By Elmore Leonard
Earlier than he brilliantly traversed the gritty landscapes of underworld Detroit and Miami, the incomparable Elmore Leonard wrote breathtaking adventures set in America's nineteenth-century western frontier--elevating a favored style together with his now-trademark twisting plots, wealthy characterizations, and scalpel-sharp dialogue.
For each tale of inspiring ethical braveness in America's untamed West, there's considered one of greed and duplicity, of corrupted souls willingly sacrificed to a cruel deity of ill-gotten gold. the hot York Times-bestselling Grand grasp brings us seven unforgettable western stories of noble stands and cowardly compromises--and battles of will extra devastating than a blazing gunfight.
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I just went back down to Bud’s. I picked up a little something. I’m getting out,” Henry said. To punctuate his statement, he held up the bag from the record store. See, conclusive evidence that I’m doing just ﬁne. Henry watched his son unwrap a lotus leaf and eat the glutinous sticky rice inside. He could tell by the concern in his son’s voice that Marty was unconvinced. “I’m heading over to the Panama Hotel. I thought I’d ask if they’d let me look around. They found a lot of old things in the basement.
There was a pause. Then the lunch bell rang. Doors were slamming down the hall. She took her long black hair in equal handfuls and tied it with a ribbon. “Keiko Okabe,” she said, tying on her apron and waiting for a reaction. Henry was dumbfounded. She was Japanese. With her hair pulled back, he could see it clearly. And she looked embarrassed. What was she doing here? The sum total of Henry’s Japanese friends happened to be a number that rhymed with hero. His father wouldn’t allow it. He was a Chinese nationalist and had been quite a ﬁrebrand in his day, according to Henry’s mother.
But during the war years, the adventures were, well, less than adventurous. Instead of smashing robots from another planet, the son of Krypton spent his days uncovering ﬁfth columnists and Japanese spy rings, which hardly interested Henry. Although he did wonder about Superman himself. The actor playing the voice of Superman was a mystery in 1942. No one knew who he was. No one. And kids everywhere obsessed over ﬁnding his true identity. So as Henry ran down the street, he’d look at the mild-mannered folks who wore suits and glasses, like Clark Kent, wondering if they just might be the voice of Superman.
Blood Money and Other Stories by Elmore Leonard