Fickle

by Peter Manus

  Okay, end of rules. So who am I? Let me intro myself by identifying a favorite noir, and maybe others will ante up with that as well. So, favorite noir…tough call, but I’m a tough doll. I’ll go with Jean-Patrick Manchette’s The Prone Gunman. Not what I’d call mainstream noir, but so what? Anyway, Manchette’s world is utterly black and truly lit’ry, and for my penny the mix of grim and comic and realistic and stylized and bleak and not-quite-heroic is, well, quintessentially noir. Plus who the HELL can write like JPM? So, anyone out there want to dance?

  Well, I’m out here, Fick-Elle, and I’m into noir and that’s all you require for membership. Signature noir? I’ll throw in Jack Kelly just for snickers and howzabout Line of Sight as a nice tight read, which no one else ID’ed, as far as I can see.

  So, uh, can I be in the club now, fickie? Can I, can I, can I?

  fickel @ January 24 01:09 am

  Fair enough, my newbie Punchinello, no more personal questions from me. Just answer me this, hitman, and seriously for once: Last night you said that Burly-Bear was investigating a murder. What did you mean by that? What murder?

  hitman @ January 24 01:29 am

  RBTL, fick.

  fickel @ January 24 01:35 am

  Read between the lines? That’s all you’re going to give me?

  hitman @ January 24 01:38 am

  Chew on it awhile; you’re a smart girl, ain’tcha?

  fickel @ January 24 01:40 am

  Duly chewing. G’night, blog.

  leo tolstoy @ January 24 03:24 am

  who are you people who make such song and dance of your banalities…?

  fickel @ January 24 06:02 am

  Ummm, do I know you?

  6

  GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT

  36-D @ January 24 07:08 am

  GAWD I cannot believe I am blogging before my morning ciggie-butt. Well, fickel, you’re an incurable insomniac so we know you’ve read it. What’s in the diary?

  fickel @ January 24 08:33 am

  Hi. Just got to work and am pretending to check email before drilling through the S-load of text checking that was on last Friday’s EOD. In other words, I’m going to have to go with “no comment,” at least for now, on posting about the diary.

  Plus, to be quite honest, there’s not much to it but what’s there is, well, not to speak ill of the dead but there’s a whiny “why does life suck for me” quality to it that’s a tad soporific.

  Bottom line: I don’t know how I feel about discussing a dead guy’s personal slam book online.

  36-D @ January 24 09:02 am

  Ohhhhhhhhhhh (pout) but we discuss everything! Some of which is a LOT more personal than some unnamed, dead stranger’s midnight kvetchings.

  fickel @ January 24 09:19 am

  I know, I know. And normally I feel pretty safe and anonymous out here in the cacophony of the internet. But that’s with my own dirt. Somehow this is different.

  hitman @ January 24 11:12 am

  Wow a slut with principles.

  fickel @ January 24 11:57 am

  I think of myself in just those terms. You probably think I’m kidding, too.

  7

  January 24 @ 6:42 pm

  >NEVER TRUST A COP<

  Well, it’s happened. I just learned that I am an “unofficial figure of interest” in connection with the possible murder of Mr. Suicide. This is not a joke, and I think the idea that Burly-Bear is pulling a hoax to explore the lining of my pantyhose is pretty much out of the realm of possibility. It’s Burly-Bear, in fact, who has offered me the friendly advice—completely against protocol—to consult with a lawyer. I am, however, prone to be quite suspicious of that particular amphibious subspecies.

  Any advice much, much, much, much, much appreciated.

  GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT

  i.went.to.harvard @ January 24 06:54 pm

  The cops think what?

  webmaggot @ January 24 06:56 pm

  They think she pushed the guy. Thought you were supposed to be the mensa member, harvard.

  i.went.to.harvard @ January 24 06:59 pm

  Well, I’m either very stupid or smart enough to be DUMBFOUNDED.

