From The Five And DimeA Tribute To Pulp Fiction And Film Noir
My name is Jack Stature. I'm a Private Dick, and this is my story.
It'd been one long, hot, hell of a lousy day to say the least. The Santa Ana winds were blowin’ like the devil’s breath over the L.A. basin, causin' an eerie stillness that brings out every bad instinct that lives in the heart of man, woman, and child alike. Even the little puppy dogs start actin’ like wild canines. After gumshoein’ through every stinkin’ burg in this miserable town, talkin’ with what felt like every two-bit bookie this side of the Rio Grande, I was beat, and I still had nothin’. At least nothin’ I could make a respectable deposit with at the Bank of Credibility, which is exactly what I needed over at the D.A.’s office in Riverside. All I’d come back with was an earful of malarkey and some top grade shine-ola. Maybe I was barkin’ up the wrong tree, but I just couldn't help but think that this just might be the ace in the hand that puts some dough in the pocket. After all, a shamus like me can't live on bread alone, he's gotta' have a little toast every now and then. But now, I was headed back to my office downtown, which was almost a welcome relief, if it weren't for those winds.
Hangin’ my hat on the rack, I was lookin’ forward to settlin’ in for a quiet night with a bottle of Scotch, a National Geographic, and a bag fulla’ pipedreams, only there was one question that kept knockin’ around my brain like a silver ball in some crazy pinball machine. Had Johnny DeLuchi stopped off at the track before his fatal run-in with Nick Scarlatti, or had he driven out to the valley to meet with Johnny 'The Lug' Rydell and settle his long-standing debt, the debt that had hounded him like pack of hungry wolves for the last 12 months? That was the key to unlockin' this stinkin’ case, but I was gettin’ nowhere with it. I had nothin’ and was too tired to even think about it any more. Besides, my feet were achin’ like a busted heart right out of a Hank Williams tune. Not only that, I was also starin' at a near empty pack of Chesterfields. I would’ve asked Velma, my Girl Friday to run down to Carlotta’s for another carton, but she’d already left for the day, something about a hot ticket and a night on the town with some dumb palooka who lived in Paramount. She was a sweet gal, Velma, but I felt sorry for her, always fallin’ for some small town loser with no directions home. But hey, it was her life, and what was I, her old man, or somethin’? I put my weary feet up on the desk, lit my last cigarette, and was just about to tune in the Hit Parade, when from outside my window, I heard a scream that pierced my gray matter like an ice pick through a Casaba melon.
It all happened in an instant, but I remember it like a schoolboy remembers his first wet dream. After the last car sped away, all I could see in the haze of smoke from the squealing tires was the mangled body that lay bleeding in the curb, and the silhouette of a dame with more dangerous curves than Mulholland Drive. I only saw her for a second, and that was mostly in the shadows of a solitary lamppost, but I’ll never forget the sight. She was shapely, that was for sure, with gams up to here. She wore a low cut powder blue cashmere sweater with a diamond-studded broach that had a small cluster of rubies in the center, positioned just above her left breast. Around her neck was a silk scarf, and she carried an Italian leather handbag from Bloomingdale's. Her pumps were new and they were sexy. Very sexy. T-straps with stiletto heels. Her lips were painted ruby red and she was wearing Prince Matchebelli, smokin’ a Lucky Strike, hummin’ a Rudy Vallee number, and thinkin’ about the pine nut she’d left behind in East St. Louis, still nursing a warm beer and a broken heart. That’s all I can tell ya’ though. Like I said, I only saw her for a second, but I savored every moment of it.
