Raymond Chandler said that when he was stuck for a line he would have somebody walk into a room waving a gun. So, after a hard day of reading, I dusted off my grandfather's .38 and headed for Marlowe's office two doors down. Like Chandler, I had nothing to say to that son of a bitch either, but I felt that two inches of snub-nosed steel would be an ample substitute. Over the years I'd had enough of watching him parade around the Pulp scene like some kind of gum-shoe god, making it with every long-legged Garbo wanna-be who wandered off Sunset Strip into his pad and dropped an envelope full of twenties on his desk, begging him to track down their twin sisters who never showed up for the coming out party. Dammit, I want in. I know every inch of The Big Sleep like the back of my hand. I knew the first Maltese Falcon was a sham. I've seen every episode of Spenser for Hire. Hell, I FOUND THE ONE-ARMED MAN! It's not like I want a book to myself; I just want a little piece of Marlowe's action. I'll settle for ten pages of sexy dialogue with the hapless bimbos he calls his clientele. But I've had enough of thumbing my way through his dog-eared paperback life. I want in. . . .

It didn't take much to brush past his secretary and into his smoke filled office. It looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since The Lady in the Lake. There he was behind the desk, case-files strewn everywhere, contemplating a tequila sunrise, breathing a pack of Lucky Strikes. Somehow he looked different when Bogie played him—bigger, stronger. There was none of that irritating facial twitch, that smug-smirk that he flashed when he was tense. From the way he nursed that drink, life was hard. He was gaunt. Grey. To tell you the truth, I almost felt sorry for the guy. . .he didn't even move when I barged in. I suppose that's the luck of the draw, though. My life hadn't been easy, you know. I've got the same roaches under my sink. I've had his thugs shoot up MY door “by mistake.” But you gotta take it as it comes. He'd had his crack at the City of Angels. No. Sympathy isn't what I’m after. Still, though, maybe I should just shoot the poor bastard. No. . . .

“Listen here, gumshoe. Somebody finally got the drop on you and that somebody is me. I don't want a fuss, just. . .”

“Beat it kid, I'm busy?”

“Busy? The only thing you're busy with is me and this piece, got it?”

“The only thing I'm busy with is my drink. Now get the hell out before I. . .”

“Before you what, old man? I got the piece, see.”

“Well then, spit it out before my ice melts.”

“It's easy, Marlowe. Cut me in and. . .”

“Cut you in on what?”

“The action, dick, the action.”

“What action? The author’s dead, kid, there hasn't been any action since Playback in '58. Now blow outta here and take that pathetic iron with you. Christ, a .38. What the hell was he thinking?”

“What are you talking about. . .dead? I want in! I want the girls, the foggy tracking shots by the bay, the. . .”

“Then check out Spillane--maybe Hammer needs a lackey. I'm out. Christ, a .38. . .”

For Ted Hughes

Hawk sits atop the television aerial

Perched, eyes fixed,

Scanning the alley below for palatable vermin:

A mouse scurrying from a gutter,

A rat picking through a dumpster,

A squirrel walking the telephone wire.

In the full moon of December

Hawk sees only garbage strewn between

Cracked brick facades...

Bottles cast down and broken.

Hawk in winter

Doesn't feel the cold,

Only the hunger,

The need to sustain,

To feed,

To be.

Chapter 2: Mysteries and Riddles

When Harry Creek awoke the next morning he was a mess. His bedsheets were soaked with perspiration, the result, he was sure, of another night-sweat. He lifted his head from his pillow. His neck was stiff and sore, his throat parched. Rolling onto his side, Harry reached for the rocks glass on the nightstand. He raised the remains of last night’s vodka to his lips and drained the half-glass in one gulp. The alcohol burned his esophagus, making his body shudder and jolting him awake. Harry shook his head and ran his hands through his matted hair, curled and damp with sweat. He took a deep breath as he sat up and reached for his black horn-rimmed glasses. As his eyes adjusted to the morning sun coming through the blinds, Harry focused on the ceiling fan turning slowly above him. Out-of-balance, it rocked hypnotically. Falling back onto his pillow, Harry ran his hands over his tired body until his fingers found the stream of still- wet semen that ran from his stomach to its source. He didn’t remember masturbating last night, but then again, Harry didn’t remember much from last night. There were no torn foil condom wrappers strewn about...no lipstick stained high-ball glasses next to his own...no foreign cigarette butts crushed out in the ashtray. No, from all empirical evidence Harry had spent the night alone. Judging from the volume of ejaculate, Harry thought, it must have been one hell of a dream...