  36-D @ January 24 07:00 pm

  fickel, I work for a lawyer who is an absolute ROTTWEILER—do you want him to contact you? I can make it happen NOW, if you give me your celly in a private message he will call you IMMEDIATELY. My lawyer is tough and he has gotten scum out of jail—let’s just say we’re based in Providence and leave it at that. By which I mean is no one is better at crim defense and he is up in Boston a LOT.

  fickel @ January 24 07:03 pm

  Just a sec. I don’t think the cops are at the point where they truly suspect anything. 36-D, thank you for the lawyer offer, but I am seeing a man tonight who also has a high-power attorney, and I think that he will probably insist that I talk with him. Anyway, I’ll let you know.

  proudblacktrannie @ January 24 07:11 pm

  Just leaving for work—and not to belittle the seriousness of your situation, fickel, m’luv—but are you “seeing someone?” Quote from your comment: “I am seeing a man later tonight”???????? Dahling, why not a peep about this before?

  roadrage @ January 24 07:12 pm

  OMG fickel you are shagging some dood who is not me when I am PANTING for you, even knowing that you are a hard-bitten moxie who’s a suspect in a subway kill.

  fickel @ January 24 07:14 pm

  Have no fears, I am high and dry as ever. The man I am getting together with tonight is old (77, although quite attractive in a rugged way) and very married (trophy wife younger than his own kids—meaning she’s 50). I met him through work. My boss put together one of those programs at Harvard’s Mem Hall—that grisly Romanesque structure just past the Yard—designed to showcase our classy little indie publishing op. The program: What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?: The Cultural Significance of Late Period Noir (drew a MEGA-HUGE audience, btw), and since it was my brainchild, I got to root around for some local talent to do the readings and came up with the Colonel. Not that he’s actually a colonel—I just call him that in my head because of the military bearing.

  Anyway, the Colonel was a bit actor for about ten years, back in his twenties. Played the punk in The Big Sleep (not quite a noir to purists, but come on), then had a string of parts as the kid soldier who dies in a bunch of war dramas. Then he went on to publish twenty novels. That’s TWEN. TEE. NOVELS. In short, he’s one of those highly accomplished, colorful, successful figures that no one’s quite heard of, living large just off Route 128.

  So he was incredibly flattered to have been unearthed, and did readings from his books—all hard-boiled police procedural stuff—that went over very well. Apparently the experience got him juiced up to dust off a memoir, one of those “character actors who brushed shoulders with the greats” pieces. I’ve been helping him edit and collect permissions from all the household names we’d like to include. It’s a long-term project (a lot of these household names we’re chasing down could have been the “waxworks” crew from Sunset Blvd. so we are operating through their estates, a slooooooooow process). Anyway, as a result I see a lot of the Colonel. He has a high-priced attorney I’ve laid eyes on in passing at the Colonel’s manor (giant Spanish-style stucco villa situated betwixt a bunch of other stately manors on some undulating country route way off in Concord country).

  In any event, I am sure that the Colonel will insist I consult with his attorney once I unload my problems on him tonight.

  proudblacktrannie @ January 24 07:19 pm

  Good to hear that this is just a sweet old sugar daddy, fickel, because do be assured that by now your personal cop Burly-Bear is ON THIS BLOG lurking and the last thing he wants to read about is some other man getting all up inside you since he is the reason you even know anything about the cops and their dirty thoughts.

  Okay nuff said I gotta new rumba numbah t’night everyone wish me luck kiss kiss all around.

  marleybones @ January 24 07:22 pm


  About the idea of Burly-Bear monitoring the blog, I actually know the tiniest bit about tracing sites on the internet (this is my S.O’s area, so I’m just parroting here) but it would not be easy to do by simply knowing fickel’s name and trolling around to see if she authors a blog. I’m sure the cops know how to monitor internet traffic better than most of us (particularly the feds), and they have de-encryption software but there’s still a limit on what they can and can’t fingerprint online. Bottom line: If Burly-Bear is on this site it is more than likely because someone gave him the web address, and if no one did that then it is more than likely that he is not lurking, at least not yet. Just understand that anything we write may at some point be read by the BPD, if this case stays interesting for some unforeseeable reason. If that’s okay with you, fickel, then blog away.

  fickel @ January 24 07:25 pm

  Thanks, marleybones. I honestly do feel relatively safe out here in all the hubbub. I’m registered anonymously, my address is encrypted, and I don’t broadcast the fact of my blog anywhere but in this great electronic void. Burly-Bear would have to break into the computer I’m on now, or at least my station at work, before he could know we’re chatting. It’s a lot safer than either landline or cell phone communicating—that’s for certain.

