"Kim Newman - The Pierce-Arrow Stalled and" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

The Pierce-Arrow Stalled, and ...
a short story by Kim Newman
...rolled a dozen yards, then settled into dusty ruts. North of San Luis
Obispo, the coast road was primitive, many sections still unpaved. As
the wheel wrenched in his hands, Roscoe 'Fatty' Arbuckle felt the
engine under the sleek hood choke and die. Long as a truck, the
Pierce-Arrow was newly-delivered, a $25,000 custom-built toy with
full bar and solid silver accessories. 'Of course the car's four times the
size of anyone else's,' he'd explained, 'I'm four times as big as the
average guy.'

The jolt woke up Lowell Sherman. In jauntily rude tones, the actor
said, 'These special jobs are less reliable than factory models. All the
attention to fripperies means essentials, like wheels and engines, get
neglected.'

The motor strangled again. 'She won't turn over,' he complained.

Fischbach, the other passenger, slumped gloomily against
thousand-dollar upholstery. The director, a last-minute addition to the
expedition, had been fidgety ever since they left Los Angeles.

'There are no coyotes out here, are there?' Fischbach asked.

For a minute, they just sat. After four hours, the leather seats were hot
and greasy as fresh-fried bacon. Roscoe felt a layer of gritty sweat
between his bulk and his clothes; fat was his fortune, but it literally
weighed him down. He tried again, turning the key with deliberate
smoothness. The engine didn't even choke.

They were many miles from the nearest town. Here, where the desert
met the sea, there was nothing. They hadn't seen another automobile
for nearly an hour.

He opened his door and squeezed out. His belly hung like an anvil
from his spine, pulling him towards the dirt as he bent over the hood.
Fishbach and Sherman stood around. The metal catch seared his fat
fingers. As the hood sprang up, bad-tasting smoke belched. If this
were one of his features, his face would be blacked like a minstrel's.

'Looks like we won't be making the party in San Francisco,' said
Sherman. Roscoe had to agree.

Fischbach muttered, as if he'd known the trip would end in disaster.


By 1921, Hollywood was generally conceded to be
Sodom and Gomorrah re-erected among orange groves.
Now America was dry, the attention of the
professionally moral was drawn to the last bastion