Noir Story

 Chapter One

"Hand over the footage, Smitty."

"Excuse me?"

"Give me the film!"

Detective Weiss was losing his patience. He'd

grilled his suspect 'til he was toast. He was

getting nowhere fast. Smith was a yegg that

was beginning to crack. 

"There's been a disturbance in the force."

"Whaaa..?? What are you talking about?"

"The film will show you nothing. From that,

you'll have to draw your own conclusions."

Smith took off a shoe and pulled a disc out

of its heel.

"This is what you want, although, you're not

going to like it."

"Fair enough. So, why did you take so long 

to cough it up?"

"It wasn't long...it was just enough time."

"What were you holding me back for?"

"For reality to catch up."

None of it made any sense. But at least, Weiss

had the disc...the information he hoped would

be on it. Smith would be held as a material 

witness. Weiss would have steak tonight...Smith

a happy meal from McDonalds. 

Chapter Two

Weiss was eating a cramburger at the 

local Hatchery when a guy he knew

approached him looking rather nervous.

Weiss nodded and gestured towards the

empty seat next to him. 

"Weiss, they're looking for you...watch out...

that's all I had to tell you."

"Hey, when Magellan first circumambulated 

the globe, do you think he was worried?"

"Maybe." 

The man scuttled out of the diner. Weiss

thought he looked thinner than when he

had last seen him. 

He wasn't in a hurry...the dominos should 

start falling any now time. He drained his 

stein of Clear Perception malt liquor, 

and headed to the men's room. As he was 

voting for President, he contemplated his 

plans.  As he tripped the handle on the 

ballot bowl, he felt a measure of pride

that he had participated in Democracy.

Chapter Three

Weiss was a Buddhist, but he didn't

advertise it. He'd killed a few men, but

he felt they were better off dead. 

He wanted this case to last a while so 

he could get material for a book he 

was writing. The case had everything;

a beautiful heiress, greedy relatives, 

connections to organized crime. In fact,

the case seemed like a cliche of all the

noir movies he'd seen. Who killed Frank?

Where were the diamonds? Had the 

thieves really taken a submarine to 

Argentina?

The only thing he could be sure of was

that he found himself in the middle of a 

grand tamasha...a magilla of high

strangeness. 

He took out the pint of Southern Comfort 

from his desk drawer and lit a joint. This

was going to take some good old 

contemplation. He knew there was a 

pattern he had yet to see...there always 

was. Usually it turned out to be pedestrian. 

Criminals were motivated by the same things

as everyone else and most were just as

uninteresting as the office salaryman. Dillinger

was shot outside of a movie theatre. 

He would use the Colleney brothers on this one...

good investigative journalists that liked to play

detective. Give them a shot at a story and they

went feral. They tended to sensationalize, but

Weiss knew the shock effect of some of their 

stories could beat the bushes and flush out his 

game. A lie, or, "exaggeration" could be as

effective as the truth in making the players 

nervous. When they're nervous, they make 

mistakes...it's as simple as that. It had worked

so many times before. He'd studied Sun Tzu.

Deception, misdirection, prevarication were all

tools he was adept with.

He'd planted a story on page three of the 

Times. He knew his target was scanning the 

papers for any clues that his plot had been

discovered. Reading the article was sure to 

stir him up.

Chapter Four

Weiss was driving down Santa Monica, his 

radio tuned to an Oldies station, top down,

high as a kite, feeling pleased with himself. 

The machine was in motion and the clock

was ticking.

He turned the corner onto Benito Boulevard.

A Mercedes came out of nowhere and cut him

off. He knew what was coming, so, he jumped

out of his Dodge Dart and ran as fast as he 

could to the nearest door that looked open.

Bullets whizzed by him as he ran into an 

apartment building. The Mercedes took off.

When he got back to his Dart, a tire had been

shot out. He called Triple A, and his friend, 

Johnson, answered. 

"What's it this time, Weiss, somebody run you

into a ditch again?"

"Maybe. Bring the tow truck."

Weiss got off the phone, left his car, and walked 

down to a coffee shop. He ordered chicken fried

steak and black coffee. The adrenaline coursing

through his veins added nicely to the drugs 

already there. That was a close one, but it meant 

that his plan was already having an effect. He

couldn't go back to his office or apartment now.

He'd have to stay in his safe house. Luckily, it had

already been prepared. He took a taxi there.

It was a small place, one window looking onto

an alley. It was in the middle of the tenderloin

district. Weiss followed the wisdom of Burroughs

and Poe: if you want to hide something, place it

in plain view. He even had developed a persona

for himself as the person living there: different

clothes, different name, and he knew his neighbors.

