The Continental Hotel is an old Victorian hotel in the heart of the city, not far from Union Square.The hotel was built at an enormous expense around 1890, with massive pillars in the lobby, beautiful murals, English floor tiles and Queen Anne-style fireplaces in every room.Although small compared to upstarts such as St. Francis and Fairmont, the Continental also faces an equally distinguished clientele.In general, however, it has always been so.However, the rising cost of operating the hotel in recent years has forced management to lower its profile a bit and usher guests who do not meet its usual standards into an empty lobby.If you suggested twenty years ago that a popular fiction convention be held in a hotel, the hotel staff would have thrown you out.
It was nearly eight o'clock when I arrived at the hotel, all dressed up and chewing Garlic peppermint gum to mask the smell of the pepperoni pizza I had for dinner.Take the elevator with large mirrors on the walls to reach the fifteenth floor, and the M suite is located at the southernmost end.There was a table at the door of the room, and a banner posted: "Western Popular Fiction Conference—Private Reception."Sitting behind the desk is a slightly bald man in his forties, wearing a turtleneck and blazer, taking notes on a mimeographed checklist.When I said my name, he smiled brightly, his teeth crooked.He squeezed my hand as if my name were the hot news about Italian horse racing at the racetrack.
"Nice to meet you," he said. "Very pleased. I'm Lloyd Underwood, president of the convention. I'm from Hayward."
"Hello, Mr. Underwood."
"Just call me Lloyd. I'm so glad you're here. I've heard of you, I mean, before Ross Denzel mentioned you were coming, I've seen you in the papers Your name. I hope to have a look at your collection someday. Do you have any good collections to sell?"
"this……"
"If you want to buy a pre-1930s Black Mask, do let me know. I'm going to sell some of my library. I have two magazines from 1927 and a 192 Four years of magazines, which published a novel written by Hammy. The three books are almost brand new, the paper is clean, and the cover is not damaged. I will give you a list later."
"Uh, of course..."
"We have a lot of time to chat." Underwood said, "If you have nothing to do, come early tomorrow. Sign in at noon, but I can set it up at ten thirty, and the book room will open by then. Now you Better wear your name card."
"Name card?"
"You've got to wear this so you can go to all the events. Surely this is your first time at a convention like this?" He wrote my name on a sticker and handed it to me, "Okay. The bar is on the left when you go in. But if you like beer, you can’t get it yet. I asked the waiter to get it, but they haven’t come back yet.”
I nodded and didn't say anything, because I'm not good at words when I meet someone who is as good at words as he is.I went through the half-open door and into the house.The room is very large, similar to a cocktail room, and two pairs of round columns divide the room into three parts.Rococo-style chandeliers hang from the roof, and a Queen Anne-style fireplace is installed on each wall.The wall facing the door is full of windows, some of which are open, letting in a few wisps of drunken night wind, exuding the summer atmosphere of San Francisco at the end of May.The elegant and luxurious Victorian furniture is placed in a proper position for people to sit and enjoy the beautiful scenery.The scenery here is really good, especially on a night like this, with the Twin Peaks to the west, the brightly lit harbor, and the city lights scattered in between.
There were about twenty people in the room, standing or sitting, forming a small circle, laughing and laughing constantly.I walked across the room without attracting any attention except for a tall, red-haired beauty who gave me a hard look.But that's mostly because I nearly knocked her over in my recklessness.I was walking, peeling off the stickers on my name cards and looking around for familiar faces.
I found Denzel standing by a pillar, talking to a scrawny guy.The man was about sixty years old, with loose skin and a dark complexion. Such a dark complexion could never be exposed in two or three months of vacation.Dencer was talking about Norbert Davies, the only popular writer who was both funny and unemotional, but the thin man didn't seem to be listening.The man looked anxious and preoccupied, and kept stroking the few hairs on the top of his head—as if he was worried that these hairs would fall off or disappear.
