Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe

by Robert B. Parker

  “What color are your wife’s eyes?”

  “Black.”

  I looked at him.

  “Yes, black. Monica’s coloring is very unusual. She’s a natural blonde, too.”

  “I’ll need to take this with me,” I said, tapping the picture.

  “If you must. Please don’t lose it, Mr. Marlowe.”

  “I’ll be very careful with it. Now what was the name of the car dealer who called you?”

  “The man’s name was Arthur Shuman. He’s the general manager at Peabody Motors. They’re on Wilcox, between Sunset and Hollywood.”

  “Okay. Where can I reach you today if I find your wife and son?”

  “I’ll be at my office the rest of the day. It’s on Rossmore just opposite Paramount Studios.” He gave me the direct line into his office.

  “My fee is twenty dollars a day and expenses. If I don’t find her today, I’d suggest you call Pinkerton’s in Little Rock to catch her at the other end.”

  Stiles opened his wallet and began laying crisp twenties on my desk. “Here’s twenty for your time today and forty against expenses. Please find her for me, Mr. Marlowe.”

  “That’s what I’m about to do, Mr. Stiles.”

  He rose and turned to leave. I had one question left to ask but I wasn’t sure I needed to know the answer. With his hand on the doorknob, I decided to ask it anyway.

  “Mr. Stiles, why is your wife in such a hurry to leave town?”

  He turned slowly, and looking down at me, he said, “Mr. Marlowe, I assure you that it’s a personal and private matter between my wife and me. I’m sure you can respect that.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  I watched Stiles pull the office door closed behind him and stared at the bills on my desk. Los Angeles was the wrong town to be poor in. When the hoboes tried to enter, city hall made a fence out of the boys in blue and dared them to climb over it. With things as tough as they were, why would Monica Stiles put herself on the wrong side of money? When I found her, I just might ask her that.

  I stood up, unclipped my holster, and locked my gun in my desk. I wasn’t going to be shooting anybody today. With the money in my wallet, I locked up the office and went to work.

  Peabody Motors was one block west and one south. Shuman was bald and fat, and judging from the way he rocked on his feet, his shoes hurt, too. He confirmed everything that Stiles had told me.

  I thanked him for his help and walked out of the showroom. On the sidewalk I tried to imagine myself trying to get out of town and standing there with two suitcases and a kid and no money in my pocket. She was a long way from Union Station or the airport. The bus station was only two blocks away, on Vine. Buses were cheaper and left more frequently. If Monica Stiles was still in town at all, she was nearby. That much I was sure of.

  I drifted down Wilcox and crossed Sunset, looking for the places where she might have gotten money. On Santa Monica, I saw a pawnbroker’s gold trident and went inside.

  The man behind the counter had a loupe in his eye and a bauble in his hand.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He put the stone down onto a velvet pillow and looked at me. “Yeah?”

  I took out the picture of Monica and Brandon Stiles. “Has this woman been in this afternoon?”

  He took the picture and studied it. “Not while I’ve been here, and I’d remember. She’s a looker, that one is.”

  “Okay, thanks. Any other pawnshops in this area?”

  “No. We’re the only one up this way. Most of the others are over in Smoketown. What’s the skirt trying to move, anyway?”

  “Jewelry.”

  “Good stuff?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yeah, real good.” I opened my wallet and put a fin on the velvet pillow. I put my card on the bill. “If she comes in, you call me. It’ll be worth your while.”

  He slipped the bill into his shirt pocket and glanced at the card. “Sure thing, Mr. Marlowe.”

  “If I’m not there I’ll be at Al Levy’s Tavern. You know it?”

  “Yeah, the one on Vine, next to the bus station.”

  “That’s right.”

  I left the shop and headed east on Santa Monica to Vine. As far as I could tell, Monica Stiles still had no money. Wearing a silk blouse and stockings she wasn’t going to get much of a response if she tried to panhandle. I didn’t feature her doing a smash-and-grab routine either, not with little Brandon in tow.

