Well, if she won’t take it just shove it right up to her mouth!” The other Pulitzer Prize winners were out in the Hamptons putting the final touches on their next historical opus or cultivating a new patch of skin cancer. He was red-faced and barking, “Listen, give her the cell phone. White-haired Rusty Markowitz was on the horn with a stringer he’d sent to stalk a Broadway ingenue. Metro columnist Clint Westwood was under his desk pawing through old columns for new ideas. A few reporters had been sent out to cover the heat-chat with the fan salesmen, check on the polar bears at the zoo. I wasn’t getting much work done, just moving faxes from one side of my desk to the other and finding homes for stray paper clips. T was the high mercury end of July and no one was doing any dying. Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of MurderĪcknowledgments About the Author Credits Cover Copyright About the Publisher It is not funny that a man should be killed, but it is sometimes funny that he should be killed for so little, and that his death should be the coin of what we call civilization. For George Rood, “as in discourteous” (1934–2000), and for Joseph Edward Siegal (2006–)
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