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.
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"You're undercover?" she whispered.

"Yes," I said.

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

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"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."

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"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."

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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.