This is a work in progress, though I’m really not sure where I’m going with it. As a basic idea, I thought it was kind of funny, but I’m not sure how well that translated into something concrete.
The Case of the Crimson Herring
by Zach Sands
The splintered light of morning made an impressive entrance into the otherwise featureless room. The imposing shadow on the office wall wore an enormous fedora, slouched like the figure beneath it. The walls themselves were a cancerous shade of nicotine. The whiskey on his desk would sometimes catch the light, cast it in a sepia tone and throw it back in his stubbled face. Fast asleep, he showed little indication of being alive. His shallow breaths were haunted by bottom shelf booze and stale cigarettes. The haze in his mind only thickened the air in his throat. It lingered like an unwelcome guest or the hangover that he was about to meet. Something in his sleep stirred him awake to find the world. It was exactly as he left it the night before, except now the heavy wrinkles in his clothes seemed to mirror the lines in his weathered face.
As his eyes took focus, first one, then the other, he squinted to read the backward letters on the frosted window of the office door. JIMMY SLANT, P.I. He wondered how much longer he could afford to keep his name on display. It was repeated in various foms in triplicate scattered across his desk, most of which were bills, drawn to the undertow in a lifeless sea of paper. The bottle and the telephone served as the lighthouse and the citadel. They kept an eye on the tide, which sometimes sent papers adrift under the unwavering urgency of the ceiling fan.
Jimmy picked up the receiver to make sure it still worked. It hadn’t rung in weeks. The only case he had wasn’t really a case. He figured it out after the first couple of months, but he never told Ms. Norwell what he knew. Her husband was indeed alive and well, though missing for three and a half years now, living in a trailer park in Florida. She got the life insurance and he got a few bad habits in Tallahassee. She had hired Jimmy to find him after he never came home from work. He had called and said he was going be pulling a late night at the office, and then she never saw him again. It didn’t take much legwork to track him down – just about a dozen phone calls and a trip to Florida. Jimmy wanted to confirm his suspicions and check out the dog tracks. Ms. Norwell covered all of his expenses, and he figured that with the payoff of that policy, she could afford to help keep him afloat for a little while longer.
Jimmy had a stainless steel snubnose .38 special in the top drawer of his desk. He liked the way it felt in his hand, somehow making room temperature always feel cold at first. He popped open the cylinder and spun it around, clean as the day he bought it. When it caught the light, it shined like the eyes of God. With a snap and a click, he pulled the gun on the closed door just as he had done a thousand times before. Jimmy had never fired this gun. He didn’t even own any bullets.
A thin silhouette took shape in the door frame. He put the gun back in the desk before the first knock had landed. Before he shut the drawer, he noticed that his car keys weren’t where he usually kept them.
“Yeah,” he grumbled to the figure beyond the door. His voice was like dirt. The first words of the morning usually were. “Door’s open.” He had read enough detective novels to know that these were always the moments that a dame was bound to walk in, looking for somebody to keep her safe. Jimmy straightened his hair and composed himself as the doorknob gently turned.
It was the janitor. He had a face like a well-worn leather shoe. He was there to empty the wastebasket. He was startled to see Jimmy sitting at his desk.
“You’re here early,” the old man said with smile that seemed to be holding a vote between teeth and no teeth. It looked like no teeth held the majority. Jimmy turned to face the ancient metal clock that stated the time. Six thirty-seven.
“You’re a hard worker, Mr. Slant.” His nametag said Eddie. He had to use both hands to lift the wastebasket.
“Are you new here?”
“No, sir. I’ve been working here for twenty-seven years.”
“Oh.”
“You haven’t by any chance seen some keys laying around here, have you?”
“No, I don’t believe I have.”
“Are you cracking wise with me, mister?”
His eyes went to the mess of papers on his desk. “You think they might be under there somewhere?”
“I’m a detective. Things don’t just hide right under my nose like that.”
“No, I suppose they don’t.”
As soon as the janitor had left, Jimmy shifted some papers around, inadvertently disposing a few to the whims of the ceiling fan. He crawled under the desk to retrieve them. His keys weren’t under there either. His face was practically touching the floor when the door swung open. All he could see was legs.
“Hello?” she asked. Her voice was like candy and smoke. “Is there anyone here?”
