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A HELL OF A WOMAN By Jim Thompson (Fiction, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $8.95)
I'd gotten out of my car and was running for the porch when I saw her. She was peering through the curtains of the door, and a flash of lightning lit up the dark glass for an instant, framing her face like a picture. And it wasn't a pretty picture, by any means; she was about as far from being a raving beauty as I was. But something about it kind of got me. I tripped over a crack, and almost went sprawling. When I looked up again she was gone, and the curtains were motionless.
SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER By David Goodis (Fiction, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $7.95)
There were no street lamps, no lights at all. It was a narrow street in the Port Richmond section of Philadelphia. From the nearby Delaware a cold wind came lancing in, telling all alley cats they'd better find a heated cellar. The late November gusts rattled against midnight-darkened windows, and stabbed at the eyes of the fallen man in the street. The man was kneeling near the curb, breathing hard and spitting blood and wondering seriously if his skull was fractured. He'd been running blindly, his head down, so of course he hadn't seen the telephone pole. He'd crashed into it face first, bounced away and hit the cobblestones and wanted to call it a night.
PICK-UP By Charles Willeford (Fiction, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $7.95)
It must have been around a quarter to eleven. A sailor came in and ordered a chile dog and coffee. I sliced a bun, jerked a frank out of the boiling water, nested it, poured a half-dipper of chile over the frank and sprinkled it liberally with chopped onions. I scribbled a check and put it by his plate. I wouldn't have recommended the unpalatable mess to a starving animal. The sailor was the only customer, and after he ate his dog he left. That was the exact moment she entered.
THE HOT SPOT By Charles Williams (Fiction, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $8.95)
The first morning when I showed up on the lot he called me into the office and wanted me to go out in the country somewhere and repossess a car. ''I'm tired of fooling with that bird,'' he said. ''So don't take any argument. Bring the car in. Miss Harper'll go with you and drive the other one back.'' I was working on commission, and there wasn't any percentage in that kind of stuff. I'd just started to tell him to get somebody else to run his errands when I saw the girl come in and changed my mind. He introduced us. ''Miss Harper,'' he grunted, shuffling through the papers on his desk, ''Madox is the new salesman.'' ''How do you do?'' I said. She was cool in summer cotton and had very round arms, just slightly tanned, and somehow she made you think of a long-stemmed yellow rose.
THE GETAWAY By Jim Thompson (Fiction, Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $8.95)
Carter ''Doc'' McCoy had left a morning call for six o'clock, and he was reaching for the telephone the moment the night clerk rang. He had always awakened easily and pleasantly; a man with not a regret for the past, and completely confident and self-assured as he faced each new day. Twelve years of prison routine had merely molded his natural tendencies into habit. ''Why, I slept fine, Charlie,'' he said, in his amiably sincere voice. ''Don't suppose I should ask you the same question, eh? Ha-ha! Got my breakfast on the way, have you? Fine, attaboy. You're a gentleman and a scholar, Charlie.
