Demonstrating my command of Noir-fu in the Legendary chat a day or so ago, I got my
Chandler on for the start of a new story - though there is a Jackie reference so it might a little Spillaine.
King's Row.
Life ain't fair. Get used to it. Right from day one. You're no sooner ushered into this world, and the first thing that
happens is that someone smacks you. You're eyes aren't even open yet.
No chance of you hitting back. Okay, Moose Masterson smacked the doctor back, but we all figured, 'Hey that's
Moose for you.' For the record, the doctor went on to smack Moose's mother and father for good measure, and
given how Moose turned out, I can't say that I really blame him.
My name is Gil MacHeath, I'm a shamus. A
gumshoe. A private eye. I'm the guy you bring your problems to when the
other guys with badges aren't about to help you. Sure I carry a badge, but it says private
investigator. That's a little like having a badge that says kick-me, without being nearly so obvious about
it. Cops can be feared, cops can be respected. Maybe a little of
both. Private eyes aren't that lucky.
I propped my feet up on the scarred and battered surface of my desk and inhaled a finger
of gin from the glass in my hand. I was feeling maudlin. I hadn't thought
of Moose Masterson in years. Eighty years. That number still shocked me, and I
slapped down another finger of gin by way of salute. Moose had been dead for most of those years in a shower of
squirting metal. I paid my respects to him today. Didn't like
him. Had my nose broken by him once. When I saw the grave and the simple
marker, I took my hat off. You have to know me to get a real good idea of what that means. Why?
Well, for one I could find him.
Between a war, a growing nation, and the general poverty of those I used to hang around
with, most of 'em disappeared without a trace. No birth records. No death
records. No grave to visit. Nothing.
Even saintly Momma MacHeath rests in soil unknown to her favorite son. I knew Moose, and that grave was as solid a
connection to the world I knew as I was going to find.
So I paid my respects.
Al, my partner, gives me a raised eyebrow as I reach for the gin bottle and replace the
two fingers worth of gin in my glass; and add another two for good measure. You gotta know Al to know how impressive
that is. Al don't have eyebrows.
Al is a penguin.
A snarky, very British, Penguin.
An invisible, magical, snarky, very British Penguin, who has noted on occasion that he
speaks better English than I do.
"Gilbert." Al insists on using my full
name, just like I refuse to use his. "Should I be concerned that you seem to be intent of killing that helpless
bottle of cheap gin in cold blood."
"It's not cold blood." I note out
of the side of my mouth. "No ice."
"I had noticed." Al said
dryly. The heat sometimes gets to him. "Perhaps you might convince Miss
Frost to restock my office."
Al rented an office next to mine; too many fights
over where to set the air conditioner. Currently it is set on the sidewalk three stories down. It stopped working. Al's got money and not a lot of things to spend it on. Military pension. That's a story for another time.
"Sure thing Al." I tilt my hat to cover
my eyes and shift lower in my chair. Al sighs.
"Gilbert, am I to understand that your plan; and I cringe at dignifying it with the
term plan; is to sit in your chair, drinking gin, and waiting for the phone to ring?" Al ruffles the feathers on
his chest with his beak.
"The work walks through the door or calls up on the ringer." I kill a finger of gin, and figuring it might be lonely, send another after it for company.
"I figure I'm in the right place."
"Yes. Rather. I have explained the concept of a secretary and an answering machine to you." Al
says.
"It's not about all that Al." I can
see it in his body language. He's about to get personal. We're both
guys. Different species notwithstanding. Guys don't get
personal. Not even at gunpoint. Al though, he's so used to giving advice,
sometimes he forgets.
"You still mooning over that secretary over at City Hall?" I ask him. His outraged birdy splutter is worth the price of admission.
"She is not a secretary!" Al shoots
back. "She is the Senior Research Librarian and…"
I raise my glass in salute, and Al responds with a similar gesture. Point to me. You spend enough time staring at a door or a phone, you learn to make your
own entertainment. It's part of being a gumshoe.
"You are either on a job or in that chair staring at the phone and the door, waiting
for a job." Al says. "That's not healthy
Gilbert."
"You're thinking I should get out.
Socially." I cap the bottle and toss it back in the filing cabinet under G for gin.
"Your investigative skills never fail to amaze me Gilbert." All says a bit huffily. "Enough clues and you will eventually reach a sustainable
hypothesis."
"Well, Jackie did ask if she could take me."
I muse. Al doesn't approve of Jackie; but tolerates her due to her ability to turn his office into a winter
wonderland.
"Well, perhaps not my first choice." Al
mused. "But dinner on the town with Miss Frost would do much to reintroduce you to a more social
existence."
"She didn't say anything about dinner."
I had set up the one two punch. Time to land the hook. "Just that
she'd take me."
Al gapes at me, clearly shocked and appalled. He
tries to say something, his beak opening and closing with a click.