  chinkigirl @ January 24 07:27 pm

  You are actually editing a ms? That’s excellent news, fickel. Some “glorified gopher”—you are a full-fledged editor. Plus the man’s a pulp legend. What a coup. Chin chucks to you.

  fickel @ January 24 07:29 pm

  Thanks, but the glorified gopher image is actually accurate. The manuscript is still in fairly rough form, and the Colonel’s agent (who is, in fact, the above-mentioned lawyer) has not submitted it anywhere yet, so I’m doing a lot more fact-checking and copyright-permission-seeking than actual editing. It’s all freelance, just between me and the Colonel (and at $25/hour, kind of like babysitting money). Oh, and his novels, while good, are, like I said, all police procedurals set in the late fifties and sixties—they all merge together in your head after you’ve read a couple. The “noir connection” was slim, I have to admit. But what a voice, and he reads like a dream—Robert Mitchum, if you close your eyes.

  i.went.to.harvard @ January 24 07:41 pm

  Hey, folks, could we get back to topic? Much as fickel is trying to be cool with this, it sounds bleeping serious to me. fickel, can you try to tell us how you handled it when the Burly Man told you that at least some of the cops suspect you of killing a guy?

  36-D @ January 24 07:43 pm

  OMG could you please NOT put it that way? fickel is not a “suspect.” A couple of cops just haven’t concluded that the death was a suicide for reasons that involve fickel.

  webmaggot @ January 24 07:44 pm

  Hate to bust it to you, lady, but you didn’t make it sound much better.

  fickel @ January 24 07:46 pm

  I don’t care how it’s phrased, and, to answer your question, i.went.to.harvard, I am alternatively scared silly and damned angry about it. And yes, it was Burly-Bear who tipped me off, which was somewhat risky for him.

  proudblacktrannie @ January 24 07:47 pm

  oh BLOODY HELL, I am still ON I am going to be SO SO LATE FOR WORK. Details of aforementioned conversation with Mr. Cop-Cop, fickel, and quickly, if you please????

  fickel @ January 24 07:48 pm

  Well, my heart’s not in it, but here goes:

  Setting: pebbled stoop of shabby walk-up, off-off Harvard Square (i.e., my place)

  Time: early evening. Dark, though, and temperature doing that 6:00 drop-off from damp and chilly to damned cold.

  Me: Just home from fetching dinner on Mass Ave (pancit skinny noodles: yummy) and attempting to collect mail. I’m wearing sweatpants (and no, not designer sweats, which would have been really embarrassing), hopelessly tattered sneakers (baby toe—clad in Wicked-Witch-of-the-East-red-and-white-striped socks—actually peeking through the canvas), and an old fisherman’s knit sweater that has so gone to pills that it basically looks like a wool explosion, freeze-framed in early boom.

  Him: TRÈS off-duty: dingy shirt with tails dangling out below red-to-pink frayed sweatshirt, big jeans, shit-kickers, mac—somehow none of this disguises the fact that he’s in animal-solid shape. Must have cruised up while I was telling the mailbox how to ream itself. I turn and there he is, his trusty Mustang idling at the hydrant. (Side bitch: why do cops always let their vehicles sit there idling for hours? Are they trying to lure environmentalists in for a gratuitous rubber hosing?) I notice he’s decided to start growing some gingery facial hair. Is that for me, I wonder with a faint stirring inside?

  Burly-Bear: Oh, hell, sorry, did I scare you?

  Me: (recovering with a breathy laugh) Actually, I was hoping you were my landlord, in which case I’d have been the scary one.

  Burly-Bear: Help you with any of that?

  Me: (hipping my mailbox closed). I’m good. Is something going on with…the guy? (I actually hesitate to consider whether it would be improper to call him Mr. Suicide.)

  Burly-Bear: Actually, there is something going on, to tell you the truth.

  Me: (staring at him for a long second) Well?

  Burly-Bear: Look, this is kind of touchy. Think you might want to be sitting.

  Me: (knowing enough to take him seriously, but damned if he’d be infiltrating my apartment…yet. I sink down on the top step of my stoop, my eyes on his) I’m sitting.

