You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
adam_mcphee 's review for:
After Dark, My Sweet
by Jim Thompson
I scooted down a little in the seat and peered up at the clock in the station tower. It was twenty minutes of. He had until five of eight to get back with the money. If he wasn't back by then…
I kind of hoped that he wouldn't be. Because I'd meant just what I'd said about calling the cops, and that would wind everything up just that much faster. And that was all I wanted now. Just to get it over with, to have the end come. Because it was bound to be bad; no good, no happiness, could come out of this now, so the quicker it was over the better.
I'd have ended it myself if I could have. But somehow I couldn't, and I guess it wasn't so strange that I couldn't. There's something inside of every man that keeps him going long after he has any reason to. He's no good to life and life is no good to him, and he knows it will always be that way. But still he can't quit. Something keeps prodding him, whispering to him-making him hope in the face of hopelessness. Making him believe there's a reason to stay in there and pitch, and that if he fights long enough he'll stumble onto it.
It's that way with everyone, or almost everyone, I guess. It's hardly ever been any other way with me. For years, for as far back as I could remember, I'd kept going when going didn't seem to make any sense. And I had to keep on now. If any quitting was done, it had to be done for me.
A perfect recipe for disaster. The brains of the crew is clearly planning on double-crossing the team. The femme fatale in charge of reconnaissance and recruiting is an alcoholic. And the chump, our narrator, the guy actually in charge of carrying out he kidnapping, is a severely paranoid man who gets violent when he thinks people using him. And their hostage? A nine-year-old boy who they learn too late is a diabetic in need of insulin.
Up there with his best: Pop. 1280, The Getaway, The Grifters, The Killer Inside Me.
I kind of hoped that he wouldn't be. Because I'd meant just what I'd said about calling the cops, and that would wind everything up just that much faster. And that was all I wanted now. Just to get it over with, to have the end come. Because it was bound to be bad; no good, no happiness, could come out of this now, so the quicker it was over the better.
I'd have ended it myself if I could have. But somehow I couldn't, and I guess it wasn't so strange that I couldn't. There's something inside of every man that keeps him going long after he has any reason to. He's no good to life and life is no good to him, and he knows it will always be that way. But still he can't quit. Something keeps prodding him, whispering to him-making him hope in the face of hopelessness. Making him believe there's a reason to stay in there and pitch, and that if he fights long enough he'll stumble onto it.
It's that way with everyone, or almost everyone, I guess. It's hardly ever been any other way with me. For years, for as far back as I could remember, I'd kept going when going didn't seem to make any sense. And I had to keep on now. If any quitting was done, it had to be done for me.
A perfect recipe for disaster. The brains of the crew is clearly planning on double-crossing the team. The femme fatale in charge of reconnaissance and recruiting is an alcoholic. And the chump, our narrator, the guy actually in charge of carrying out he kidnapping, is a severely paranoid man who gets violent when he thinks people using him. And their hostage? A nine-year-old boy who they learn too late is a diabetic in need of insulin.
Up there with his best: Pop. 1280, The Getaway, The Grifters, The Killer Inside Me.