  I wandered into the bus station and checked the schedule. The next bus east left at 7:30, two hours from now. I did a slow circuit through the terminal, but they weren’t there. I thought about sitting still for the two hours and letting her come to me, but I still had a couple of moves left to make and the silly idea that I should earn my fee.

  Al Levy’s Tavern was just up the block. I walked in, ambled around the bar, and nodded to Al. He grunted around the cigar stuffed into his cheek and continued washing dishes. I fed the phone a nickel and called a house dick I knew. The shops were going to close pretty soon, and since Mrs. Stiles wasn’t in the bus station the only places left for her to lie low in were the apartment hotels north of Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Gramercy Place Apartments,” a voice said.

  “Is Kuvalick there?”

  “Hold a moment.” I held.

  “Kuvalick,” he rasped.

  “Stan, it’s Philip Marlowe.”

  “Yeah, Marlowe, long time.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m looking for a woman. She’s dragging a couple of suitcases and a kid. Teal skirt, cream blouse. A good-looking blonde. You want to keep your eyes open and call some of your buddies in the other buildings. If you turn her up, call me at Al Levy’s, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Marlowe.”

  “Thanks.”

  I swiveled around on the stool and stared into Al Levy’s face. Al had a bulbous drinker’s nose that got so bright when he was angry it looked like a tomato wedge between his eyes.

  “What’ll it be, Marlowe?” he growled. A shiv in the throat had left him with a one-tone voicebox.

  “Whiskey.”

  Al poured with a friend’s heavy hand, and I sipped a bit before I took it back to the far corner booth and waited for the phone to ring.

  I sipped and waited for almost an hour. When the call came in, it was Kuvalick.

  “Your girl’s been made, Marlowe.”

  “Where?”

  “Over on Kenmore, near Hollywood.”

  “The kid with her?”

  “No. Just the doll. She was walking toward the Morewood Arms Hotel.”

  “Thanks, Stan.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  I finished off my drink and went back into the rapidly spreading dusk. The Morewood was two blocks away and on the far side of Kenmore. I took up a position opposite the entrance of the hotel but didn’t see Monica Stiles there.

  She was walking up the sidewalk arm in arm with an older man who looked and dressed like her husband. Maybe she was learning to make friends. She was dressed as the maid had described, but she was wearing the sunglasses I had seen in the picture.

  As they approached the front door, she turned her head toward me and ran her hand through her fine blonde hair. I saw a diamond on her left hand, gold buttons in her ears, a gold necklace that encircled her long, delicious throat and a large red pin to keep her blouse closed. I shook my head. She was wearing Little Rock and back for her, the kid, and the teddy bear, and she was doing the horizontal bop anyway. But that was Stiles’s problem, not mine.

  When they went through the Morewood’s revolving front door, I walked across the street and used the lobby phone to call my client. I told him that I had located his wife and that his son was probably close by. He thanked me and said that he’d be there right away. I told him not to hurry and hung up. I wasn’t here to take pictures or set them up for anyone else.

  Back at my roost, I lit a cigarette and waited for her to
come back out. About twenty minutes later she came flying out of the hotel, clattering down the steps on her high heels. Her arms were out for balance as if the stone was bunching and flexing itself under her feet.

  I tossed the butt away and fell in behind her. She had a raging case of foot fever and I was afraid she’d spot me if I tried to close on her. So I slowed down and settled for just keeping her in sight.

  She turned right on Franklin and ducked into a doorway. It was the side entrance to the Golden West Apartments. My place, the Hobart Arms, was only a block away.

  Just as I got to the entrance and reached for the knob, the door retreated and I came face to face with Monica Stiles. She had a large suitcase in her left hand and a smaller one under her arm. In her other hand were her son’s small fingers. He looked up at me, but he wasn’t wearing that assured smile. He had that wide-eyed stare you get when your world is collapsing around you and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to see over the rubble. He clutched his teddy bear to his chest.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’ve got to get somewhere.”

