The Second Black Lizard Anthology of Crime Fiction by Ed Gorman

Author:Ed Gorman [Gorman, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0887390943
Publisher: Black Lizard Books
Published: 1988-11-30T21:00:00+00:00

The God of the Razor

Joe R. Lansdale

(For Ray Puechner and Ardath Mayhar)

Joe R. Lansdale, along with James Reasoner, L.J. Washburn and Stephen Mertz elsewhere in this book, was one of the young writers who formed a kind of group in the waning years of “The Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine.” Since then Lansdale has gone on to confound and perplex everybody by producing several masterpieces that happen to play mix-and-match with genre definition. His forthcoming suspense novel from Bantam, Waltz of Shadows, is as good as suspense novels get and hopefully before he writes his next sort-of horror novel (The Nightrunners) or next sort-of western (The Magic Wagon), he’ll sit down and do another crime book, ’cause he does ’em real good.

Richards arrived at the house about eight.

The moon was full and it was a very bright night, in spite of occasional cloud cover; bright enough that he could get a good look at the place. It was just as the owner had described it. Run down. Old. And very ugly.

The style was sort of gothic, sort of plantation, sort of cracker box. Like maybe the architect had been unable to decide on a game plan, or had been drunkenly in love with impossible angles.

Digging the key loaned him from his pocket, he hoped this would turn out worth the trip. More than once his search for antiques had turned into a wild goose chase. At this time, it was really a long shot. The owner, a sick old man named Klein, hadn’t been inside the house in twenty years. A lot of things could happen to antiques in that time, even if the place was locked and boarded up. Theft. Insects. Rats. Leaks. Any one of those, or a combination of, could turn the finest of furniture into rubble and sawdust in no time. But it was worth the gamble. On occasion, his luck had been phenomenal.

As a thick, dark cloud rolled across the moon, Richards, guided by his flashlight, mounted the rickety porch, squeaked the screen and groaned the door open.

Inside, he flashed the light around. Dust and darkness seemed to crawl in there until the cloud passed and lunar light fell through the boarded windows in a speckled and slatted design akin to camouflaged netting. In places, Richards could see that the wallpaper had fallen from the wall in big sheets that dangled halfway down to the floor like the drooping branches of weeping willows.

To his left was a wide, spiraling staircase, and following its ascent with his light, he could see there were places where the railing hung brokenly askew.

Directly across from this was a door. A narrow, recessed one. As there was nothing in the present room to command his attention, he decided to begin his investigation there. It was as good a place as any.

Using his flashlight to bat his way through a skin of cobwebs, he went over to the door and opened it. Cold air embraced him, brought with it a sour smell, like a freezer full of ruined meat.

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