amazing noir detective set in an alternative reality of America
Great language and descriptions.
But when two figures came picking their way through the backlot beyond the diner, in clothes made for office floors and not rubble and weeds, it was plain from Drummond's silent surprise that the one in the lead must be the party that he had been trying to be discreet about. He was a plump, baby-faced takata in a Homburg hat and a bow-tie. The fine chalk stripes of his suit were so far apart that they would have looked almost jazzy, had it not been cut with a loose, expensive neglectfulness. He was only about forty, but both a toddler and an ancient would have been equally at home in his outfit. Behind him came a secretary carrying a couple of items in cardboard. She was labouring with difficulty to extract the points of her heels from the broken ground.
"Oscar, move this gentleman," the Man said.
Oscar cracked his knuckles. His black gloves were the size of baseball mitts.The Pinkerton's man only regarded him with a melancholy professional interest, and resettled his jacket minutely, to show the holster bulge. Oscar nodded in a similar minimal spirit. Then he made his way unhurriedly back to the Duesenberg, and through the fog they heard the sound of a door opening and closing, and something metallic being cocked. He came back with a tommy gun twin to the one Barrow had seen at the House of the Moon. The Hashi family must have been buying in bulk.
The guard moved.