Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe

by Robert B. Parker

  Lila West seethed across the dance floor. At the doorway she tugged Escalito behind a pink drape, out of Bud Cone’s line of vision. But not out of mine.

  The speed her lips moved, she had to be talking Spanish. Spanish words that don’t come in school textbooks. Escalito just grinned as the waves of her anger broke over him.

  Suddenly she gave up, reached into her flame-colored purse, and pulled out a folded wad of bills. She thrust them into Escalito’s hands and boiled back to her seat.

  The dumb grin on his face crinkled wider as he counted the payoff. He pawed the bills into his purple uniform and moved back toward the main door.

  Then he stopped and turned. The grin was wider and dumber than ever. Skirting the dance floor, he hunkered toward Lila West’s table.

  I slipped off my bar stool and moved after him.

  I was close enough to hear when he spoke. “Miss West.” The voice was thickly Spanish.

  Her head spun round, the black eyes spitting fire. They took in my presence over Escalito’s shoulder. “Behind you!” she hissed. “He’s got a gun!”

  If I’d had a gun, I wouldn’t have got it out of the holster before a fist like a cement mixer caught me in the jaw. I staggered back, skittling over a couple of honeymooners on the dance floor.

  Escalito’s other fist was on collision course with my temple. I barred it with my left forearm and poked a stiff right into the spread mass of his nose. It was like punching Mount Rushmore.

  A huge hand gathered the lapels of my jacket, and a forehead like a runaway tramcar smashed into mine. Through the fog I saw salami fingers bunching into a fist.

  “Johnny!”

  Lila West’s voice froze him. He half turned toward her and I drove my knuckles into the side of his head, feeling the rasp of stubble.

  He didn’t notice I’d hit him. He still looked at Lila. In her hand was a gun. A small gun, like a toy. A lady’s gun. Mind you, that didn’t comfort me any. A lot of ladies kill people in this city.

  She spat Spanish at him. Then, slowly, deliberately, she pulled the trigger. His body shuddered as the first slug thudded into his chest. Same with the second. And the third.

  Johnny Escalito made no sound. To the end he was a man of few words.

  Blood pumped through the lightweight worsted of his vest. A bubble of blood swelled at the corner of his thin mouth, burst and trickled.

  He went down, straight as a plank. The dance floor shook.

  No point in checking for a pulse. Guys with three bullets in their hearts don’t have pulses.

  The two rocky outcrops in purple tuxes were standing either side, looking down at the lump of dead meat that had been Johnny Escalito.

  Lila West’s flesh was white as milk against the blaze of her dress. She replaced the gun in her purse. She shut the clasp with a click.

  Bud Cone looked like the embalmers had got halfway with him, but hadn’t started putting the fluid back in yet.

  The siren of a prowl car whined outside. If there’s one thing cops are good at, it’s arriving too late.

  The homicide skipper had set up shop in the Stardust Club manager’s office. He was a jovial fat man who only needed the suit, beard, and reindeer to pass for Santa Claus. He hadn’t got that fat on what the police paid him.

  He checked my I.D. and I got the usual wince of reproach when he saw my profession. If there’s one thing cops don’t like, it’s competition.

  But he handed the papers right back with a smile, all cream and two sugars. “Well, Mr. Marlowe, thank you. I’m sorry you got caught up in this jam, but the bruising’ll go in a coupla days. If I were wearing your pants, I’d be straight home for a drink as big as a bathtub.”

  “And you’ll call me in the morning?”

  “Hell, what for?” he asked.

  “I’m a witness.”

  “I got plenty of witnesses,” he said. “Mr. Cone . . . the two heavies in the tuxes. That’s enough.”

  “But what did they see?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. He stopped looking jovial and started looking piggy. “They all saw the same,” he said. “They saw that goon approach Miss West’s table, they saw him pull a gun on her, they saw her shoot him in self-defense.”

  “They weren’t using the same make of eyes I was. He didn’t pull a gun.”

  The cop shrugged. “There was a gun on him. Savage, ugly great brute. He had a shoulder holster.”

  “I didn’t say there wasn’t a gun on him. I said he didn’t pull a gun.”

  “You’d just had a smack in the jaw, brother. Maybe you weren’t seeing so straight.”

  “I was seeing straight enough to know that Lila West plugged him in cold blood.”

  He shook his head. “Not the kind of thing you should go around saying, bozo. Don’t you private dicks know anything about the law?”

  “Plenty,” I said. “And about justice.”

  “Phooey. Listen to me, Marlowe, the guy was a psycho. He’d written this whole raft of crazy letters to Miss West. He was a public danger.”

  “I doubt that goon could write his own name,” I said. “And if he could write, it’d be in Spanish, not English. The reason Lila West shot him was that he had dirt on her. He’d worked in a Mexico City whorehouse where she’d been one of the main attractions. He was threatening to pull the plugs on that to Bud Cone.”

  The skipper put his hands on the table, palms down. He smiled, the picture of reasonableness. “Mr. Marlowe, maybe I’m not making myself clear. This Escalito character was crazy. He’d got this fixation on Miss West from seeing her in the movies. He wrote her hate letters. Then when he saw her in this club, he flipped and tried to kill her. She,” he repeated with heavy emphasis, “shot him in self-defense.”