Well, I put in an anonymous tip to Central Station, alerting the boys in blue, then grabbed my hat and ran down to street below, but by the time I got there, she was gone and the goons from downtown were already converging on the scene. L.A.’s finest, they call them. They weren’t always, but sometimes they get it right, like this time, but not without the help of friendly angels like myself I’d like to think. This case would fall squarely on the desk of Detective O’Malley and I didn’t want to get involved, not in the least. We’d been at odds he and I, ever since I beat him to the punch on the Remington caper and that international jewel thief from Monte Carlo. He thought I’d made him look bad in the eyes of the D.A., but I couldn’t help it if I was the better gumshoe. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, but O’Malley, he’s not a bad guy really. His problem is that all these low-life punks have already figured him out. They can smell him comin’ like a bad odor. It's not all that hard to do, if you get my drift. And that’s where I get the upper hand on these G-men, see? Well, O'Malley was already overwhelmed, poor sap, starin’ at the corpse, rubbin’ his neck. The sweat was drippin’ from his brow and he already smelled like a hard salami, when suddenly it dawned on me. Why was I standin’ there talkin’ to myself like a blatherin’ idiot when I’d better make myself scarce? Maybe I was beginnin’ to lose my touch, or maybe it was those damn Santa Ana winds. I just couldn’t be sure which it was. That's what those winds do to ya'. Then it hit me again, but like a frying pan this time 'round. There I was doin’ it again! I fell back into the shadows and fumbled for a cigarette, but had already smoked my last. I needed a new pack, but then, I also needed to find that dame before O’Malley got wind of her. No time to dilly-dally. I tossed my burning match to the curb and was in the breeze without a sound.
Thank God I had a coupla’ dead presidents in my pocket, and possessed the nose of a bloodhound. Nobody's ever accused me of bein' a pretty boy, but I could always track a scent, and the smell of her perfume led me down La Cienega Boulevard until it finally disappeared behind the doors of a smoky saloon called, The Burning Embers. I called it a dive. Just another low-rent gin joint at the intersection of Down and Out Avenues. They're littered like cigarette butts all over this stinkin' town. Adjusting my hat, I stepped inside slowly like an alley cat through the back door of a Saturday night fish-fry. Bingo! There she was at the Wurlitzer, drinkin’ a highball and smoking’ a Lucky, pluggin’ nickels in the box and lookin’ for somethin’ lively by Rosemary Clooney. I sidled over in her direction and punched in a number on the old 'Bubbler' that I'd hoped would send a subtle message. It was an old favorite, 'Beat Me Daddy, Eight To The Bar.' Then, real casual like a hipster at a funeral, I said, "What's a good lookin' dame like you doin' in a dump like this?" "Whadda' ya' think I’m doin’, you dick!," she shot back. "A real firecracker!," I thought, "I like it, but how'd she nail my M.O. so quickly?" Maybe I really was losin' my touch, or was it these miserable Santa Ana's? I knew O’Malley was washed up, but was I tip-toein’ down the same primrose path as that poor sap? She’d called my number early in the game and I couldn’t afford a new exchange now. I was treadin’ through dicey territory here and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was about to break one of my three cardinal rules of life. You see, every shamus needs to set some guidlines for himself, otherwise he might to end up out at Cypress Lawn wearin’ a wooden kimono. My rules are 3, and simple. Never play cards with a guy named after a large metropolitan community, never date a girl with a tattoo of a dagger that’s drippin’ blood, and never, ever have lunch at a place where you can come out with enough gas to open up your own Mobil station. If I managed to keep my powder dry, the rest would be like cream cheese and baloney on rye. This was a fine line though, finer than the pair of silk stockings on this dame’s legs, but like a city politician, I was about to cross it gladly. I chewed it over for a couple of minutes when she broke my train of thought by saying, "Well slim, are ya' just gonna' stand there talkin’ to yourself all night, or are you gonna' buy me a drink?" Mouth like a sailor, Body by Fisher, and easy on the eyes. I liked it even more. It was a tempting combination that any of those two-bit bookies would be clamorin' to lay odds on, and I was already baskin' like a champ in the Winner's Circle.
Well, maybe my treads were wearin’ thin, but what did I care now? This wasn't the first time I'd found myself face to face with a pair of 38’s, only this time they were softer, warmer, and cloaked behind a thin veil of blue cashmere. I adjusted my rod and ordered a Scotch. It looked like the night wasn't turn out so bad after all! In fact, the entire weekend looked like it promised to be perfumed, gin soaked, and hand rubbed, or at least that's what I thought she meant when she said, "Let's go to my place, get drunk, and refurnish the furniture." But it was the way she said it, you know? Kinda' husky like a lead dog in a snow job, and I wasn't about to get left out in the cold.
