Elliott Chaze
A very fine wild ride of a noir thriller from 1953. It offers up all the hard-boiled prose you could possibly want, rarely if ever veering into the lane of self-parody. The protagonists are made for each other, and their love affair is as warm as it is hot. Can they get away with the perfect crime? Even if they don't, you can believe they would do it all again in a heartbeat. Not entirely immune to some of the stereotypes of its time and genre, Black Wings Has My Angel nonetheless gives us a femme fatale who is every bit the equal of our conniving and complex narrator, as well as pitch-perfect satire of suburban domesticity and convention. And every page is a pleasure to read...
I took her handbag from her lap, flipped the tortoise shell latch, and removed her shiny little automatic, the toy I'd given her the night we came home from Mamie's. The gun looked like one of those things at the carnival where you throw hoops and try to win it. It was no longer than my hand and didn't look as if it would kill a flea. That was very funny, as you will see. I thumbed the release of the clip and checked her ammunition, little baby-bullets with coppery noses like costume jewelry. I replaced the full clip and jerked the chromed jacket back to full-cock position, pleased that it slid nicely, pumping a cartridge into the chamber when I let it go. "You ever shoot one of these, baby?"
"No," she said, "but it must be just like pointing your finger."
"That's right, they say that's why in the newspaper when you read about a housewife shooting her man, he generally stays shot. Women don't complicate shooting with a lot of stylized foolishness. The average housewife has had plenty of practice pointing her finger at her old man when he comes home late nights. Then when she gets really sore at him and points a gun instead of a finger it hits him where it hurts."
"I'm no housewife."
"No, but you've got some of the symptoms."
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