino houseboy took the pitcher and refilled it. Others in the room had barely given the scene a second glance. They were used to it.
Toby said to Cellini: “I’m tired of watching other people’s scandals, you wonderful man. Let’s make our own.”
Cellini led her back to the first room, where Duck-Eye caressed his bottle in an easy chair. He picked up Toby and set her in Duck-Eye’s lap. She sighed contentedly, curled up and immediately went to sleep.
Duck-Eye said: “Thanks a lot, Cellini. When should I return her?”
“Don’t bother to. And don’t get too drunk.”
Cellini found Eddy Bly on the back veranda and said: “Did you have to beat up that little guy that way?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied the fighter, “but I can’t be blamed if I forget myself every once in a while. I’ve just lost a sister and a friend of mine is murdered and then that little mutt that Juno married starts yapping at my heels. I tell you it’s too much, Smith.”
“Maybe it’s too much for him, too,” said Cellini coldly. “Juno is his wife — not yours.”
“That’s just it. I wish she was mine.”
“Won’t he give her a divorce?”
“I never bothered to find out because it wouldn’t make any difference. The trouble is Juno don’t want a divorce. I think she likes the idea of being married to him because that way she has more freedom. I like her but I got to admit she’s just a tramp.” He stared gloomily at nothing.
There was a pause and after a while, Cellini said: “I’ve been trying to find out about the fix that was supposed to be arranged on your fight with Wheaton.”
“What about it?”
“Everything. I’d like to know just what happened.”
“Keep this between us, Smith, but after the fight was booked, Wheaton came to me with a proposition and I agreed to throw the fight.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I got to know Wheaton better and we became friends and I found out he was a bum fighter, so I told them I wouldn’t throw the fight because I didn’t want it on my record that I was licked by third-class stuff like Wheaton. That’s about all.”