A Short Noir Story
The dame walked in like she was the opening line of a private detective story. She had exposition up to her eyeballs.
“You must be the detective,” she said.
“And you must be a pretty good detective yourself,” I replied. “To put it all together on your lonesome. I only got my name on the door, a hat on my head, and a gat in my hand.”
“Please stop waving that thing around.”
“Excuse me,” I said and put the pistol back in the desk drawer. I decided to wave my trademark smart alec attitude around instead. “You got a case for me?”
“That depends. Could you find out who is blackmailing me?”
“Maybe. Are there compromising photographs? And how soon can I see them?”
“What?”
“I gotta say, I’m almost jealous of the creep peeking in your window.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Lady, I talk the same way to a dame with a great set of gams as I do to a gunsel with a great pair of pistols. If that offends your precious sensibilities, you should go on down to the Pinkerton Agency. I hear they even lay out complimentary cookies.”
“Maybe I will.” She picked up her purse and left. A few weeks later, I received an envelope with a newspaper clipping in it about a case where a Pinkerton detective foiled a blackmailer. There was also a handwritten note. It read: Chocolate chip, specifically.
#
He was a little man with a big coat and a bigger proposition. “It is a statue of a falcon. About one foot tall, maybe five pounds heavy. Unremarkable at first glance but if one were to scratch beneath the surface, one would find something very intriguing.”
“What’s so interesting under there, Fritz?”
He took a quick drag off his cigarette. “Why do you call me Fritz? I’m a Bulgarian.”
“Fine, Heinz.”
“I’ve already told you my name, sir. Yet you keep trying me.”
“Believe me, Bruno, I don’t mean to try you. You’ll know when I mean to try you. It’ll be before a jury of your peers.”
The Bulgarian leaned forward. “I am a prospective client, Mister Gavel. It would perhaps be in your best interest to treat me with a modicum of respect.”
“I don’t know that I have any modicum in my medicine cabinet. But there might be some rubbing alcohol and a little gauze in there.”
“Nevermind,” the man said, and he stubbed out his cigarette. He might have expected me to beg him to stay. He might as well have expected that falcon statue to drop from the sky on his head. It didn’t matter. I knew he’d be back. They always come –
Well, okay, not him.
#
The phone rang. It was a woman with a voice like ice cubes dropped into a whiskey glass. I couldn’t help but want to swirl her around a little.
“I’m looking for a man,” she told me.
“Then you might have to hang up to go find him.”
She hung up, alright.
#
Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid to enroll in some basic business classes down at the vocational school. I’ve learned some useful stuff over there but I don’t know if I believe it all.
They say the customer is always right. I say the customer is always going to turn out to be the real murderer in the third act. But from now on, even if that is the case, I plan to call them Mr. and Mrs. and before I shoot too many people they might know.
I’ve also learned all about Sexual Harassment. Apparently you have to treat women with respect now. Times change. And so do women while you’re taking pictures of them cheating on their husbands so at least I’ll still have that much.