  I reached out and gripped her elbow. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stiles. I can’t let you leave.”

  Her head snapped towards me. “Let me go. You have no right to stop me like this.”

  “It’s not you, Mrs. Stiles. It’s the boy. His father doesn’t want him to leave town.”

  “No,” she shouted. “He can’t have him. No. No. No.” She swung her right hand at my face. I dodged the blow. She dropped the suitcases on my foot and pummeled me with both hands. I reached out and snatched her wrists and shook her hard. She whipped her head back and forth and tried to bite me. Her sunglasses flew off and I pulled her close.

  Stiles had told the truth. She was a blonde all the way down and her eyes were black. But there was also purple and yellow and red there too.

  “Rough trade at the Morewood?” I asked.

  “No, you bastard. These came today with breakfast. Courtesy of your boss.” The discoloration of her face was about right for a punch-out over bacon and eggs.

  “Why’d he hit you?”

  “How should I know. Maybe the sun came up too early. I gave up asking that question a while ago. I don’t care what the answer is. I just want out. I can’t take it anymore.”

  The boy, who had stepped into the darkness when his mother swung at me, came forward and wrapped his arms around her and lay his head on her hip.

  She stroked his head and murmured, “It’s okay, Brandon. Mommy’s okay.” Her stare dared me to make a liar out of her. I passed on it.

  “Where were you going?”

  “To the bus station. Catch the seven-thirty back east. My people are in Arkansas. I have no one out here. Delano kept me a prisoner in the house. He wouldn’t let me out for anything. He was so jealous of anyone who paid attention to me.”

  “Why didn’t you hock the jewelry? You’d have been out of here hours ago.”

  “That’s a laugh, mister. Don’t you think I tried? They’re paste. I couldn’t get to Pomona on these. Delano never trusted me. He never let me have any money. I didn’t realize that everything he’s given me was a fake. The only thing I have that’s real is Brandon.”

  “How did you know that the Morewood was a hot-sheet joint? You’re supposed to be right off the bus.”

  “When I found out that the jewelry was paste, I was frantic. I had nothing else to sell. The pawnbroker saw how desperate I was. He told me about the Morewood.”

  “And what was his cut for doing you this kindness?”

  “He said he’d get a piece from the front desk for each guy I came in with.”

  When this was over I was going to have a talk with the pawnbroker. Probably a short, painful talk.

  “How much money do you have?”

  “Just enough to get me and Brandon out of the state. It was easy enough to pick up the guys, but I couldn’t do the rest. I only got into the room with the last one. I made him get undressed first. Then I took his wallet and ran out.”

  I thought about everything I’d been told today and was ready to dismiss it all as self-serving half-truths. All except her black eye. That I believed in. I didn’t care how she might have failed Stiles as a wife, there was no excuse for that. So I reached into my wallet and slipped out sixty dollars.

  “Here, take this. It’ll get you home and you can eat, too.”

  She reached out slowly and took the bills from my hand.

  “Thank you. I don’t know how I can repay you, Mister . . . ”

  “Marlowe, Philip Marlowe. And you don’t have to. The money isn’t mine. I never earned it. I never found you.”

  I reached down for one of the bags, and when I turned I saw Delano Stiles striding across the street toward us. He had two Hard Harrys flanking him.

  I pulled my car keys out of my pocket, turned, and pressed them into her palm.

  “Go. It’s the convertible on the corner. You can still catch the bus. Don’t go to Little Rock. He’ll be waiting for you there. Get lost.”

  She reached for the suitcase and I said, “Leave them or you’ll never make it.”

  She tore a slit in her skirt, kicked off her heels, picked Brandon up and ran for her life.

  I watched Brandon’s face over her shoulder as she fled up the street and wondered why he didn’t cry out for his dad.

  Stiles pointed up the street and one of his goons sheared off in pursuit. I dashed out into the street and tackled him knee-high. He toppled over and slammed his head on the road. He was stunned for a second. I grabbed his collar, set him up, and closed his shop.

