Hemingway says somewhere that the good writer competes only with the dead.
Boy, is this a smack in the puss for somebody.”
Her voice lingered with a spent emotion, a note of wistfulness.
“If you want trouble,” he said, “I come from where they make it.”
He ate breakfast at the inn, not because he was hungry, but because he was weak.
I saw at once that he was not a man to trifle with, but I was not afraid of him. I was his equal in size and strength, and, I had small doubt, his superior in intelligence.
He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and hit myself on the back of the head with the floor.
“Thank you, Henry,” I said. “May I call you Henry?” “No tax on it, bud.”
“If whiskey is what you want, Henry, whiskey is what you shall have. I have a very nice apartment on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood and while I cast no aspersions on your own humble and of course quite temporary abode, I now suggest we repair to my apartment, which is a good deal larger and gives one more room to extend one’s elbow.”
grifter!” she shrilled. “Keep your paws down, see! Tinhorns
He felt the Smiler’s pulse. The Smiler didn’t have any pulse. He was dead.
pip.” “What do you want, Pete?”