G’ Labor Day Monday!
Hope all’s tremendous! As of late, I’ve experimented with literary noir, a crime-fiction subgenre which features a tragically flawed protagonist and a right-versus-wrong grey area. The following’s a scene I’ve written. Hopefully this is something folk wouldn’t mind reading in expanded form (..lol)…
Phil
Dilston slipped into an alleyway and behind a dumpster and then peered out at 7th Avenue. In both directions, taxi cabs and suited, briefcase-carrying people stormed past. He looked upward at an eighth-floor window, and a silhouette ambled by. He shook his head.
“You just couldn’t resist.”
Dilston leapt upward, grabbed a fire escape ladder, and drew it down far enough to hop upon it and then climbed up to a staircase. Flight-after-fight, he dashed up the escape, and before long, reached the final landing and—
“That’s far enough,” a voice above said. He peered up a flight and saw a brunette leaning out a window with a pistol aimed.
Dilston raised his hands. “Mrs. Baker, I presume.”
“You creep into an alleyway, climb seven-and-a-half floors up a fire escape, and have a firearm pointed at your forehead and yet you still ‘presume’?”
He shrugged. “Some call it ‘life-on-the-edge’… I call it ‘Tuesday’?”
“Prove it,” she said and cocked the gun.
He nodded. “Okay.” He gestured toward the window. “Can I come in?”
She paused, studying him, and then lowered the gun and nodded, and he started up the stairs.
“But anyone who uses this entrance must take two bullets—one in both knees,” she said, and a half-dozen steps away, he halted.
“7117,” she said, ducked inside.
A breeze blew, and Dilston watched a window curtain flutter a moment and then smiled, tip his wide-brim hat, and ambled down the escape. He ambled up the alleyway to 7th Avenue, slipped amid hurried pedestrians, and followed a crowd up a block to a building front lined with flags. He then dashed past a bellman, through a revolving door, and across a lobby to a desk where he smiled at an attendant.
“Good afternoon,” Dilston said.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Um, okay—you may have to suspend disbelief, but the person I’m here to see—”
“We’ll buzz you into the elevator bank, sir.”
Dilston’s eyebrows pinched, and he scratched his head.
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.” He plodded a half-dozen steps, halted, and turned. “But how did you—?”
“An eighth-floor tenant phoned us. She said don’t phone the police—the man on the alleyway fire escape has come to see me.”
He forced a smile, tipped his hat. “Much appreciated.” He ambled to a glass double-door, heard a buzz, and opened a door and then walked to an elevator and pressed a button, hoping he’d hear the glass door close behind him before long. However, he’d heard footsteps clack toward him and stop just over his shoulder, and after a silent moment, a bell dinged, and an elevated door opened. Dilston entered and stood in a back corner, eyes cast downward, and only just saw legs of a man who entered and stood close to the closing elevator doors. He sighed, believing what he’d experienced in the lobby was over but when the man before him glanced over his shoulder at him and giggled, Dilston balled a fist. Before long however, the elevator stopped on sixth floor, and the man strolled out, and Dilston stepped to elevator buttons and mashed ‘Close Doors’ before he could heard the man giggle again. Soon after nonetheless, he reached the eighth-floor, stepped off the elevator, and followed room number signage toward 7117. A moment later he found the room, but the door was ajar. He unholstered a revolver, cocked it, and, bit-by-bit, opened the door. A floral-scented, tidy but empty apartment laid before him.
“Who’s that for?” a voice said behind him.
He spun, whipping the gun in the opposite direction, aiming it at a brunette holding a container brimming with ice.
“For you,” he said. “I like my drink room-temperature.”
“Well, I like my room,” she said and glimpsed over his shoulder. “So, if you’d be so kind.”
He stared at her a moment and then moved the revolver away and stepped aside, and she ambled passed him, inside the apartment, and to a small table lined with alcohol bottles and sat the ice bucket on it.
“Have a seat, detective,” she said.
Dilston glanced down the hallway in both directions, shut the door, bolted it, and holstered the gun and then ambled inside a few paces.
“Don’t you know us country folk don’t lock our doors?” she said.
“If that’s true, you’re lucky to be alive.”
She lifted her blouse only enough to expose a holstered pistol. “I don’t call this luck.”
“Whatever you call it, after you take the stand Monday, you’ll need a lot more.”
She chuckled. “I’ll take my chances. Drink?” She watched him shake his head, shrugged, and poured herself a glass and then strolled to a sofa and sat.
“Mrs. Baker, how did you—?”
“If you’re going to interrogate me, I prefer you do it in my face, not in my foyer.”
He removed his hat, walked to the sofa, and sat.
“And how did I know what? That you were the law? Because I know how the law smells.” She sipped her drink and then leaned toward him and sniffed. “Smells like Saint Arch, an ex-wife’s birthday present.”
He eyes widened, shook his head.
“Christmas present?”
He shook it again.
“Anniversary??”
