Credit for his masterpiece
В клеверах пишут, что Клод умеет подражать писательскому стилю лучше большинства профессионалов. Решил проверить, попросил у него пассаж на тысячу слов в стиле Чандлера.
The stench hit me before I even opened the door - that sickly-sweet perfume death wears when it's been lounging around too long in a heated room. The landlady's key trembled in my hand, but not from nerves. Twenty years of hunting down LA's rottenest apples leaves you immune to the shakes. Still, something about the quiet in that third-floor walkup made my teeth ache like a bad filling.
I nudged the door with my foot, letting it swing wide on protesting hinges. The evening sun crawled through venetian blinds, painting yellow stripes across what used to be Janet Morrison's living room. Now it was just another crime scene waiting to be discovered. She was sprawled across a faded oriental rug, her cherry-red dress making a kind of sick joke against the darker stains spreading underneath. Someone had worked her over with the kind of dedication you usually save for a life's calling. Her face was a roadmap of brutality, every feature rearranged by knuckles that knew their business. The knife work came later - precise little signatures left by an artist who wanted credit for his masterpiece.
The room smelled of copper pennies and stale cigarettes, with a undertone of that fancy French perfume she always wore. A half-empty martini glass sat on the coffee table, lipstick smudged on the rim. Ice had melted to nothing, telling me she'd been entertaining company around six hours ago. The same company that decided to turn her into modern art. Her phone was off the hook, the receiver dangling like a broken promise. Whatever her last words were, they hadn't been enough to save her.
I didn't need to check for a pulse. The way her skin had started taking on that waxy museum-statue look told me all I needed to know. But I did anyway, pressing two fingers against her neck where a pulse should have been fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Nothing. Just cooling flesh that used to be a dame with too many secrets and not enough friends. The kind that end up in my filing cabinet under "C" for closed cases, once the coroner's wagon takes them for their last ride.
Her hands told a story - defensive wounds, broken nails, skin under the fingernails that would give the lab boys something to play with. She hadn't gone quiet, hadn't made it easy for whoever decided to punch her ticket. That was something, at least. In this city, sometimes that's all you get - the cold comfort of knowing you didn't roll over for the reaper when he came calling.
I stood up, joints creaking like old floorboards, and took one last look around. A framed photo on the mantel showed her at better times - bright smile, bright eyes, whole life ahead of her. Now she was just another statistic in a city that collected them like kids collect baseball cards. I pulled out my worn notebook, scribbled down the details that never make it into official reports. The way her fingernails matched her dress. The broken heel on her left shoe. The faint smell of gardenias from the wilting bouquet by the window - flowers that would outlive their owner.
The sun was sinking lower now, turning the stripes on the floor into bars of dark gold. Soon the place would be crawling with badges and photographers, all of them documenting the end of Janet Morrison's story. But for now it was just me and her, sharing one last quiet moment in a room that had seen too much. I lit a cigarette, let the smoke curl up toward the water-stained ceiling. Somewhere out there, someone was walking around thinking they'd gotten away with it. They didn't know it yet, but they'd just bought themselves a one-way ticket to a very personal kind of hell. One I'd be delivering special delivery, no return address needed.
Отличное наглядное пособие по отличиям плохой литературы от хорошей. Но не хуже 99% того, что сейчас публикуется и читается.
The stench hit me before I even opened the door - that sickly-sweet perfume death wears when it's been lounging around too long in a heated room. The landlady's key trembled in my hand, but not from nerves. Twenty years of hunting down LA's rottenest apples leaves you immune to the shakes. Still, something about the quiet in that third-floor walkup made my teeth ache like a bad filling.
I nudged the door with my foot, letting it swing wide on protesting hinges. The evening sun crawled through venetian blinds, painting yellow stripes across what used to be Janet Morrison's living room. Now it was just another crime scene waiting to be discovered. She was sprawled across a faded oriental rug, her cherry-red dress making a kind of sick joke against the darker stains spreading underneath. Someone had worked her over with the kind of dedication you usually save for a life's calling. Her face was a roadmap of brutality, every feature rearranged by knuckles that knew their business. The knife work came later - precise little signatures left by an artist who wanted credit for his masterpiece.
The room smelled of copper pennies and stale cigarettes, with a undertone of that fancy French perfume she always wore. A half-empty martini glass sat on the coffee table, lipstick smudged on the rim. Ice had melted to nothing, telling me she'd been entertaining company around six hours ago. The same company that decided to turn her into modern art. Her phone was off the hook, the receiver dangling like a broken promise. Whatever her last words were, they hadn't been enough to save her.
I didn't need to check for a pulse. The way her skin had started taking on that waxy museum-statue look told me all I needed to know. But I did anyway, pressing two fingers against her neck where a pulse should have been fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Nothing. Just cooling flesh that used to be a dame with too many secrets and not enough friends. The kind that end up in my filing cabinet under "C" for closed cases, once the coroner's wagon takes them for their last ride.
Her hands told a story - defensive wounds, broken nails, skin under the fingernails that would give the lab boys something to play with. She hadn't gone quiet, hadn't made it easy for whoever decided to punch her ticket. That was something, at least. In this city, sometimes that's all you get - the cold comfort of knowing you didn't roll over for the reaper when he came calling.
I stood up, joints creaking like old floorboards, and took one last look around. A framed photo on the mantel showed her at better times - bright smile, bright eyes, whole life ahead of her. Now she was just another statistic in a city that collected them like kids collect baseball cards. I pulled out my worn notebook, scribbled down the details that never make it into official reports. The way her fingernails matched her dress. The broken heel on her left shoe. The faint smell of gardenias from the wilting bouquet by the window - flowers that would outlive their owner.
The sun was sinking lower now, turning the stripes on the floor into bars of dark gold. Soon the place would be crawling with badges and photographers, all of them documenting the end of Janet Morrison's story. But for now it was just me and her, sharing one last quiet moment in a room that had seen too much. I lit a cigarette, let the smoke curl up toward the water-stained ceiling. Somewhere out there, someone was walking around thinking they'd gotten away with it. They didn't know it yet, but they'd just bought themselves a one-way ticket to a very personal kind of hell. One I'd be delivering special delivery, no return address needed.
Отличное наглядное пособие по отличиям плохой литературы от хорошей. Но не хуже 99% того, что сейчас публикуется и читается.