  Burly-Bear: (hesitating, then sitting on the stoop, too) Take this in stride, okay?

  Me: I’ll see what I can do.

  Burly-Bear: Couple guys in homicide are convinced that it wasn’t a suicide. Got a witness who’s pretty insistent. Plus there’s the vic’s profile: lifestyle, finances, lack of note or anything. That and your name starting with “E” and all (shrug, hand circling in the air)…adds up.

  Me: I don’t get it. Adds up to what?

  Burly-Bear: Witness says the guy was arguing with a girl on the platform. Says it got physical just as the train was coming in.

  Me: So what happened? (Then getting it) They think I was arguing with him? (The second penny drops) They think I pushed him? But why? (Then, finally able to think, I snap a finger and point at him.) But why would I stay? If I’d pushed him, wouldn’t I have run? I mean, everyone else did. It was like a bloody fifty-yard dash out of there, stairs and all.

  Burly-Bear: (nodding sympathetically, but it registers somewhere deep in my head that he’s watching me in his coppish way) Couple-a guys think maybe you went into temporary shock. Like you realized what you’d done and went paralyzed. It’s happened in other cases.

  Me: (staring at him) You sound like you’re one of those “couple-a guys.”

  Burly-Bear: (flushing) What the hell you think I’m doin’ here?

  Me: (realizing that he might be very much on duty, stretching his good-cop act to the max, but what good would it do me to let on that I might be thinking that?) Sorry. Really. I can’t help being angry, though. Next time I’m tempted to act like a decent citizen and lift a finger to help the police, let alone act like a decent human being and be a little impacted by a stranger’s death, remind me not to, would you? Oh, and next time one of your fellow dicks is bellyaching about how no one wants to “get involved,” remind him of me.

  Burly-Bear: Lookit, I’m with you. Way I see it, anyone shoved that guy would have been history. Even if they’d done it half by accident and went into shock, a pusher would have recovered enough to stumble along with the crowd. You staying put—in my book, that’s proof of your innocence. (Getting out a pack of Marlboros, he knocks one free and offers it.)

  Me: (shaking my head vaguely as he lights up for himself) Why would other cops think differently, though? I mean, how could they think something so totally off?

  Burly-Bear: (blowing smoke before answering) Mostly it’s the coincidences. You on the platform, you in the guy’s flickr.

  Me: But there must be hundreds of pictures i
n his flickr. Hundreds of anonymous people who live in Boston.

  Burly-Bear: (his tone not quite spontaneous as he taps some ash) How would you know that?

  Me: (disgusted) Everyone who has a flickr account loads a thousand snaps in the first month. Thing’s addicting.

  Burly-Bear: You got an account yourself?

  Me: You don’t need an account to get the gist of it. Everyone ID’s their “friends” and then they look at one another’s photos and go, “Nice shots, dude, you’re a real artist.” Just tool around on it for fifteen minutes and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.

  Burly-Bear: I’ll do that. You, uh, read the guy’s diary?

  Me: I read some of it, and the picture it painted for me was of depression, if you’ll excuse my lack of compassion. I could easily accept that the man who wrote those “entries,” if you want to call them that, could live out his natural life and function like a normal person by all outward appearances. Heck, I could even accept that the guy who wrote that thing was a normal person. But, at the same time, the emotional state of the man who wrote that diary is not at all inconsistent with jumping in front of a train. (I pause, then go on less adamantly when Burly-Bear doesn’t respond.) Besides, E couldn’t possibly be me. Do I come across as some sexed-up femme fatale?

  Burly-Bear: You got (hand gesture) your own thing going on. (I feel myself redden and try to ignore it.) Anyway, the diary’s being analyzed by a shrink. In the meantime, ain’t you found anything in it that could alibi you?

  Me: In what way?

  Burly-Bear: You know, some event he writes about that happened when you was in California visiting your grandmother.

  Me: (shrugging helplessly) Until this little heart-to-heart, I didn’t quite get that you—the police—were thinking about me as a black widow who kills her boyfriends with passing light rail trains. Besides, everything I’ve read in the diary is introspective—vignettes from a failed relationship. It’s all so oneiric, you know?