Jimmy emerged from beneath the desk like a deep sea diver with vertigo. The air was heavy asnd the room began to spin. The papers were caught in a tropical storm. The doorway framed her like a Botticelli. She was still all legs. By the time he found her face, he had already forgotten what day it was. This girl was trouble, that much was certain.
“Mr. Slant. I’m Barbara. Barbara Fish.” Her perfume danced with the staleness in the room. It smelled like coconuts in a wet cardboard box. Jimmy didn’t know a Barbara Fish, but dames like this were like backgammon – complicated, with rules that never seemed to make a bit of sense.
“What are you here for, Mrs. Fish?”
“Actually, it’s Miss Fish.” She had a smile that could cut glass, even glass made out of diamonds. She chose her words like a fine dessert in a classy restaurant. “I need you to help me.”
“Miss Fish.” He paused to light a cigarette – his words smouldered from his dry lips. “I’m not to here to help anybody.”
Her eyes went to the bottle. “You’re just here to help yourself, is that it?” She had him all figured out, like a crossword puzzle where the only word is obvious.
“Just like everybody else.” Jimmy poured himself a drink into a dirty coffee mug. World’s Greatest Private Detective. The sad truth was that he had it made it himself. It cost twelve dollars.
He took a long drag off the crooked cigarette, then chased it with some whiskey. It was like battery acid and bug spray.
She leaned in over the cluttered desk.“What if I said that I’m here to help you?”
Jimmy sipped the whiskey.
“I’m looking for something Mr. Slant.” Her movements were precise, almost invisible. “And I need you to help me find it.”
“Why me?” Jimmy set his drink on letter from Columbia House. He still had six more CDs to buy this year at regular price.
“I heard you’re the best.” Her words were like jazz. “I also hear you take coupons.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy, lady,” he said as his face found a shadow in the room. “Those coupons expired years ago. I was a different person then.”
She pointed away from him. “That’s your name on the door, isn’t it?”
She had him there. There were only two Jimmy Slants in the phone book, and the other one was a pork inspector.
“What’s the job?” He leaned forward as he spoke. Even his voice seemed to squint.
“Meet me at this address at midnight.” She scribbled on the back of an Arby’s napkin. “Make sure no one follows you.”
With that, she was gone, like a dream lost to consciousness, leaving Jimmy alone once again in his little world. On the back of the napkin was an address that sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it – somewhere on the northwest side of town.
The buses didn’t run that late. He would have to find his keys.
zach–
first of all, well done. really enjoyed this, and i think you should keep going with it if you feel up to it. didn’t need to know you’re into movies to see the film noir influence.
also think it’s a nice thing how you’re actively playing with a cliche we all know, recognizing it, and turning it somewhat on it’s head. you use many of the familiar tropes, but you use them while being aware that they are, in fact, familiar tropes.
when a story is already at a point where the fundamentals are solid–like yours most certainly is–i tend to then look at things like the narration and the use of the actual language. in this case, i think your narration is apt, but he/she should be even stronger and more opinionated. clearly he/she knows Jimmy isn’t much of a detective, but i don’t get the sense that he/she really cares either way. think about it this way: if you’re telling a friend a story, you might be ambivalent about it but you certainly won’t be apathetic about whatever you’re telling him–it wouldn’t make sense to be telling the story if you were. personally, i think the same should be true for a narrator.
in fact, to this end, as a suggestion of how to further play with the themes in these sorts of stories, have you considered trying to write it with a first-person narrator? aren’t these always told from the detective’s perspective. if it’s Jimmy who’s telling the story, his thoughts at his ineptness might be really interesting to explore (does he accept it? does he fight it? does he even know it?). if you did indeed do this, some of the cliche metaphor (not to mention, some of the liberties you take in carrying them) would not only seem even more fitting, but they would be more farcical–if that is, in fact, what you’re going for.
either way, like i said, well done. if you do end up writing this one out a bit, i hope you’ll think to post it–i’d love to read it.
Hi Zach.
I agree with Mr. Jayhat when he says that you might want to consider telling this story in the first person. These sort of detective stories are often in first person I think, and, if you want to do a spoof, the first person narration makes the whole thing a little spoofier in my opinion.
As far as I know, the narrative style where everything is “like” something else is pretty common for these noir stories. I think you did a great job of that. I personally think that it would be funny to see him struggle at some point to come up with a simile and have it fall flat.