Hangin’ my hat on the rack, I was lookin’ forward to settlin’ in for a quiet night with a bottle of Scotch, a National Geographic, and a bag fulla’ pipedreams, only there was one question that kept knockin’ around my brain like a silver ball in some crazy pinball machine. Had Johnny DeLuchi stopped off at the track before his fatal run-in with Nick Scarlatti, or had he driven out to the valley to meet with Johnny 'The Lug' Rydell and settle his long-standing debt, the debt that had hounded him like pack of hungry wolves for the last 12 months? That was the key to unlockin' this stinkin’ case, but I was gettin’ nowhere with it. I had nothin’ and was too tired to even think about it any more. Besides, my feet were achin’ like a busted heart right out of a Hank Williams tune. Not only that, I was also starin' at a near empty pack of Chesterfields. I would’ve asked Velma, my Girl Friday to run down to Carlotta’s for another carton, but she’d already left for the day, something about a hot ticket and a night on the town with some dumb palooka who lived in Paramount. She was a sweet gal, Velma, but I felt sorry for her, always fallin’ for some small town loser with no directions home. But hey, it was her life, and what was I, her old man, or somethin’? I put my weary feet up on the desk, lit my last cigarette, and was just about to tune in the Hit Parade, when from outside my window, I heard a scream that pierced my gray matter like an ice pick through a Casaba melon.
It all happened in an instant, but I remember it like a schoolboy remembers his first wet dream. After the last car sped away, all I could see in the haze of smoke from the squealing tires was the mangled body that lay bleeding in the curb, and the silhouette of a dame with more dangerous curves than Mulholland Drive. I only saw her for a second, and that was mostly in the shadows of a solitary lamppost, but I’ll never forget the sight. She was shapely, that was for sure, with gams up to here. She wore a low cut powder blue cashmere sweater with a diamond-studded broach that had a small cluster of rubies in the center, positioned just above her left breast. Around her neck was a silk scarf, and she carried an Italian leather handbag from Bloomingdale's. Her pumps were new and they were sexy. Very sexy. T-straps with stiletto heels. Her lips were painted ruby red and she was wearing Prince Matchebelli, smokin’ a Lucky Strike, hummin’ a Rudy Vallee number, and thinkin’ about the pine nut she’d left behind in East St. Louis, still nursing a warm beer and a broken heart. That’s all I can tell ya’ though. Like I said, I only saw her for a second, but I savored every moment of it.
Well, I put in an anonymous tip to Central Station, alerting the boys in blue, then grabbed my hat and ran down to street below, but by the time I got there, she was gone and the goons from downtown were already converging on the scene. L.A.’s finest, they call them. They weren’t always, but sometimes they get it right, like this time, but not without the help of friendly angels like myself I’d like to think. This case would fall squarely on the desk of Detective O’Malley and I didn’t want to get involved, not in the least. We’d been at odds he and I, ever since I beat him to the punch on the Remington caper and that international jewel thief from Monte Carlo. He thought I’d made him look bad in the eyes of the D.A., but I couldn’t help it if I was the better gumshoe. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, but O’Malley, he’s not a bad guy really. His problem is that all these low-life punks have already figured him out. They can smell him comin’ like a bad odor. It's not all that hard to do, if you get my drift. And that’s where I get the upper hand on these G-men, see? Well, O'Malley was already overwhelmed, poor sap, starin’ at the corpse, rubbin’ his neck. The sweat was drippin’ from his brow and he already smelled like a hard salami, when suddenly it dawned on me. Why was I standin’ there talkin’ to myself like a blatherin’ idiot when I’d better make myself scarce? Maybe I was beginnin’ to lose my touch, or maybe it was those damn Santa Ana winds. I just couldn’t be sure which it was. That's what those winds do to ya'. Then it hit me again, but like a frying pan this time 'round. There I was doin’ it again! I fell back into the shadows and fumbled for a cigarette, but had already smoked my last. I needed a new pack, but then, I also needed to find that dame before O’Malley got wind of her. No time to dilly-dally. I tossed my burning match to the curb and was in the breeze without a sound.