Denzel looked up at me and called, "Hey, that's him, Mr. Detective." He patted me on the shoulder as he spoke.The scrawny guy turned his head suddenly, like a frightened bird, stared at me for a long time, then began to fiddle with the few hairs, and the ice cubes in the glass in his hand jingled.
"Frank, this is the detective I told you about collecting pulp fiction."
When Denzel finished talking to him, he turned to me and said, "This is Frank Colodny. The meanest fucking editor in pulp fiction. Leo Margulis wasn't as famous as Frank at his best." Half mean, and Frank isn't half as sweet as Leo in private, is he, Frank baby?"
Kolodny said nothing.I held out my hand to him and said it was an honor to meet him.He was something of a devil in his day—a tough upbringing that gave him a tenacious personality.In 1942, he was only twenty-three years old when he took over "Midnight Detective", and he was also suffering from severe asthma.The Midnight Detectives were in dire straits, but Kolodney revived the magazine, which flourished throughout the war and for nearly a decade after it, outperforming several other detective fiction magazines, western fiction magazines, romance magazines, etc. Fiction magazines and air combat fiction magazines are in good shape.From his appearance, you would never guess this.But at the same time, he was also known for his extravagant life and excessive drinking.Perhaps these lavish, drinking sluts will eventually become what they are now: scrawny, flabby and dark-skinned, with only a few hairs left on top of their heads.Anyway, that's what a low-key, seldom-drinking celibate like me thinks.
Kolodny didn't think he was honored to see me.He muttered a few words, then let go of my hand, as if letting go of those annoying things, and then drank half a glass of wine in one breath.He still looked very anxious and preoccupied.
Dencel said to me, "You know what he did when Action Press went out in the fifties? The most fucking shameless thing in the world. I'm still on my knees. Tell him, Frank .”
"You talk too much," Kolodny said, pushing past me and heading for the bar.
"What a friendly guy," I said.
Densel's good mood seemed to be gone all of a sudden, and he became angry, just like a drunk person, and his mood was unpredictable.In fact, he did drink too much, or almost drunk, you can see it from the look in his eyes. "He's a son of a bitch."
"Why do you say that?"
"Keeped me almost a thousand dollars in the '40s, that's why. And other writers a lot of money too."
"How did you deduct it?"
"He's got it." Denzel clenched his fists and stared at where Kolodney was standing by the bar. "Bitch."
"Forget it," I said, "that was all thirty years ago." Who knows if it's true or not, I thought to myself, "What did Kolodny do after the collapse of the pulp fiction industry in the fifties? You haven't finished half of what you said."
Densel suddenly regained his previous good mood, with a mocking smile on the corner of his mouth: "I bought a town."
"What's going on here?"
"Bought a town. Moved to Arizona and bought a dead city in the mountains. Can you figure it out? Is that the most fucking shameless thing you've ever heard?"
"Why did he buy a dead city?"
"Nothing. He said he'd always wanted to own a town and now he's done it and named it after himself, God. Kolodney. Is that the most fucking shameless thing you've ever heard ?”
"He has been living in a dead city for so many years?"
"He says he goes every now and then. Most of them have a cabin in the woods, and Kolodny has a goddamn dead city in the mountains. Did you hear that..."
"Yes." I said.I'm still fiddling with that name card, and the paper stuck to the back won't come off.Go to hell, I thought to myself.First, I don't like name cards, and second, Denzel isn't wearing this thing.I put the card in my coat pocket, trusting that I would soon forget about it.
Denzel asked, "Don't you drink?"
"No. Lloyd Underwood told me there's no beer here."
"Beer? Liquor is free tonight, you know."
"I only drink beer."
"Stop kidding, why?"
That's when a big man in a western T-shirt and bow tie walks up and saves me from explaining my drinking habits.He was walking through the crowd between me and Denzel, probably going to the bathroom, but Denzel grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
"Jibo," he said, "stop a minute. Come and meet the Mr. Detective I told you about."
"Good," replied the big man, with a slight smile that softened his resolute features a little.He was about seventy years old, tall, with a straight posture, shoulders slightly spread, and head held high. He looked like a very proud man, but also a very energetic man, who had not slowed down due to the passage of time.He held out his hand to me and said, "I'm Jim Boannon. Nice to meet you."
