Change Up

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. . .”