Blinking his eyes, Harry shook off the remaining fog and finally sat up. Swinging his legs over the bedside, he put his feet on the floor and stood. He walked to the bathroom without staggering, thanking whatever powers he didn’t believe in that the hang over wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He flipped on the fluorescent light over the vanity and winced as the flicker and pop strained his still-tired eyes. Harry walked across the cold tiles, pulled back the shower curtain, stepped into the tub, and turned on the water. Steam filled the room as he let the water run over his body, washing away the sleep and sweat and semen from the night before. Reaching his hand between his legs and taking hold of his penis, Harry steadied himself and urinated, emptying his bladder of last night’s anesthetic. Relieved, he put his head under the torrent and let some water fill his mouth, swishing it from side to side, and spit it down the drain. Harry began to turn his back to the shower but jumped when the hot water stung the flesh between his scapulae. From the rear of the tub, Harry adjusted the cold flow so that the water no longer scalded his skin. Leaning back under the shower he washed his hair and soaped his body. Sufficiently cleansed, Harry turned off the water, grabbed a heavy white bath sheet from the wall hanger, and dried himself.

Harry emerged from the steamy bathroom and walked back into his bedroom. He grabbed a pair of black knit boxer-briefs from the top drawer of his dresser and, bending at the waist, stepped into them, pulling them up over his thighs. From the next drawer down he grabbed a white crew neck undershirt and pulled it over his head. Turning to make his bed, Harry Creek stopped with a shudder. The white sheets on top of which he had slept the night before were streaked with blood, outlining the shape of his torso. He reached for the rocks-glass on the nightstand but it was empty. Turning away from the bed, Harry doubled over and vomited the liquid contents of stomach onto the wooden floor where he stood.

Chapter 1: Little Creatures

“You know if anybody finds out about us I’m screwed, right?”

The fear in Harry Creek’s voice was palpable, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not now. Her breath was too warm, her scent too enticing as she lay beneath him. No, there was no going back. He had wanted this...wanted her...for too long, and now that she was here, waiting, open to him...not even the terror of his unraveling universe could make him stop. When Harry closed his eyes he saw his wife...his daughter...his family...his friends...he saw the shame and disappointment of his deception. He saw the despair of his betrayal. The tears, the howling sobs, the jibes...the scandal. But with his eyes open, Harry only saw her...her auburn irises welcoming him like a hearth-fire; her pupils, dilated wide and black, absorbing the light and gravity of his desire. He moaned as he slipped inside her, guided not so much by her steady hand but by the sound of her trembling voice...

“I want you...”

There seemed no end to her as she encircled Harry’s hips with her legs, pulling him inside her, deeper and deeper. She moved her hands from his hair to his face, caressing his cheeks with her fingertips...onward to to his neck until she found his shoulders...her fingernails digging into Harry’s skin, tearing at his flesh. Her thighs tightening, she pulled him deeper. Harry could feel the blood running down his back, stinging as it mixed with the salt of his sweat. Still she pulled him deeper inside her, still her nails ripped at his back. Time dissolved into her.

When Harry opened his eyes he saw nothing. The auburn irises that welcomed him disappeared, her pupils swallowing every bit of light. In their vastness Harry searched for his face but only saw the distorted shadow of something unrecognizable… something grotesque and horrifying...In her blackened eyes Harry Creek saw his ecstatic soul, bleeding, ugly, writhing. Horrified, Harry tried to close his eyes and block out the terrifying reflection but he couldn’t.

“Please...stop...”

But her fingers continued to claw at the sinews of of his back...her thighs continued to pull him deeper insider her...Harry closed his eyes again....”Please...Stop...” But when he opened his eyes this time he saw her pale face staring up at him, her eyes hollow, her mouth open to him, lips wet with saliva. “Please...” Before he could finish, she raised her head to his shoulder and her mouth found his neck. Harry shrieked as he felt her teeth pierce his skin and the sinewy flesh of his throat, his blood raining down on her. Before he closed his eyes Harry thought he saw her smile. Before he blacked out, Harry thought he heard her laugh...

The Rail Road Haiku

I.

You, astride, above

I, slinking, silent, beneath.

A moment in love.

II.

Rain in the temple.

The hard luck of being foreign,

Running far away.

III.

Elaborate clouds

Shroud the sleeping city scape

From prying eyes.

IV.

“Tickets, please. Tickets.”

The conductor shouts at me.

Alas, I have none.

V.

Floods in the ravine--

Water of life come to me.

Wash these sins away.