Thank God I had a coupla’ dead presidents in my pocket, and possessed the nose of a bloodhound. Nobody's ever accused me of bein' a pretty boy, but I could always track a scent, and the smell of her perfume led me down La Cienega Boulevard until it finally disappeared behind the doors of a smoky saloon called, The Burning Embers. I called it a dive. Just another low-rent gin joint at the intersection of Down and Out Avenues. They're littered like cigarette butts all over this stinkin' town. Adjusting my hat, I stepped inside slowly like an alley cat through the back door of a Saturday night fish-fry. Bingo! There she was at the Wurlitzer, drinkin’ a highball and smoking’ a Lucky, pluggin’ nickels in the box and lookin’ for somethin’ lively by Rosemary Clooney. I sidled over in her direction and punched in a number on the old 'Bubbler' that I'd hoped would send a subtle message. It was an old favorite, 'Beat Me Daddy, Eight To The Bar.' Then, real casual like a hipster at a funeral, I said, "What's a good lookin' dame like you doin' in a dump like this?" "Whadda' ya' think I’m doin’, you dick!," she shot back. "A real firecracker!," I thought, "I like it, but how'd she nail my M.O. so quickly?" Maybe I really was losin' my touch, or was it these miserable Santa Ana's? I knew O’Malley was washed up, but was I tip-toein’ down the same primrose path as that poor sap? She’d called my number early in the game and I couldn’t afford a new exchange now. I was treadin’ through dicey territory here and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was about to break one of my three cardinal rules of life. You see, every shamus needs to set some guidlines for himself, otherwise he might to end up out at Cypress Lawn wearin’ a wooden kimono. My rules are 3, and simple. Never play cards with a guy named after a large metropolitan community, never date a girl with a tattoo of a dagger that’s drippin’ blood, and never, ever have lunch at a place where you can come out with enough gas to open up your own Mobil station. If I managed to keep my powder dry, the rest would be like cream cheese and baloney on rye. This was a fine line though, finer than the pair of silk stockings on this dame’s legs, but like a city politician, I was about to cross it gladly. I chewed it over for a couple of minutes when she broke my train of thought by saying, "Well slim, are ya' just gonna' stand there talkin’ to yourself all night, or are you gonna' buy me a drink?" Mouth like a sailor, Body by Fisher, and easy on the eyes. I liked it even more. It was a tempting combination that any of those two-bit bookies would be clamorin' to lay odds on, and I was already baskin' like a champ in the Winner's Circle.
Well, maybe my treads were wearin’ thin, but what did I care now? This wasn't the first time I'd found myself face to face with a pair of 38’s, only this time they were softer, warmer, and cloaked behind a thin veil of blue cashmere. I adjusted my rod and ordered a Scotch. It looked like the night wasn't turn out so bad after all! In fact, the entire weekend looked like it promised to be perfumed, gin soaked, and hand rubbed, or at least that's what I thought she meant when she said, "Let's go to my place, get drunk, and refurnish the furniture." But it was the way she said it, you know? Kinda' husky like a lead dog in a snow job, and I wasn't about to get left out in the cold.
(c) 2008 Miles Mellough
Just Another 10¢ Novel From The Five And Dime
1) Complete Soundtrack to 'Farewell, My Lovely'/David Shire
2) Excepts from the Soundtrack to 'Mulholland Falls'/Dave Grusin
3) Complete Soundtrack to 'Body Heat'/John Barry
(Taken from the original Label X, LASE-X-2, 45 rpm recording)
To download, click here.
Special thanks to Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart, and especially to Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, the city of Los Angeles, Carl Reiner and Phil Austin.
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