By Lionel White
White is likely one of the lesser-known noirists whose books have been filmed via Kubrick and Godard ('Pierrot le Fou' used to be 'based on' 'Obsession') and have been a power on Tarantino. regardless of the identify, this is often extra of a personality learn, with a chilling portrayal of a cold-hearted manipulator referred to as Flood and the lads and ladies, reliable and undesirable, who keep on with his orders, despite the fact that reluctantly. The attitudes to girls are greatly of its time (mid-fifties), i.e. 3 different types: stable, undesirable, and married. there is humour, and violence, and a common feel of unease. Memorable pulp noir, a forgotten vintage.
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We got to see that those lights go off promptly at eleven o'clock and that they stay out for at least four hours. That's all. Meanwhile, you better get that damn sunburn fixed up. ” Shorty suddenly slapped at a fly that had landed on his heavy thigh. His big hand came down hard on the raw, sunburned flesh, and he howled. Then he looked over at Candle again. ” he asked. “I got everything figured,” Candle told him. “And tomorrow I think I'm going downstate and pick up that rented car. ” “I don't want to be hanging around there myself a damn minute longer than I have to,” Shorty said with a distorted smile.
He saw the flash of a knife, felt an arm circle his neck, was conscious of fists beating against his face. He never could remember whether or not he was conscious of the car that pulled to the curb. Dimly he seemed to recall the other one wading in, his arms flailing. Of course he didn't know anything about the blackjack in the other's hand or the deadly precision with which he used it. Moments later he was aware of the man leaning over him and pleading with him to get up. ” The face was close to his own and he was remotely conscious of the urgency in the voice.
She felt like a bird under the hypnotic spell of a snake as her eyes followed his quick, light movements. He handed her the drink. ” For a moment she almost lost the thin edge of her control, and she knew that the blood rushed to her neck and face. But at once she realized that the question was probably without meaning, like all of the questions he had ever asked her concerning how she felt, or what she had done, or what she wanted to do. It was merely one of Flood's odd mannerisms, his peculiar habit of selecting words that had a definite personal meaning, but uttering them in a tone that canceled out all emotion and all significance.