"I am glad to meet you too."
"Gibo was the heir to Henny Foster in the '40s," Denzel said. "The new generation of Max Brand—the king of westerns."
"It's all false names," Boannon said.
"It's true. About a month's worth of Leo Margulis' Thriller or Roger Trier's Pop. How many pieces of pulp have you written, Jibo? "
"Oh, about a thousand."
"Writing so well. I write one now and then. Must have published a hundred books, eh, Jibo?"
Boannon frowned, but still treated Denther with indulgence, the way a father treats his loud, rude and still lovely son.Boannon looked at me again, and showed an easy-going smile again: "Damn, you must not be very interested in Boannon's statistics. I know that you popular novel collectors are most interested in suspense detective novels. Maybe you haven't read a single word of my novel."
"I'm interested," I replied honestly, "and I've read a few of your books."
"Oh?"
"Really. I read that series of novels you used to write about the Alaskan sheriff in the twenties. And the ones in Short Stories about the railroad detective Kincaid, Buckmaster A series of stories. Very real detective story, very well written."
Boannon smiled even more happily: "I don't know if you are flattering me, but anyway, I am very happy to hear you say that."
"Not flattery."
"Thank you. It's nice to have someone remember your work."
"Probably you think so, Jibo," said Denzel, "but I don't. Who really cares that you publish twenty million words and I publish ten million? Who cares that we wrote Those terrible stories and novels that I read? These books are now nothing more than junk sitting in basements and second-hand bookstores, waiting to rot.”
Boannon sighed.Obviously, he'd heard these words, or something close to them, before, so he knew the only way to deal with them was to ignore them.I figured I should give him a hand and change the subject.
"Mr. Boannon, speaking of the manuscript letter you and the others received," I asked, "do you think this was an elaborate blackmail case?"
"Oh, I doubt it. It may have been some one's joke."
"Does that story look familiar?"
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."
"Is the style familiar?"
"Nor," Boannon replied, grinning. "I don't know much about Victorian melodrama. I like Westerns."
"It's been another twenty years," Dencel said, "and there's no good Westerns left. Not even pornographic novels. Nothing. Nothing."
"Probably not, Ross. But let me tell you, twenty years later, there's still something everywhere."
"what?"
"Stupid," Boannon said.
This is a very good closing sentence, and Boannon knows this.He nodded at me, smiled, and turned to leave.Denzel stared at his back, but there was no anger on his face.Perhaps, only Frank Colodny could piss him off when he was drunk.He shrugged, raised his glass and looked at it, and found that the glass was empty, and couldn't help frowning.
"I've got to get another glass," he said, as if surprised how he'd found out that the glass was empty.
"It's still early, Rose."
"Exactly," he said, obviously misunderstanding me. "Come on, let's have another drink or two. I'll introduce you to Pulp Fiction and a few others."
He turned and walked toward the bar, still on his feet, and I followed him to watch him get the young man at the bar to pour him a double Witky with ice.Still no beer in the house.Denzel was very dissatisfied with this, but I told him it was okay, I was not thirsty, and dragged him aside while talking.
But I pulled too hard, and Denther bumped into a heavy mahogany coffee table nearby, tripped over its legs, and spilled the wine in the glass on the table.Two women sat on a plush Victorian sofa behind the desk, jumping up to avoid spilled drinks.The older woman reached out to hold the handbag on the corner of the table so that it did not fall to the floor.
Denzel regained his footing and smiled like a big bad wolf: "Sorry, ladies. There was a little accident."
"There's always a little accident in your presence, Rose," replied the older lady.
"Oh sweetie, don't be so mean."
The lady said something in a low voice, but I just stared at the young lady and didn't hear her.This lady was the tall red-haired beauty I almost ran into just now, and she looked even more beautiful up close.Not a beauty in the traditional sense, but beautiful nonetheless: a fresh, soft, well-defined face; a big mouth, a rounded chin, dark eyes that don't need makeup, and don't need it.She has slender fingers, shoulder-length hair flowing and stylish, a slender figure, and is wearing a dark green suit.She was maybe thirty-five or forty, but that didn't matter.
