Jakubowski, Maxim (ed) - The Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction / Якубовски, Максим (ред) - Большая книга "палпа" [1996, EPUB, ENG]

TOO MANY HAVE LIVED / Слишком много их было by Dashiell Hammett FLIGHT TO NOWHERE / Побег в никуда by Charles Williams BLACK by Paul Cain FINDERS KILLERS! by John D. MacDonald MURDER'S MANDATE by W. T. Ballard CIGARETTE GIRL by James M. Cain THE GETAWAY by Gil Brewer PREVIEW OF MURDER by Robert Leslie Bellem FOREVER AFTER / Отсюда — и в вечность! by Jim Thompson THE BLOODY TIDE by Day Keene DEATH COMES GIFT-WRAPPED by William P. McGivern THE GIRL BEHIND THE HEDGE / Девушка за изгородью by Mickey Spillane ENTER SCARFACE by Armitage Trail A CANDLE FOR THE BAG LADY by Lawrence Block BLACK PUDDING by David Goodis A MATTER OF PRINCIPAL / Дело принципа by Max Allan Collins CITIZEN'S ARREST / Гражданская бдительность by Charles Willeford SLEEPING DOG / Не буди лихо пока оно тихо by Ross Macdonald THE WENCH IS DEAD by Fredric Brown SO DARK FOR APRIL / Ненастным апрельским днём... by Howard Browne WE ARE ALL DEAD by Bruno Fischer DEATH IS A VAMPIRE / Смерть это вампир by Robert Bloch DIVIDE AND CONQUER / Разделяй и властвуй by Jack Ritchie A REAL NICE GUY / Такой славный парень by William F. Nolan STACKED DECK by Bill Pronzini SO YOUNG, SO FAIR, SO DEAD by John Lutz EFFECTIVE MEDICINE by B. Traven KILLING BERNSTEIN by Harlan Ellison THE SECOND COMING / Следующий by Joe Gores HIBISCUS AND HOMICIDE by William Campbell Gault HELL ON WHEELS by Thomas S. Roche ORDO by Donald E. Westlake

It was a cheap, frowsy hotel in a cheap shoddy neighborhood a good distance south of Hollywood Boulevard. It was standing like a tired harridan on the east side of the street so that the setting sun in the west painted its shabby brick façade the color of old blood that nobody wanted any more. Over the entrance faded gilt lettering said “Chaple Arms,” which could have been a misspelling of “Chapel” or might be the proprietor’s name. The cars parked along the curb in front were old, worn-out models in need of polish they would never get, with dented fenders and recap tires any self-respecting junk dealer would have sneered at. Drifting past in second gear, I watched a mangy alley cat in the doorway, licking its chops and working on a bird it had killed. That was the only visible movement, the only sign of life. It was just as much a sign of death, if you thought about it from the bird’s viewpoint: only the bird was beyond caring. The Chaple Arms didn’t seem to care, either. It was that kind of hotel. One more stain on the steps couldn’t possibly matter. . . .