Hollywood thrillers detective trilogy Ray Bradbury. Ray Bradbury Hollywood Thriller

DEATH IS A LONELY BUSINESS

A GRAVEYARD FOR LUNATICS: ANOTHER TALE OF TWO CITIES

LET’S ALL KILL CONSTANCE

With love to Don Congdon, thanks to whom this book arose, and the memory of Raymond Chandler, Deshil Hammett, James M. Kane and Ross MacDonald, as well as the memory of my friends and teachers Lee Brackett and Edmond Hamilton, who unfortunately left, is dedicated

Death is a lonely thing

For those who are inclined to despondency, Venice in the state of California used to be able to offer everything that their heart desires. Fog - almost every evening, the creaking groans of oil rigs on the shore, the splashing of dark water in the canals, the whistling of sand whipping through the windows when the wind rises and starts sullen songs over wastelands and in deserted alleys.

In those days, the pier collapsed and died quietly, collapsing in the sea, and near it, in the water, one could distinguish the remains of a huge dinosaur - the roller coaster ride, over which the tide rolled over its waves.

At the end of one of the canals one could see the flooded, rust-covered vans of the old circus, and if you peered closely at night, it was noticeable that every living creature would snatch in its cells - fish and lobsters brought by the tide from the ocean. It seemed as if all the circuses of the world doomed to death were rusting here.

And every half hour, a large red tram roared to the sea with a roar, at night its arc cut sparks from wires; Having reached the shore, the tram with a screech turned and raced away, making groans, like a dead man who finds no rest in the grave. Both the tram itself and the lonely counselor swaying from shaking knew that in a year they would not be here, the rails would be flooded with concrete, and the cobweb of highly stretched wires would be rolled up and taken apart.

And then, in one such gloomy year, when the fogs did not want to dissipate, and the complaints of the wind did not subside, I rode late in the evening in an old red tram rattling like thunder and, without suspecting it, met with him the Death mate .

It rained that evening, the old tram clanking and screeching, flew from one deserted stop, covered with ticket confetti, to another, and there was nobody in it - only I, reading a book, was shaking in one of the back seats. Yes, in this old, rheumatic wooden carriage there was only me and the counselor, he sat in front, pulled brass levers, released the brakes and, when required, let out puffs of steam.

And behind, in the aisle, someone else was driving, it is not known when he entered the carriage.

In the end, I drew attention to him because, standing behind me, he swayed and swayed from side to side, as if he didn’t know where to sit, because when forty empty seats look at you closer to the night, it’s hard to decide which select them. But now I heard him sit down, and realized that he sat right behind me, I sensed his presence, as you smell the tide that is about to flood the coastal fields. The disgusting smell of his clothes blocked the stench, indicating that he had drunk too much in too short a time.

I did not look back: for a long time I had known from experience that it was worth looking at someone - and there was no way to talk.

Closing my eyes, I firmly decided not to turn around. But it did not help.

“Ox,” the stranger groaned.

I felt him leaning toward me in his seat. Felt how hot breath burns my neck. With my hands on my knees, I leaned forward.

“Ox,” he groaned even louder. So someone falling from a cliff or a swimmer caught by a storm far from the shore could beg for help.

Rain was already pouring in full, a big red tram rattling, rushing at night through meadows covered with bluegrass, and rain drummed through the windows, and drops flowing down the glass were hidden from the eyes stretching around the field. We sailed through Culver City without ever seeing the movie studio, and moved on - a clumsy car rattled, the floor creaked underfoot, empty seats rattled, and a signal whistle squealed.

And the smell of fumes smelled disgusting at me, when an invisible man sitting behind me shouted:

- Death!

- Death ...

And again the whistle squealed.

I thought he was crying now. I looked forward at the jets of rain dancing in the rays of light flying towards us.

The tram slowed down. The one sitting behind jumped up: he was furious that they were not listening, it seemed he was ready to poke me in the side, if I did not even turn around. He longed to be seen. He was impatient to bring down on me what bothered him. I felt his hand reaching for me, or maybe his fists, or even his claws, how he was eager to break off or strip me, who knows. I clung tightly to the back of the chair in front of me.