Then the phone rings, and saves us both from the possibility of having to get
personal.
Chandler on for the start of a new story - though there is a Jackie reference so it might a little Spillaine.
King's Row.
Life ain't fair. Get used to it. Right from day one. You're no sooner ushered into this world, and the first thing that
happens is that someone smacks you. You're eyes aren't even open yet.
No chance of you hitting back. Okay, Moose Masterson smacked the doctor back, but we all figured, 'Hey that's
Moose for you.' For the record, the doctor went on to smack Moose's mother and father for good measure, and
given how Moose turned out, I can't say that I really blame him.
My name is Gil MacHeath, I'm a shamus. A
gumshoe. A private eye. I'm the guy you bring your problems to when the
other guys with badges aren't about to help you. Sure I carry a badge, but it says private
investigator. That's a little like having a badge that says kick-me, without being nearly so obvious about
it. Cops can be feared, cops can be respected. Maybe a little of
both. Private eyes aren't that lucky.
I propped my feet up on the scarred and battered surface of my desk and inhaled a finger
of gin from the glass in my hand. I was feeling maudlin. I hadn't thought
of Moose Masterson in years. Eighty years. That number still shocked me, and I
slapped down another finger of gin by way of salute. Moose had been dead for most of those years in a shower of
squirting metal. I paid my respects to him today. Didn't like
him. Had my nose broken by him once. When I saw the grave and the simple
marker, I took my hat off. You have to know me to get a real good idea of what that means. Why?
Well, for one I could find him.
Between a war, a growing nation, and the general poverty of those I used to hang around
with, most of 'em disappeared without a trace. No birth records. No death
records. No grave to visit. Nothing.
Even saintly Momma MacHeath rests in soil unknown to her favorite son. I knew Moose, and that grave was as solid a
connection to the world I knew as I was going to find.
So I paid my respects.
Al, my partner, gives me a raised eyebrow as I reach for the gin bottle and replace the
two fingers worth of gin in my glass; and add another two for good measure. You gotta know Al to know how impressive
that is. Al don't have eyebrows.
Al is a penguin.
A snarky, very British, Penguin.
An invisible, magical, snarky, very British Penguin, who has noted on occasion that he
speaks better English than I do.
"Gilbert." Al insists on using my full
name, just like I refuse to use his. "Should I be concerned that you seem to be intent of killing that helpless
bottle of cheap gin in cold blood."
"It's not cold blood." I note out
of the side of my mouth. "No ice."
"I had noticed." Al said
dryly. The heat sometimes gets to him. "Perhaps you might convince Miss
Frost to restock my office."
Al rented an office next to mine; too many fights
over where to set the air conditioner. Currently it is set on the sidewalk three stories down. It stopped working. Al's got money and not a lot of things to spend it on. Military pension. That's a story for another time.
"Sure thing Al." I tilt my hat to cover
my eyes and shift lower in my chair. Al sighs.
"Gilbert, am I to understand that your plan; and I cringe at dignifying it with the
term plan; is to sit in your chair, drinking gin, and waiting for the phone to ring?" Al ruffles the feathers on
his chest with his beak.
"The work walks through the door or calls up on the ringer." I kill a finger of gin, and figuring it might be lonely, send another after it for company.
"I figure I'm in the right place."
"Yes. Rather. I have explained the concept of a secretary and an answering machine to you." Al
says.
"It's not about all that Al." I can
see it in his body language. He's about to get personal. We're both
guys. Different species notwithstanding. Guys don't get
personal. Not even at gunpoint. Al though, he's so used to giving advice,
sometimes he forgets.
"You still mooning over that secretary over at City Hall?" I ask him. His outraged birdy splutter is worth the price of admission.
"She is not a secretary!" Al shoots
back. "She is the Senior Research Librarian and…"
I raise my glass in salute, and Al responds with a similar gesture. Point to me. You spend enough time staring at a door or a phone, you learn to make your
own entertainment. It's part of being a gumshoe.
"You are either on a job or in that chair staring at the phone and the door, waiting
for a job." Al says. "That's not healthy
Gilbert."
"You're thinking I should get out.
Socially." I cap the bottle and toss it back in the filing cabinet under G for gin.
"Your investigative skills never fail to amaze me Gilbert." All says a bit huffily. "Enough clues and you will eventually reach a sustainable
hypothesis."
"Well, Jackie did ask if she could take me."
I muse. Al doesn't approve of Jackie; but tolerates her due to her ability to turn his office into a winter
wonderland.
"Well, perhaps not my first choice." Al
mused. "But dinner on the town with Miss Frost would do much to reintroduce you to a more social
existence."
"She didn't say anything about dinner."
I had set up the one two punch. Time to land the hook. "Just that
she'd take me."
Al gapes at me, clearly shocked and appalled. He
tries to say something, his beak opening and closing with a click.
Then the phone rings, and saves us both from the possibility of having to get
personal.
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