I'm trying something completely different. Since my life has taken a turn for the uninteresting (partially untrue), I'm gonna start writing stupid shit. What follows is the first of what I think will be a (semi-) weekly post riffing on noir writings. It may be stupid and in all likelihood will amuse no one but myself, but well, it's my blog and I've been indulgent up until now, so why fight it?
Also, just to say it, please don't reprint this material without my permission. I retain all copyright on materials I post on this blog unless it is someone else's.
The Phil Collins is bouncing off the hard wood floors as I sit and think about her. Her name wasn't Sudio, but I just wanted to say the word. It had been a week since she left me sitting in my El Camino with nothing left to hold onto except my own sense of self-worth and Phil was there for me again. Just like he had been there for me in sixth grade, when Courtney wouldn't dance with me at the fall formal. And in eleventh grade when Kerry abandonded me for the Eagles Reunion tour. And after prom, when Jane dumped me on the dance floor, Phil Collins was there to hold my head and wipe the tears from my eyes. That's just the kind of guy Phil Collins is. I know guys in my line of work are supposed to be tough, and I am when I have to be, but sometimes just hearing "In the Air Tonight" will make me cry like a little child.
But that's a digression. She left. And now I'm here throwing myself recklessly into my work. They say any distraction is a good one when you're trying to forget someone, but I gotta tell you, scanning over life insurance documents to try and figure out some bullshit about what I can't even remember. I thought I took this kind of work because it was interesting.
That's the night my new client walks into--a boring, semi-depressed affair that I thought I only invited Phil Collins to. He's a slight man, my new client. Everything about him says small, and it only says that because saying timid might be overstepping the bounds. He's wearing a pair of glasses that are barely bigger than his tiny green eyes. His suit is well-worn and he's already loosened his tie after a day that, if I had to guess, was another in a long line of mental and pyschological beatings. His eyes were small, as I said, but they were sharp. There was still a flicker of something in there. It's too soon to know whether it's hope, or brains, or just a couple pints.
"You're [the gumshoe]?" he asked as if the name on the door wasn't assurance enough.
"Yeah." And then a silence settled in for a second. He was either having second thoughts or he didn't know how to start. "Why don't you sit down and tell me your name and your problem and I'll suggest ways I can help."
"Yes." He sat quickly, setting a briefcase neatly beside the chair and folding his arms into his lap as I reached for the stereo and turned the Phil Collins down. "My name is Simon Flettering and. Well. It's my wife, Selma. I think she's left me."
"You're not sure?" I've been dumped many, many times, and I've always been sure that I was dumped. But then, maybe I just dated women who were extremely communicative that way. Maybe.
"I came home from work yesterday and she was gone. Her closets were cleared out and the suitcases were gone. There wasn't a note, but...she wasn't there." His eyes shifted nervously as he spoke. It's never easy to tell another guy you've been dumped. No matter how many times it happens to you, you just hate to have to tell other guys. It's not so much the judgment or the possibility of getting emotional, it's the wierd vulnerability. It's that moment of telling your buddies that there's a way to get to you, right to your core.
"Have you been having trouble lately?"
"A little." Another quiet stretch as he considererd what to tell me and I thought about what the best way to ask my questions was without chasing him, and his wallet, out of the room.
"Can you tell me about it? The more you tell me the better I can tell you whether it's best to search for her or wait for her to return. Or let her go." The last sentence caught him in the gut, I could see it in his eyes. But he got it together quickly.
"Well. We'd been having a lot of arguments lately. She'd gotten herself a new boyfriend and I he was treating her--" He'd said it so casually.
"Excuse me, did you say 'new boyfriend'? As in she's had others?"
"Sure. We're. Well, she has boyfriends and it's okay with me. As long as they treat her nice, which this last guy didn't."
"You're not the jealous type, Simon?"
"No, not really. We're a different type of marriage, [gumshoe]. She has boyfriends and it's okay." His face turned red and his eyes stared out the window behind me at the streetlight that dropped into view from seemingly nowhere. And I thought it was hard to tell another guy you've been dumped.
"Sure. I've read about those in Penthouse."
"Well. Regardless." He swallowed. "This new guy was taking up a lot of her time. And I asked her about it. And there was yelling."
"Uh-huh. How did you ask her about it?"
"After dinner. She'd made steak and was just about to go see him again, and I asked her about it."
"I see, but what did you say?"
"I just asked why she was seeing so much of him?"
"Sure. Well, why don't you tell me his name?"
"She didn't tell me his name. She just told me he had a huge--"
"Yeah. Well, I'm not gonna go around looking for a guy with some huge junk."
"But you're gonna look for this guy?"
"Seems like. I get $200 a day plus expenses. Why don't we start out with a week and we'll meet again next week."
"That's fine." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a checkbook. It's a beautiful sight to watch someone write you a check. This insurance stuff I'd been working on paid most the bills, but it wasn't gonna get me to retirement. Or a new car, which I needed.
I waited until he handed over the check before I asked if he'd involved the cops yet.
"No."
"Okay. Well. I'll get back to you if I find anything. If not, we'll meet a week from now."
And that's how this shitstorm started.
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