I'm not a young man. I'm old, tired and full of no coffee.

Guns never settle anything, I said. They are just a fast curtain to a bad second act

The voice on the telephone seemed to be sharp and peremptory, but I didn't hear too well what it said, partly because I was only half awake and partly because I was holding the receiver upside down

The subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket

I was doing a cheap sneaky job for people I didn't like, but that's what you hire out for, chum. They pay the bills, you dig the dirt.

A hard-boiled redhead sang a hard-boiled song in a voice that could have been used to split firewood (Guns at Cyrano's)

The car slid along Los Angeles to Fifth, east to San Pedro, south again for block after block, quiet blocks and loud blocks, blocks where silent men sat on shaky front porches and blocks where noisy young toughs of both colors snarled and wise-cracked at one another in front of cheap restaurants and drug-stores and beer parlors full of slot machines. (Pickup on Noon Street)

I'm part Chinese, part Hawaiian, part Filipino, and part nigger. You'd hate to be me

Her voice was a throaty screech, without melody, as false as her eyebrows and as sharp as her nails. (The King in Yellow)