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.
With surprising agility for a fat man, he bounced to his feet and swung a roundhouse at my head. In a brawl, I watch a man’s eyes. His showed no anger, only an increased mischievous joy. My knees bent and his fist whistled a foot over my hair.
He was easy. One short jab in that soft stomach jackknifed him forward with his jaw conveniently out-thrust. When he hit the floor this time, he stayed there and slept.
I looked up from his sprawled body just in time to see Anton Strowlski let the street door swing closed behind him.
You simply did not brawl in the Jefferson Lounge. Fatso was hardly asleep before a cop had me by either arm. I think management keeps cops under the bar, along with ice-cubes and lemons.
When they finally got Fatso awake, they put us both in a prowl car. The Jefferson’s manager stood at the curb wringing his hands and looking horrified.
“No charges, Officer,” he kept saying. “Just take them away.”
The older of the two cops said testily: “All right. All right,” and the manager moved away.
The Jefferson Lounge is situated in one corner of the elaborate Jefferson Hotel. As the Lounge manager passed back into the dispensary, I noticed Anton Strowlski a few yards up the street under the hotel marquee. With his back against the brick wall near the main entrance, he watched us broodingly. I recognized our driver, a stocky, middle-aged cop, without being able to recall his name. I know most men on the force, at least by sight. The other cop was young and unfamiliar, probably a rookie.
The driver twisted in his seat to look us over. Fatso was shaking his head and working his jaw back and forth with one hand.
“You’re Manny Moon, aren’t you?” the driver said to me.
“Yeah.”
“Who are you?” he asked my sparring partner.
“Willard Longstreet.” The fat man turned to me. “Manville Moon, are you? The private dick?”
I nodded shortly.
“What you hit me with?”
“With great enjoyment, you big ape.”
He grinned his satyr grin and mischievous brightness returned to his eyes. He fixed them on the driver.
“What are your plans, cop?”
The policeman frowned. “They were to let you go, if you promise to behave. But I don’t like ‘cop.’ ”
“I want Moon booked for assault and battery,” Longstreet said calmly. “Drive along.”
“Why you...!” I started to say, then stopped and relaxed. “Go along,” I told the driver.
Shrugging, the cop faced forward and started the motor. I glanced over at Anton once more, saw him frown at us worriedly, and on a spur-of-the-moment impulse decided to make the party complete.
“Hold it!” I told the driver.
Gears clashed as the driver, starting to release the clutch, suddenly braked and slipped back into neutral. Locking the emergency, he peered at me in the rear-view mirror.
“Now what?”
I said: “The guy standing under the hotel marquee is Anton Strowlski. Know him?”
Both cops glanced that way and both shook their heads.
“Chicago boy. Even money you’ll find a gun if you shake him down.”
Anton, noting our eyes on him, began to move away slowly. Swinging open his door, the younger cop bounced from the car.
“You!” he called.
Pretending not to hear, Anton increased his pace. The cop legged after him, drawing his service revolver as he ran.
“Halt, or I’ll shoot!”
The command improved Anton’s hearing and he stopped dead in his tracks and turned. The cop gestured toward the building with his gun and Anton, familiar with the routine through much previous experience, faced the wall with his hands elevated about to shoulder height.
Deftly running his free hand over the gunman’s body, the policeman relieved him of a dainty, snub-nosed automatic. He found it in the same pocket Anton’s hand had occupied when I first glimpsed him in the mirror.
Reholstering his revolver, the cop let Anton precede him back to the car. Without a word the gunman took his place in the rear seat between Longstreet and me.
As we made our second start, I said: “Who you working for these days, Strowlski?”
Eyes brittle as broken glass swung to my face. He ignored my question. “You finger me, Moon?”
“Mister Moon,” I said.
His lips quirked upward, lacking mirth. “I’ve heard that gag about you. I don’t mister nobody.”
Without moving my body or changing expression, I drove my right elbow into his chin. His smirk was absorbed by a vacuous look and he slumped heavily against the shoulder of Longstreet, who flashed me a startled glance and pushed the gunman away. Anton’s head slumped forward, hiding his vacant expression, and his body, wedged between us, remained erect.
Neither of the cops suspected anything wrong. Traffic sounds had drowned the slap of my elbow against Anton’s jaw, and the younger cop, periodically turning to look us over, apparently assumed the gunman’s bowed head was the result of bashfulness.
Anton was still resting when we arrived at the station. I got out one side of the car, Longstreet got out the other and Anton rolled slowly forward on his face.
Before either cop could open his mouth I said: “What’s the matter with him?” threw a suspicious look at Longstreet and asked, “You do something to him in the car?”
Longstreet’s outraged expression faded into one of amusement. “He was all right a minute ago.”
“Looks like he fainted,” said the younger cop.
The middle-aged cop glanced at Longstreet suspiciously, then said to his colleague: “Well, drag him out and slap him awake.”
Without waiting to see his instructions carried out, he waved us ahead of him and followed us up the steps grunting audibly.
Chapter Two
Murder by Magic
Sergeant Danny Blake was working the desk at headquarters. When he saw me, he flashed his gold front tooth and asked hopefully: “What’s the charge? Homicide?”
“Assault and battery,” said our chauffeur. He pointed his thumb first at Longstreet and then at me. “On him, by him.”
“The old man will be disappointed,” Blake said, enjoying himself. “Only assault and battery.”
I said: “Fill out your forms, clown, or it will be homicide. Only someone else will have to enter the charge.”
Throwing open his log book, Blake entered my name and other identifying information, put down Longstreet as complainant, then, pen poised, looked inquiringly up at the arresting officer.
“Jefferson Lounge,” the policeman said. “About a half hour ago.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “That’d make it 2:30 p.m. It was about 50–50, according to the manager. They both swung, only Moon connected.”
Blake looked at me. “You filing counter-charges?”
Ever since we left the Jefferson, I had been thinking that over. I turned toward Longstreet and caught the same mischievous laughter deep in his eyes. I didn’t understand him. I didn’t understand anything, except that up till now I seemed to be reacting exactly as he wanted. I decided to change that.
“No counter-charge,” I said, and the lights went out of Longstreet’s eyes as though someone had thrown a switch.
He watched me thoughtfully as I posted $250.00 bond, which left my checking account at five figures: a one, a two, a six, a decimal point and two zeros.
“It’ll help my civil suit if you’re convicted in police court,” he remarked pleasantly. “I’m going to sue you, of course.”
“Do that.” I took my receipt and turned to leave.