He was a different person entirely when he was 

there...he played a role. If he stayed there too long,

the role would tend to take over and he would begin

to forget who Weiss was, so, he had to be careful.

It was perfect camouflage, but it was tricky. He had

a few contacts that only knew him by this persona:

Bill Smith. Weiss kept it that way. What he had to

do now was get them to investigate what was

happening to Weiss, not Bill Smith, so he could

have impartial observers. It was always important

to have eyes that were not involved so they couldn't

be swayed in one direction or another...bribed,

coerced, ect.. People's only loyalty seemed to be

money.

Chapter Five

He met Thorn at Mom's restaurant. Thornvold

Arnquist was a forensics professor at NYU.

He knew his friend, Bill Smith, as a rather

eccentric character, often away, intelligent

and amusing with a sometimes strange curiosity

about odd things. They shared an interest in

the Decadents, primarily DeQuincy  and 

Baudelaire. Thorn was almost his Watson, 

except he was mostly unaware of his purpose

in their relationship. Weiss wasn't a sociopath,

and he considered Thorn to be a good friend.

"What is it, Bill? You seem a little agitated today."

"Sorry, I'm feeling not quite myself...more 

Cagneyish...Bogyesque."

"Too many of those movies?"

"Maybe....you know I fancy myself as somebody

that can figure out puzzles."

Bill took out a handkerchief from his pocket and

opened it.

"Can you find out what make and model gun

shot this? And where such guns are commonly 

sold would also be helpful "

"Where did you find it?"

"Funny....there was some shooting last night, 

and when I walked out this morning I noticed 

it on the sidewalk."

"Strange. Sure, I can find out something. Did

you see any of the Finals?"

"Yeah. It was some great basketball. They're

still arguing about whose dick is bigger. I guess

that's all you have left to worry about if you have

a ka-jillion dollars. Come over tonight and I'll do 

a souffle."

"You don't have to siffle twice."

He left Thorn and went back to his keep. When

he opened the door, there was a a manila

envelope that had been slid into the entrance. 

Chapter Six

It started to rain. Bill/Weiss looked out the one

window of his den. He always liked the rain.

It seemed to quiet things...dampen the 

enthusiasm. 

The envelope sat on the desk in front of him.

No marks on it. It could be very bad if whatever 

inside shows him they know he's Weiss and not

Bill. He prepared himself for an interesting 

moment by pouring himself a stiff glass of port

and filling his pipe. He found he could usually

see patterns more clearly when he was a bit 

to the left of himself. He agreed with Stevens

that the "eccentric was the basis of design."

He opened it. Inside he found a lipstick, a photo

that had been folded and was at least a few

decades old, and the Book of Revelations. The 

latter surprised him. Everyone's talking about

revelations these days, but no one seems to be

doing anything about them. This could just be a

new ruse of the Jehovah's Witnesses, but the lip

gloss put that in doubt.

He examined the material more closely. The 

lipstick was called "Tropical Mango". The book

from the Bible had been torn from a King James

version. The photo showed two people, and a 

third standing behind them, but you couldn't see 

that face. It was an old color photo and the 

colors had faded to a sepia. The photo was 

taken in a square, and the vague buildings 

could have been in any  city of Europe, 

Montreal, San Paulo. There was

only a number on back: 1953.

This was no good. He didn't know what he was 

looking at...he didn't know who sent it, and he 

couldn't be sure it wasn't sent by his enemies. 

But, why would his enemies have sent it? If 

they knew this place was his, it's likely he 

would be dead already. But that didn't 

explain the  serendipity. He slept on it.

Chapter Seven

Weiss listened to "You're Lost Little Girl'

by The Doors as he sipped his matte.

Someone had sent the envelope and was

trying to help him, he believed, but why

couldn't whomever just be straightforward

and tell him what's what? Why the mystery?

Wasn't life itself incomprehensible enough?

Like that line in "Magnificent Seven" when

Eli Wallach says: "When you have to shoot,

don't talk, shoot!" Revelations, a lipstick, and

a photo. Great. Maybe whomever sent it 

thought Weiss was smarter than he was. 

He put the envelope at the back of a drawer

in his filing cabinet. 

He went out, got on his Vespa, and scooted

off. He had an idea. He went to the Super and

got some bananas, chocolate, and a pint of

Ancient Age. He went to the park and brown 

bagged the liquor while his mind drifted. The 

envelope had jacked up his confusion. When

that happened, he knew that soon he was in

for a brain storm. Then, it came to him! The

book of Revelation had been a one-off, a joke!