The tram rattled, braked and stopped.

“Come on,” I thought, “finish it!”

“… It’s a lonely business,” he finished in a terrible whisper and moved away.

I heard the back door open. And then he turned around.

The car was empty. The stranger disappeared, taking with him his funeral speeches. It was audible how gravel crunches on the road.

An invisible man in the dark murmured under his breath, but the doors slammed shut. I could still hear his voice through the window, something about the grave. About someone’s grave. About loneliness.

I lifted the window and leaned out, peering into the rainy darkness behind.

I could not say what was left there - a city full of people, or just one person full of despair - nothing was seen or heard.

The tram rushed to the ocean.

I was seized with fear that we would fall into it.

I dropped the window with a noise, I was trembling.

I convinced myself all the way: “Come on! You are only twenty-seven! And you don’t drink. ” But…

But still I drank.

In this far corner, on the edge of the continent, where the vans of the settlers once stopped, I found an open late-night saloon, in which there was no one except the bartender - a fan of cowboy films about Hopalong Cassidy, whom he admired in the night television program.

“A double shot of vodka, please.”

I was surprised to hear my voice. Why do I need vodka? Gather courage and call my girlfriend Peg? She is two thousand miles from here in Mexico City. What am I going to tell her? What's wrong with me? But nothing really happened to me!

Nothing at all, just rode in a tram in the cold rain, and an ominous voice sounded behind me, catching up with longing and fear. However, I was afraid to return to my apartment, empty, like a refrigerator thrown by migrants wandering west in search of work.

Perhaps there was no more emptiness than at home, except on my bank account - on the account of the Great American Writer - in the old bank building, similar to a Roman temple, which towered on the shore near the water, and it seemed that it wash off at sea at the next low tide. Each morning, cashiers, sitting with oars in boats, waited for the manager to drown his longing in the nearest bar. I have not often met with them. Despite the fact that I only occasionally managed to sell the story to some pathetic detective magazine, I did not have the cash to put them in the bank. Therefore…

