By W.R. Burnett
A gripping story of the making plans and execution of a jewelry shop heist in a gloomy and corrupt Midwestern city. Set amid a seedy city barren region of crooks, killers and con-artists, the participants of the crowd are gradually undone by means of their own obsessions (teenage women and mistresses, friendships and blood ties), double-crossing and destiny.
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Extra resources for The Asphalt Jungle
How silly can you get? “Hello, Dix,” said Cobby, jigging about nervously. “Was hoping you’d turn up. Come on in my office. ” Without waiting for Dix to speak, Cobby turned quickly, hurried into his office, and with his back to Dix, who followed him leisurely, he took from his desk a bottle of the best grade Scotch and two glasses. “Don’t bother with your hospitality,” said Dix harshly; and Cobby turned, bottle in hand, looking startled but trying to smile. “Here’s your money,” Dix went on, and tossed onto Cobby’s desk a thick roll of bills bound with a rubber band.
And suddenly the pleasant, safe field disappeared . . and Dix was awake and staring at the sunshine flooding in from Camden Square. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, shrinking from the necessity of facing the new day. Somebody was talking on the phone in the next room—Doll! He had forgotten all about her. Groaning again, he reached down, picked up a bottle that was on the floor beside his bed, and took a long pull. Then he lay back and let the warmth of the whisky get to him. Doll hung up, then came and stood in the doorway.
Christ, what a name for her! He should have left her where he found her. One rainy day he’d ducked into a smart little downtown restaurant for a quick lunch. It was off his usual beat and he’d never been in it before. Angela seated him. She was a politely smiling, efficient hostess, minding her own business. But every man in the room, young and old, was eying her. And it was not only the flaming red hair: she was slenderly but voluptuously made; and there was something about her walk—something lazy, careless, and insolently assured—that it was impossible to ignore.
The Asphalt Jungle by W.R. Burnett