Snitch World , livre ebook

PM Press - Jim Nisbet

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225 pages

English

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Snitch World is made up of an odd grouping, from the seasoned, petty criminals to the mysterious nouveau femme fatale whose criminal tricks of the trade are born from the new economy. This world is a San Francisco of menacing technology, where the old cons come up too short, too slow and where the crimes of the night have made way for those committed from the glow of a screen. Jim Nisbet, with his characteristic humour and brilliant prose, creates a world where to trust is to possibly sacrifice all.

Informations

Publié par	PM Press
Date de parution	27 juin 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781604868760
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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“Few crime writers, living or dead, have the mastery of the English language, the ability to eﬀortlessly set a scene, or pack the same noir punch, as Jim Nisbet.”—Garre Kenyon,Spinetingler

“Nisbet has long been one of crime ﬁction’s best kept secrets.” —Woody Haut,Crime Time

“[A] contemporary noir titan.” —Publishers Weekly

“[A] rock ’n’ roll of violence, cruelty, humour, absurdity, psychoanaly-sis, oneirism, and poetry—is the marque of Jim Nisbet.” —Libération

“Jim Nisbet is a cult favorite in Europe and it’s easy to see why. I’ve talked to a few people about this author and comparisons abound; he’s Thomas Pynchon crossed with Raymond Chandler; the lovechild of Patricia Highsmith and Don DeLillo, and on and on it goes. For my money I’d say he reads like Jasper Fforde meets Ken Bruen. One thing for sure, he’s unique and man does he have a vivid imagination.” —SleuthOfBakerStreet.com

“Jim Nisbet is a poet . . . [who] resembles no other crime ﬁction writer. He mixes the irony of Dantesque situations with lyric nar-ration, and achieves a luxuriant cocktail that truly leaves the reader breathless.” —Drood’s Review of Mysteries

“Jim Nisbet is a lot more than just good . . . powerful, provocative. . . . Nisbet’s style has overtones of Walker Percy’s smooth southern satin, but his characters—losers, griers, con men—hark back to the days of James M. Cain’s twisted images of morality.” —TorontoGlobe and Mail

“Jim Nisbet’s work has been tapping directly into the pulse of America for decades. Like others who have done the same in the past, it’s only later that the rest of us catch up and realize just how right those trailblazers were all along. That time is now, for all of us to not only catch up to this unheralded master but to oﬀer him the respect and regard that he deserves.” —Brian Lindenmuth,Spinetingler

Snitch World Jî Nîŝé

ISBN: 978–1–60486–681–0 Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913629

Cover art by Gent Sturgeon Cover layout by John Yates Interior design by briandesign

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

PM Press PO Box 23912 Oakland, CA 94623 www.pmpress.org

The Green Arcade 1680 Market Street San Francisco, CA 94102–5949 www.thegreenarcade.com

Printed in the USA on recycled paper, by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan. www.thomsonshore.com

By the same author:  ô V é  ŝ The Gourmet (a.k.a.The Damned Don’t Die) Ulysses’ Dog (a.k.a.The Spider’s Cage) Lethal Injection Death Puppet The Price of the Ticket Prelude to a Scream The Syracuse Codex Dark Companion The Octopus On My Head Windward Passage A Moment of Doubt Old & Cold

 ô é    Poems for a Lady Gnachos for Bishop Berkeley Morpho (with Alastair Johnston) Small Apt (with photos by Shelly Vogel) Across the Tasman Sea

 ô   î ç  î ô  Laminating the Conic Frustum

 é ç ô   î   ŝ The isitor

Baby, just about anywhere you die there’s somebody watching. It doesn’t make any diﬀerence whether they’re watching you die in bed or in a chair, somebody is going to be there. It’s strictly a spectator sport.

—Elio Chaze,Black Wings Has My Angel

When it’s a man’s time to die God leads him to the perfect place.

—Frank Herbert,Dune

O N E

The Miata jumped the curb and sheared oﬀ a light pole. The impact deployed the airbags, but Chainbang was ready. He knifed Klinger’s before it was fully inﬂated and his own before it could crush the glass pipe in his breast pocket. The six-inch blade went through the nylon like a pit bull through a kindergarten. Or so he thought. His arms absorbing the shocks transmied by the rim of the steering wheel, Klinger didn’t mind a nick on his right cheek inﬂicted by the blade, its vector skewed by the onrushing fabric. And then, shred-ding his own safety device, Chainbang stabbed himself too, under the chin. Neither of them noticed. The light pole crashed headﬁrst into the middle of the northbound lanes of Webster and sent a shower of sparks onto the sidewalk. The Miata wound up stalled beyond the opposite side of the median and pointed northbound in the middle of the two southbound lanes. It was three-thirty in the morning. At the moment, there was no traﬃc. Klinger keyed the starter. The solenoid merely clicked. He keyed it again. Same result. “Fucker’s quiing while it’s ahead,” Chainbang observed. “Yeah, well,” Klinger advocated, “it’s quiing while we’re behind.” Chainbang beat a taoo on the lip of the disgorged dash with the blade of his knife. The nearest ﬁre station