“No, birthday was correct, but it was an ex-girlfriend. I’ve never been married. Nonetheless, that was impressive. You’re the first complete stranger to guess my cologne based on one whiff.”
She shrugged. “Worked my way through college at a department store. This city only carries so much men’s cologne.”
“So long as this city doesn’t carry a charge for perjury you should be able to sleep tonight.”
“I’ll sleep tonight anyway.”
“You’d sleep better in witness protection.”
“I already showed you my witness protection. Twice.”
He sighed, rubbed his eyes. “I think I’ll have that drink.”
She nodded, ambled to the small table, and poured him a bourbon and then brought it to him and sat. “And no offense, but why do you care, detective. You all but know me.”
“Because I hate to see a lady with her whole live ahead of her throw it away.” He lifted his drink a moment and then drank, and she chuckled.
“But I’m thirty-nine, detective.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means you should brush up on your improvisational skills.” She stood, ambled to a window, and peered out. “I think you care because either, a.), you knew I’d failed to elaborate twice on the witness stand already, and you want me to stay out of prison long enough for me to help you, or b.), you believe I’m now a target, and you want me to stay alive long enough for me to help you.” She sipped a drink and turned toward him. “So detective, which is it?”
He lifted the glass to his mouth, finished it, and nodded. “Not bad at all.”
“My reasoning skills?”
“No—the bourbon.” He pointed at the small table. “May I?”
She rolled her eyes, nodded, and he strolled the table a poured a glass. “As for you, the correct answer is c.)—both a.) and b.). I want you out of prison and alive; and yes—I do believe you can help me. So long as you don’t fail to elaborate with me, too.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Yeah? Let’s test it: On the stand, you testified you’d left The Pesky Parrot at one-fifteen a.m. and then drove straight home.”
“Yes.”
“But if the Parrot’s on Thirty-fourth Street and home is on Sixth, even if each traffic signal was green, it’d take you at least twenty minutes.”
“Sure.”
“So, how is it I’d watched you—with my own two eyes—in Reign City Park for fifteen of those minutes and an off-duty guard witness you’d arrived home at the exact time you’d testified?”
She chuckled. “That night at the park, you’d tailed me.”
“Sometimes, the only truth I can trust is mine.”
She smiled and took his glass. “You know, I really thought you and I were headed someplace.” She walked to the table, placed both glasses on it upside down.
“For another glass of that bourbon, I’ll drive.”
She shook her head. “You’re on duty.”
“Given I left the force and am private, I’m on my own time.”
“Are you ever serious, Dilston? Is this all a big game to you?”
“More like a long, drawn-out riddle.”
“Give me two reasons why?”
He nodded. “First, because the lobby attendant who was downstairs that night’s statement was a lie.”
She stepped toward me. “You just said an off-duty saw me.”
“I believe he’d seen someone, not you particularly.”
“Why do you think the attendant lied.”
“Her reaction the question ‘Did she see you walk in’ at the time you’d claimed seemed rehearsed.”
She folded her arms. “And the second reason??”
“The second is because a moment ago, you’d said my name.”
“So?”
“So,” he said and peered at her. “I hadn’t told you it.”
She gnashed her teeth.
“Do you think it’s time to yell for the armed men listening behind your closed bedroom door to come out or are they awaiting a secrete knock?”
She balled her fists, marched to the entry door, and held it open, and he put his hat on, strolled out the door into the hallway, and turned.
“Does this mean you’re not going to help me with my Reign City Park dilemma?”
She shook her head. “Your life’s one big conundrum.”
“Well, one long one.” He stepped closer to her. “Come on, not even a hint? And you don’t have to worry about your party in the other room, well, no unless your bugged.”
She grinded her teeth, sighed, and leaned toward him, and he tilted an ear toward her. “Well, since you like conundrums,” she said. “Here’s one for you: A cowboy rides into town on Wednesday, stays three days, and then leaves on Wednesday. How did he do it?”
“What? I thought you were going to help me with Reign City Park.”
“I just did.” She slapped the door shut, bolted it, and placed upon her forehead. After a moment, she straightened her hair and clothes and then sauntered to the small table, poured a drink, and carried it to the sofa where she sat. She took a sip. “He’s gone. You can come out now.” A moment passed, and afterward, down a narrow corridor, a door opened, and footsteps approached. Soon, three suited men marched into the room. Two went the entry door, opened it, and glanced in both directions.
“I said, ‘He’s gone’,” she said.
Two men at the open door signaled to a third man who walked near the woman.
“What was all dialogue near the door just before he left?”
She shrugged. “He was just begging for more information.”
“That you didn’t give, correct?”
“What do you think?” she said and she sipped her drink.
“I think you can’t be trusted.”
She smiled, shook her head.
“No matter. He’s girlfriend’s back, singing at the Chateau.”
“So?” He unholstered a gun, clicked the safety, and studied its sliver. “So, when I get done, he’ll be begging for more than information.”