The lipstick was important because it related 

to the woman in the photo!. He zipped back to 

his lair and got on his computer. He researched

the lipstick. He found out that this brand got it's

popularity from Betty Grable in the late forties.

He knew then he had to fly down to Rio to follow

the trail. He ordered out for momos. He still had 

some of Hector's "Face of the Sun", Tibetan hot

sauce. "Hector's Revenge" was long gone.

Chapter Eight

"I'm here to see a man about a lipstick."

Weiss had rehearsed this line over and over,

trying to come up with something different. 

But, it was the truth and he had to say it.

The shop in Rio was ancient. The old man 

there seemed a part of the decor. He spoke

plenty of English, which made things easy.

"A lipstick, you say? What lipstick?"

Weiss showed him the tube. The man 

studied it slowly and carefully, as if he

was holding something from another planet.

"Tropical Mango? Why didn't you say so?

Oh, Helen!" he shouted for his wife. 

A woman came out from the back. She looked

much his senior. 

"Look, Helen, Tropical Mango! And it looks like

the same tube as the ones you used to buy!"

Helen looked at the tube. "Yes." Then she left

to the back of the shop. 

"Where did you get this? They don't make this

brand anymore."

"New York City. Ever been there?"

"Yes, my wife and I visited there long ago....

sometime in the fifties. Helen and I were

robbed there....in the park. They took her 

hand bag for one thing. Let me look at the 

lipstick again....Yes! See? It looks like 

someone had been chewing on the tube! 

That's something Helen always did! This

could be hers!"

"Great...well, she can have it back. Does she

have any teeth left?"

"Only the strong ones...but she'll be happy to

be reunited!"

"Fine. So, why is this lipstick so special?"

"I suppose because it was Betty Grable's

favorite. She was an idol among the ladies

back then, you know."

"So, what does this have to do with the Nazis?"

"Really? You weren't aware that Grable was a

sympathizer? Lots of those Hollywood types 

were. It's the same as you see today in 

America; rich spoiled useless actors cozy with 

power. They've always been slaves of the 

highest bidder. They didn't come down to Rio

solely because it was a hedonistic paradise.

They had certain...principles too, if you can call

them that."

"What about this photo?"

Weiss shows him the snapshot. The old man goes

into his puzzled mode. 

"Could be from around here. The architecture is

familiar. I don't know. Wait a moment."

The old man went to a desk and opened a drawer,

pulled out  a file folder. 

"I've seen photos like that before...faded over the

years....like these. I think it was the kind of paper

they used in those days."

The file had quite a few photos of the same era, 

with the same sepia quality. 

"Can I borrow these for a couple of days? I'm 

staying at the Colonnade."

"Alright, young man, but, don't forget."

"Forget what?"

Chapter Nine

Weiss got back to his hotel with the folder.

In his room was a box with a ribbon on it.

In it was a severed middle finger. This gave 

new meaning to the term: "double entendre".

Weiss liked the joke, but the finger made him 

worried. How was he going to find one person

in Rio with a recently severed finger? He was 

sure that the person, if he/she could be found,

and was still in large pieces, would have

information for him. 

He didn't like the vagueness, the faded photo 

here, the odd finger there, the blandness of

cabbage soup, voting machines, "reliable

sources", meaningless verbiage and double

speak. He needed some clarity like a Kansas

farmer needed rain.

Was it the mafia after him? The Nazis? Was

there a difference?

He looked over the photos in the folder. The 

few black and white ones were clearer. They 

showed some people on holiday, and one 

showed soldiers marching. It was harder to 

make out the colored ones. One was of the 

ocean with some ships in the distance. A few

were of a plaza where a large group of people 

were gathered. It was hard to make out symbols.

One shot showed what seemed to be a flag or

banner with eagles on it. The photos didn't 

offer much.

How long should he stay? Was there anything 

he could discover? The finger could have been

sent by anyone, but, how many had a sense of

humor? The old man's hands were unbandaged.

He couldn't have gotten the finger to his room

so quickly without help. And so neatly packaged!

Had he found what he was looking for? Whom-

ever he was in trouble with in the States was an

established organization, around for decades if 

not centuries. All the organized criminal 

enterprises, totalitarian governments, family 

cabals, and religious dictatorships have been 

part of it since organization reached the national 

and super-national levels. His life was one 

marble on a Go board, in their eyes. If he exposed

a little something here, or uncovered a little there,

it meant nothing to them as long as not too many

people paid attention. If he got too itchy, they'd

scratch him. 

Realizing the hopeless uselessness of his situation,

Weiss returned to New York City. He stopped

taking  cases. He made some money growing

hydroponic in his garage. He wrote poetry

for his own amusement.

                                    THE END