To begin with, what a fortune it is that the whole trilogy fit in this wonderful book, which has taken an honorable place on the shelf and is pleasing to the eye, I have been looking closely at something from Bradbury and could not pass by such a miracle. A book of tremendous quality, white paper, thick, clear text, a dust jacket (not the most convenient as for reading, but it’s more impressive to put it back in place, and the book isn’t so dusty), and in general the whole design was done well, fully reflects the feeling that occurs when reading when you perceive the book as an old film. Now with the most important thing. The Hollywood trilogy is three novels united by heroes and a place of action, and although it is customary to say that the trilogy is conditional, I cannot imagine how each of these novels can exist without the other two. “Death is a lonely affair” is the number one novel. Here Venice from California and the mysterious murder, which from the very beginning is closely intertwined with the fate of one writer. The presence of murder, and not one and detective Elmo Crumley does not at all make this novel detective, in the usual sense of the word. There will be nothing familiar and familiar at all, the very disclosure of this case - the motives, the criminal, the method of murder - all this is Hollywood weird and Hollywood dramatic, but how could it be otherwise, this is a world where there are more fantasies and appearances than real ones people. Here everyone gathers to live forever, and perhaps this is the way it is - scripts, films, films - everything preserves youth of many and many. But whether they are so eternal is another question. This is not a detective story like that of Doil or Christie, it’s not even in the Castle style, I don’t know what it is, but in my head it looks like a black and white film in which sometimes bright colors flicker, somewhere the sound of the surf and music calliopes. Everything develops into a beautiful, tragic, gloomy, rainy, naive, bold and unlike anything story that you will certainly want to unravel to the very end, and then start the next one, just to return to that world and find something new, consider even more. The novel at number two - “Cemetery for the Mad Men”, takes us in time, but the heroes remain the same, acquiring new acquaintances and new troubles. Again, our writer could not survive the day quietly and got involved in a strange story with the Monster Man and the nowhere come from the body of the former head of the film studio. All actions take place within a small patch of land, but it happens in Hollywood that it only expands the boundaries of geography to the impossible, and not vice versa. This is a film studio, this is the scenery, this is Rome and Paris, this is our era before it, this is another planet, this is the wild jungle and even the old grandmother’s house. And this whole magical world - a haven of crazy geniuses, is separated only by a wall from the gloomy last haven of these geniuses, where their stars go out. The style of the second novel does not change, it is still something of an indefinite genre, and from this the novel turns out to be so multifaceted. He manages to show everything. The trilogy ends with novel number three - “Let's all kill Constance”, and this completes the immersion in the world of Hollywood. We started somewhere at its backyard, at the entrance, smoothly moved to the very heart, and now we will see the very bottom. The dungeon of the factory of dreams and its inhabitants, who lived and live their strange lives, where there are no borders between “I” and “I play a role”, already Constance Rattigan - the famous actress, there are definitely no such borders, the fact of any borders is questionable this woman and from this she is so magnificent. Throughout the trilogy, she was fire and humor and such a bright and lively character for whom it was possible to embark on this journey, not even counting on success - she could be read only for what she would throw out the next time. And here she revealed herself, as it was difficult to imagine - a true actress, more than an actress - a person who does not live the role, but lives in them, puts on not just a mask, but puts on skin. All for the sake of roles, for the sake of immortality, Bradbury dribbled so deeply that you do not immediately realize it, you have to dig through epithets and metaphors, through comparisons and hyperbolas, through raging thunderstorms and dark dungeons, through newspaper caves and montage to the top of the mountains. Each of the novels is a black and white drama taken out of the context of history, with elements of comedy and melodrama, horror and thriller, but all together they are a whole era, a whole world that cannot be pulled out from anywhere. Crazy, Elmo, Constance, Henry - they weren’t made up, they used to live somewhere, and Bradbury just told their story, it couldn’t be otherwise, because they are like living ones, here they are, just lend a hand and touch pages. And the matter is not at all about some biographical facts, which happened by the way, the thing is about something completely different, it is possible that Bradbury knows how to breathe life into his fantasies, even the craziest ones. Hollywood thrillers, detective trilogy, black and white noir on seven hundred pages - this is a book about a movie, this is a movie in the form of a book, this is all at once, everything is in abundance - this is a big, endless fantasy, beautiful in its non-reality and metaphor, terrible in its realism and straightforwardness. All the most controversial is about her, all the most flattering is about her.

Hollywood thrillers. Detective trilogy Ray Bradbury

(No ratings yet)

Title: Hollywood Thrillers. Detective trilogy

About Ray Bradbury’s book, Hollywood Thrillers. Detective trilogy "

Detective trilogy in one volume. All novels take place in Hollywood. In the first novel, detective Elmo Crumley and a strange young man - a science fiction writer - undertake to investigate a number of deaths, which at first glance are completely unrelated. In the center of the second novel is the mysterious story of a Hollywood magnate who died on Halloween night twenty years ago. Constance Rattigan, the central character of the third novel, receives by mail the old telephone directory and notebook, whose names are marked with tombstones. The main characters of the trilogy took on the task of saving the movie star and solving the mystery of the chain of unexpected deaths.

The book also came out under the title "The Hollywood Trilogy in One Volume."

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registering or read Ray Bradbury’s online book, Hollywood Thrillers. Detective trilogy ”in the formats epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and true reading pleasure. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary mastery.

The book also came out under the title "The Hollywood Trilogy in One Volume."

In a peculiar way, Bradbury also solves ethical problems: the evil and violence in his books appear unrealistic, "pretentious." Like some “dark forces”, the best way to deal with them is to ignore them, beat them, and move to another plane of perception. Very vividly this position was reflected in the novel “Misfortune is Coming”, where in the finale the main characters defeat the “dark carnival” of evil spirits with funky fun.

Artworks

The main major works translated into Russian:

, (The Martian Chronicles)
, (Fahrenheit 451)