  “The shooting was in public. The club’s full of people who know that wasn’t the way it happened.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find anyone who’ll say that wasn’t the way it happened,” he said casually.

  “Here’s one,” I said, standing up.

  He moved fast for a fat man. Suddenly he was up too, his hands tight on my lapels, his nose inches from mine. Close to, there was nothing jovial in the eyes. They were dead, like pebbles.

  “Listen to me, Marlowe. The police don’t like operators like you. We tolerate you, but if we want to put the lid on you, we can do it easy as squashing a ladybug. We run this city, we keep it neat and tidy, we trim the edges when necessary, we square things off. The last thing we want around is saps who think they’re fighting the crusades. Understand me?”

  “I understand you.” He released the hold on my jacket. “But I’m not going to keep buttoned up about a whitewash like this.”

  “Mr. Marlowe, men like Bud Cone draw water in this city. You don’t draw nothing—not even a disability pension if you get too curious. I make myself clear?”

  “Clear as sewer water,” I said.

  He flopped back into his chair. The joviality had returned, in spades. “Just one word of advice, Sir Galahad. We got laws in this state about defamation, slander—I’m sure we could find a few others if we needed them. All I’m saying is—you repeat your allegations about Miss West and we’ll bury you so deep in charges you couldn’t dig your way out with a shovel. You try to take us on, Mr. Marlowe, and it’s war.”

  “Suits me,” I said.

  He laughed. Maybe he thought I’d made a joke. I hadn’t.

  As he reached back to the tray of drinks behind the manager’s desk, I saw the smallness of his life. All the little bits of grifting, all the shaved covers of his conscience, all the inadequate reassurances with which he had quieted his soul.

  I stood up. He still had his back to me as he said, “Now come on, let’s forget all this stuff. I’ll bet there’s nothing you’d like more at this moment than a large drink.”

  “No,” I said, “there isn’t. But not with you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  For me the great achievement of Raymond Chandler is hi
s humor. His books prove that it is possible to put jokes into crime fiction without sacrificing tension, and indeed he frequently manages to use jokes to heighten tension. Nor does he allow humor to detract from character; again it has the effect of reinforcing character. And his jokes are always exemplary lessons in economy of phrasing.

  Simon Brett

  LOCKER 246

  * * *

  * * *

  ROBERT J. RANDISI

  1951

  THE FIRST GRAND Central Station was built in New York in 1871 by Cornelius Vanderbilt. Vanderbilt wanted to build the largest railroad station in the world, and he succeeded. New York’s high-society members were building at the time along Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue between Thirty-fourth Street and Forty-second Street, and this was where Vanderbilt chose to erect his monument. It had to be large, but it also had to be elegant—and again, it was.

  Between 1903 and 1913 the station was modernized, and today—in 1951—it is virtually a city within a city. All of this I learned by reading during the train trip from California to New York. Why was I taking a train ride from California to New York? I was wondering that myself, even as I stood in the center of Grand Central Station on a Saturday, in awe of what I was seeing.

  According to my reading material the main concourse of Grand Central Station is a room 470 feet long, 160 feet wide, and 150 feet high. The New York Yankees could have played baseball there.

  I had just gotten off the train on one of the lower track levels and as I entered the station itself I had to stop and stare.

  Since it was Saturday most of the shops—including the famous Oyster Bar on the lower concourse—were closed. Add to that the fact that it was 7:15 a.m. on a Saturday, and I was virtually alone, which probably made the place seem much larger than it really was—if that was possible.

  Getting over my shock and awe I approached one of the ticket windows underneath the schedule boards and asked the clerk, “When is the next train back to California?”

  No, I wasn’t that intimidated, but I did want to get back home as soon as my business was concluded. You see, I never wanted to make this trip in the first place. It is one of my failings that I take my friendships—few that they are—very seriously, and it was an act of friendship that had taken me three thousand miles or more from my home.

  The ticket clerk looked at me and asked, “Did you just get off the train from California?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “and I want to get right back on the next one. You got any objections to that?”

  “Hell, pal,” the clerk said, “that’s up to you. You want to ride back and forth from California to New York like you was going from Brooklyn to Manhattan, that’s your business. Next train leaves at eight-oh-five a.m.”

  “I’ll take a ticket.”

  The ticket that I had been provided with to New York was one way, so it was necessary for me to buy my own ticket back. A further act of friendship on my behalf. I couldn’t really complain about it to my friend, because he was dead.

  I took my ticket, paid for it, and asked, “Where are the lockers?”

  “On this level they’re on the Lexington Avenue side.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Sighing heavily he leaned out a bit and pointed to my left.

  “Thanks, pal. You’ve made the trip worth my while.”

  “Comedian,” he said, and I didn’t correct him. If he wanted to think I was a comedian instead of a private dick, let him. Sometimes I thought the two were one and the same, anyway.

  I walked the length of the concourse until I reached a tunnel which, according to my new friend, led to Lexington Avenue and the lockers I was looking for. The key in my pocket was burning itself a hole there.

