Nothing much happens around Sylvan Lake as a rule—maybe a fight breaks out at the Agricultural Society dance, or the institution of marriage is combined with booze or drugs or guns. So of course the Edmonton and Calgary papers are saying that Lillian’s death is beyond the investigative powers of my rural RCMP detachment and me. Well, maybe so. I don’t know . . .
“Nothing stops the bid,” Uncle Taeng said as he shoveled the squirming baby octopus into his mouth. “Nothing. If we don’t bid, Seoul doesn’t eat . . .”
Get all twenty-five stories from Dennis Lehane’s Boston Noir and Boston Noir 2: The Classics in a single digital edition for only $15.99.
Where the f**k am I?
My eyes snapped open and scanned the inside of a run-down apartment. Brown stains covered the couch like leprosy, and the living room looked like it had been robbed . . .
Tupelo was sipping a Mickey’s in El Cortez when Mac and Porter came in from Fremont—a double endorsement for capital punishment as far as Tupelo was concerned, and the reason he had a glass eye . . .
I was at the Elks. Cabrera struck out looking. Then the Bookie called me . . .
Branches scratched at my face as I pushed through the brush, and a warm trail of blood crept down my cheek. Curses sounded from not too far behind me, as did the thuds of heavy boots running through the woods. The bay of a hunting dog echoed, twisting around the trunks. Bad news. Can’t hide from a good hunting dog. I ran, trying to navigate the roots and uneven ground of the damp forest, the satchel over my shoulder slamming into my back with every step. The warm smells of earth and blood clogged my nose. I considered dropping the bag, but only until I felt the weight of the pistol in my pocket . . .
To celebrate the release of Providence Noir, the latest in Akashic’s Noir Series, we’re pleased to bring you a glimpse into Ann Hood’s love of noir with her introduction, “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”