She looked at me, too, without looking angry or offended, or pretending to be humble.She looked at me calmly, and it was clear from her expression that she enjoyed the appreciation.This is not the kind of lustful eyes, but sincere appreciation. "Let me guess," she said.She also has a sexy voice, like Lauren Bacall. "You're the private eye."
"Yes, you are?"
"Kelly Wade," said Denzel, "this is Sybil Wade. Two-thirds of the Wade family are here, and old Ivan must be nearby." He glanced sideways at the an older lady, "Old Ivan's always around, isn't he, sweetie?"
"Don't call me that, Rose," Sybil Wade said.
"Why? It suits you so well."
He was right.Her pair of beautiful brown eyes are big and bright, sincere and frank, sweet and moving.Coupled with a pair of dimples, the same red hair and slender figure as her daughter, and a bright smile, she has an innocent temperament that has not faded even in her sixties.Kelly Wade is glamorous and Sybil Wade is beautiful.She was beautiful in her youth, and she is still beautiful now—a sixty-year-old beauty in a long white satin dress.
I shook hands with her and her daughter, exchanging pleasantries about how nice it was to see each other.I felt Kelly's hand linger in mine for a moment, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.At odds with Sybil's sweet, innocent looks was her voice: her voice was sexier than Kelly's.
"It's hard to believe that this doll-like beauty could have written the Max Roof series of private detective novels, isn't it?" Violence, sex."
"Not just like a man," I said, "better than almost all men."
Kelly was still staring at me, with some special interest in her eyes: "Have you read a lot of pulp novels written by Sybil?"
"Watched a lot, enough to put her on the same level as Chandler and Hammett. I can still recite a few sentences."
"Really?" Sybil asked.
"Really. I saw it five or six years ago, and I've never forgotten it." His face was like a cemetery in the dark—cold, empty, and eerie. When he opened his mouth, you could see a few Broken teeth, scattered like tombstones.'”
Her eyes widened. "My gosh, are you sure I wrote that?" But she sounded happy.
"Sure. I forgot the title of the story, but it was written by Samuel Leatherman."
Dencel said, "You've always been so good at using the bloody metaphors, sweetie, that you write like a man. But there's one thing, you'll never write as well as a man like me."
"What's the matter, Ross?"
"Dick got kicked," Denzel said. "Only a man knows what it's like to get kicked."
He seemed to be expecting some response, but our response clearly didn't live up to his expectations.Kelly and I looked at him the way you look at a party after someone has said something particularly vulgar.A mocking smile crept onto Sybil's face, and she reached out and patted Denther's arm like a puppy on the head.
"I'm not sure about that, Rose," she said. "How about I kick your dick and see what happens?"
Denzel obviously didn't want that.He stared at her for a long time.I approached him in case he made any sudden and embarrassing gestures.But he quickly relaxed, shook his head, and laughed.
"Anytime, sweetie," he said, "it might be fun." He laughed so hard that he hit the coffee table again, spilling more wine from his hands.Sybil's handbag was bumped again, and this time before Sybil reached out to grab it, the handbag fell to the ground and broke open to reveal the contents inside.
Sybil bent to pick it up. "Damn it, Rose." I reached out to help her, but she shook her head and picked it up herself.
"I'm very sorry," Dencel said, "but another little accident."
Sybil straightened up, ignored him, and tucked her bag under her arm. "I'm going to the dressing room," she said to Kelly, nodded at me, and turned to the door.
Kelly gave me a faint smile that may or may not be meaningful.Then she turned and walked to the bar.I watched her go--sweet and swaying, like a graceful cat.But half of my mind was on her, and the other half was now thinking of something else: something falling out of Sybill Wade's bag, and I caught a glimpse of it before she put it in it.
What was a sweet lady like her doing with a . 38 revolver at a party?
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