  I stopped when I came within sight of the lockers and took a moment to reflect on the circumstances that had brought me to the brink of what was bound to be a monumental discovery—what was in Grand Central locker 246.

  Three years ago I had been the only thing standing between Leo Carstairs and a long stretch in prison. Leo was a born fall guy. Other hoods would call him in on a heist only when they needed someone to throw to the cops. He was already a three-time loser, but I knew that Leo was innocent because at the time of the heist in question he’d been with me. This time the hoods hadn’t even bothered to bring him in on the deal before trying to pin it on him.

  Anyway, to cut it short, I pulled Leo’s bacon out of the fire for him, and he swore eternal gratitude.

  “Leo,” I remember saying, “just do me one favor and stay out of trouble from now on?”

  “Sure thing, Marlowe. You can count on me. From now on I keep a gun taped to the roof of the bread box. They’d never look there.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Leo.”

  “Thanks, shamus,” he’d said, pumping my hand. “You’re aces in my book.”

  I watched him walk away from the Cook County courthouse that day, a spring in his step, and wondered how long it would take him to get himself all jammed up again.

  It took three years.

  Three years was actually a record for Leo Carstairs staying out of trouble. Of course, he could have been involved in lots of things during those three years and simply avoided being caught—or taking the fall for somebody else.

  A week before my trip to New York I was at home in my house in Laurel Canyon trying to avoid a mate in three—my opponent was me—when the phone rang.

  It was Leo and—surprise, surprise—he was in trouble.

  “I did it big this time, Marlowe,” Leo said, without preamble.

  “Leo? Is that you?”

  “Sure it’s me, Marlowe. You didn’t forget me in three years, did you?”

  “Leo, you were supposed to stay out of trouble,” I reminded him.

  “I have, Marlowe, for three years—”

  “And now?”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath that almost blew my eardrum out and said, “I really did it this time, Marlowe.”

  “Leo, where are you?”

  “New York.”

  “What the hell are you doing in New York?”

  “I figured a change of scenery would change my luck.”

  “And did it?”

  “Yeah, from bad to worse.”

  “Tell me about it, Leo.”

  “I ain’t got time, Marlowe. This time they don’t want me to take the fall, they want to kill me.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ve got the stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “I wanna give it back, Marlowe. You gotta help me.”

  “What stuff, Leo?”

  “I can’t . . . talk now, Marlowe. I been in one place for too long as it is. I’ll call you again from someplace else.”

  “Leo, Leo, don’t hang—” I started, but he hung up in my ear.

  I didn’t hear from Leo for three days, and then I really didn’t hear from him, I heard about him.

  He was dead.

  If there was one cop I didn’t automatically take for the bearer of bad news it was Lieutenant Violets McGee—except when he showed up at my front door before breakfast.

  “Lieutenant,” I said, “to what do I owe the pleasure.”

  “Back up, Marlowe,” Violets said, “I’m coming in.”

  “I was just about to invite you.”

  He was alone, so I still didn’t expect real bad news.

  “You remember a weasel named Leo Carstairs?”

  “Leo was okay, Violets. He just needed a break.”

  “Sure, they all need a break,” Violets said. “Heard from him lately?”

  “No,” I lied. It was easy, sort of like falling off a log.

  “Well, he’s a dead weasel now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody snuffed him.”

  “Where?”

  “A bullet in the heart.”

  “No,” I said, “I mean, where did it happen?”

  “Get this,” he said, “New York
City, outside of Grand Central Station. I always wanted to go to New York and see Grand Central Station, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, Yankee Stadium, Joe D.—”

  “Before you take me on a tour of the whole city, tell me what happened? How did you get involved?”

  “I got a call from the New York cops asking me to check up on a peeper named Marlowe. Seems your name and number were in his pocket. They checked you out, found out what you did for a living, and called me.”

  “And?”

  “I told them I’d talk to you,” he said, “and I’ve talked to you. Have a nice day.”

  He started for the door, but I still wanted some information without sounding too nosey about it.

  “Exactly where did they find him, anyway?” I asked. “Grand Central Station is a big place.”

  “Outside somewhere. He was lying right under a mailbox.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None,” Violets said, opening my front door. “You’re in the clear on this, Marlowe. You got three thousand miles in your favor.”

  “It’s nice to be in the clear, Violets.”

  “Yeah,” Violets said, “don’t let it go to your head. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “Sure, Violets,” I said. “You know me.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sourly, “I do for a fact.”

  Two days later the envelope came in the mail. No return address, and my name and address hastily scrawled across the front. I opened it and the key fell out. I picked it up, palmed it, and took the ticket out of the envelope. That was it, one train ticket, and one locker key with the number 246 on it. Both of them from Leo Carstairs, no doubt. The postmark on the envelope was New York City.

  I stared at the ticket—an invitation to trouble for sure—and then at the key.

  Leo had been involved in a heist, and he wanted to give the stuff back, that much I knew for sure. I didn’t know what heist, though, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he’d stashed the booty in a locker in Grand Central, and had sent me the key.