Рэймонд Чандлер. «Горячий ветер». Детектив из 7 глав

A wind had been blowing in from the desert since the night before. It was a dry, hot Santa Ana, the kind that gushes down through the mountain passes, curling your hair, itching your skin, and fraying your nerves. On nights like these, every drinking session ends in a fight. Meek housewives test the blades of kitchen knives and glance at their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. At the bar, they might even pour you a full glass of beer. I walked into a cozy new establishment across from my house. It had been open for a week, but it seemed business was slow. Behind the bar stood a guy of about twenty, who apparently had never touched alcohol in his life. The only other customer in the bar was me—a drunkard sitting on a round stool with his back to the door. In front of him, on the counter, stood a neat stack of dimes, worth about two dollars. He drank grain whiskey in small glasses, without diluting it, and was in his own world...