Brooklyn Noir 2: The Classics (v. 2)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Once again in Brooklyn Noir 2, each story is set in a distinct Brooklyn neighborhood and mixes masters of genre with some of the best literary fiction writers to ever set foot in the borough. These brilliant and chilling stories see crime striking in communities of Russians, Jamaicans, Puerto Ricans, Italians, Irish, and many other ethnicities--in the most diverse urban location on the planet.
Contributors:H.P. Lovecraft, Lawrence Block, Donald Westlake, Pete Hamill, Jonathan Lethem, Colson Whitehead, Carolyn Wheat, Thomas Wolfe, Hubert Selby, Jr., Stanley Ellin, Gilbert Sorrentino, Maggie Estep, Salvatore La Puma, and Irwin Shaw.
"Here, McLoughlin mine reprints, allowing him to pay tribute to "all the great stories that had given me the idea for such a book in the first place"...Terrific appeal for Brooklynites."
"An assortment of the borough's crime-fiction masterminds get down to the gritty details in this entertaining collection of chilling stories."
"Brooklyn Noir 2: The Classics, edited by Tim McLoughlin, is the perfect companion to McLoughlin's successful all-original anthology."
"Murder. Mystery. Mayhem. Once again we visit the borough of Brooklyn by way of deftly authored stories by those who live and breathe it...Editor Tim McLoughlin handpicked a tome full of the best tales already told about the duplicitousness of both Brooklyn’s landscapes and inhabitants."
"Brooklyn Noir 2 is gritty nostalgia served with a side dish of modern noir, always insightful and colorful without apology--much like the borough itself."
--Future MYSTERY Anthology Magazine
"Packed full of literary treats...The stories here are all set in Brooklyn and date from early in the last century to the present day...What a fine collection. My thanks to Tim McLoughlin for such an intelligent and splendid anthology."
--Mystery Scene Magazine
produced a gun from an ankle holster hidden below her pants. That got Harry mad. She had sworn she wouldn’t bring the gun. She had broken a promise. Harry believed in keeping promises. Harry said nothing more to Rebecca. He turned, leaving her and her gun with the dirty piano-playing lunatic. Harry went home. He figured that was it. Back to the bad luck. Five days later, Harry ran into McCormick. McCormick had a tip on a horse in the fourth, did Harry want to come to the track? It was cold and
of Clinton and Court Streets lead off toward the Borough Hall. Its houses are mostly of brick, dating from the first quarter to the middle of the nineteenth century, and some of the obscurer alleys and byways have that alluring antique flavour which conventional reading leads us to call “Dickensian.” The population is a hopeless tangle and enigma; Syrian, Spanish, Italian, and negro elements impinging upon one another, and fragments of Scandinavian and American belts lying not far distant. It is
sofas. He picked the least battered armchair of the lot, and sat on the very edge. Although he was a short man, his knees seemed to be almost up to his chin, and he had the feeling that if he relaxed he’d fall over backwards. The super trundled across the room and dropped into one of the other armchairs, sinking into it as though he never intended to get to his feet again in his life. “A real shame,” he said again. “And to think I maybe could have stopped it.” “You could have stopped it? How?”
to Gruber’s apartment, and knocked on the door. As he’d expected, a uniformed cop had been left behind to keep an eye on the place for a while, and when he opened the door, Levine showed his identification and said, “I’m on the case. I’d like to take a look around.” The cop let him in, and Levine looked carefully through Gruber’s personal property. He found the notebooks, finally, in the bottom drawer of the dresser. There were five of them, steno pad size loose-leaf fillers. Four of them were
then on Papa Joe’s corner and watched the prowl car coming down Third Avenue, slow to a halt. The first cop got out, swinging his nightstick, grinning at him. Monte walked over slowly, humbly, then when he got to within a few feet of the cop, kicked him in the balls. He fell backward, and Monte smashed him across the skull with the cast. Then he ran around to the driver’s side as the cop was getting out there, the door just about a foot open, the cop’s foot grazing the street. Monte kicked at the