A 4th helping of notes on a novel in 1940s noir

by John MacBeath Watkins

I woke with an aching head, and found there was a heavily-built character sitting on the bed with me. A stitched-up scar ran up his swarthy face to the missing eye, and his remaining eye was dead, completely devoid of human emotion.

But he was my teddy bear, and I loved him.

"You're undercover?" she whispered.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, you look about as inconspicuous as Herman Cain at a Republican convention."


"The streets were dark with something more than night," Chandler said.

"Yes, you've got some of it on your shoe, and tracked it on the rug."


"Alcohol is like love," Chandler said. "The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine."

"And after the third kiss, I start to puke," I finished for him. "Just like our first date."


She told me every time we said goodby, she died a little. She must have said goodbye once too often, causing blood to leak from a massive head wound. 

I made a note to go with "smell you later" in the future.