  I heard footsteps behind me and rolled away. Stiles kicked at my head, but I grabbed his ankle, twisted it hard, and he fell over. I scrambled to my feet and saw the second guy standing in the intersection. My car was pulling away from the curb. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. He moved casually into his shooter’s crouch and sighted down his rigid arm.

  I ran up the street yelling, “No!” But I was too late and his aim too true. I saw my car close on him. He fired once, twice, and then slid sideways like a toreador as the car careened past him on its three good tires, veered sharply to the right, jumped the curb, and slammed into Monroe’s Pharmacy.

  The shooter holstered up and sauntered over to the wreck. I caught up to him, spun him around, and broke my hand breaking his jaw. Stiles ran past me and flung open the car’s passenger door. The whoop of police sirens grew in the distance.

  Stiles groaned, “Oh my god,” and sank to his knees. I looked in the driver’s window. Monica Stiles was crouched over her son. She held his head in her hands and was kissing him everywhere. Over and over she murmured, “Baby, Baby.” But he couldn’t hear her. Children’s bones are soft they say, but no neck turns that far.

  I walked over to the bus stop bench, sat down, and lit a cigarette. I took it out of my mouth, stared at its glowing red tip and wanted to put it out in my heart. Instead I waited for the sirens to drown out two sets of sobs.

  They never did though, and these days I’m not the same man I was that day. The name’s the same, and that confuses some people. That’s why I have to remind them that I don’t do divorce work.

  * * *

  * * *

  I read my first Raymond Chandler novel sitting on a two-dollar-a-night cot in the staff quarters of a West Virginia V. A. hospital. It was The Long Goodbye. When I put the book down two things stayed with me: Chandler’s style and Philip Marlowe.

  Chandler’s poetic images made the “same old scenes” fresh and vibrant and lodged them firmly in my memory. He wrote dialogue in the language we wished we spoke, and he made it sound natural anyway.

  Marlowe, like all detectives, made trouble his business. Chandler made the cost of that decision a central part of his novels. Seven times Raymond Chandler told the story of Philip Marlowe’s struggle to resist the corruption he saw all around him. The tale got better with each telling. It’s fifteen years since I first met Philip Marlowe and I s
till feel the same way.

  Benjamin M. Schutz

  GUN MUSIC

  * * *

  * * *

  LOREN D. ESTLEMAN

  1937

  CARSON MOLDINE HAD an office in the cellar of the Mammoth Pictures property department building, right between Mae West’s wardrobe and a room full of breakaway bottles suitable for use in saloon brawls. It was a fragrant little room with no window, a dusty bulb in the ceiling, and a big yellow oak desk that Noah’s children had carved their initials into on rainy days. Noah had inherited it from his grandfather.

  Moldine was a little older than the desk. A big brown man with no hair, great white handlebars, and eyes like shards of broken blue glass, he was rumored to be wanted in Oklahoma on an 1899 murder charge. Whether or not the rumor was true, there was nothing false about the Frontier Colt he wore in a holster under his old plaid jacket. Its amber handle bumped the desk when he leaned forward to accept the letters I’d brought. The blue eyes darted over each in turn. “This all of them?”

  “Aren’t they enough?” I asked.

  He laughed once, a short dry bark, and dropped the pages onto the old stained blotter. “The little tramp’s more trouble than her contract’s worth. Sooner or later the studio brass will see that and give her the boot. Then they can use the money they’re wasting on these leeches to make good pictures for a change. Can we expect any trouble over how you came by these?”

  “Naw, I dropped the bodies into La Brea.” I grinned and set fire to a Camel. “I paid them a lot less than they were asking. They hollered, but they knew none of the Hollywood rags would print what’s in the letters, and the real papers don’t care.”

  “I’d have shot the bastards.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I’m paid to end trouble, not start it. What do we owe you, Marlowe?”