Noir

by Christopher Moore

through the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster, and surprising more than somewhat those tourists who had come here for a balmy midsummer night’s dream, but discomfiting Sammy and the Cheese not a whit. They were locals, and knew what the author Jack London had said about Ocean Beach in 1902: “Holy fuck, you couldn’t get a match lit here to save your life.”

“How ’bout you, little lady?” called a barker as they passed. “Guess your weight for a nickel! I get it wrong and you win a teddy bear.” “And you get it right and I’ll rip your lips off and stomp them like slugs,” replied the Cheese. Sammy nodded earnestly to the barker to confirm her conviction. Stilton’s weight went unguessed.

Folle donnola! (crazy weasel), the dogs barked in chorus,

(It is well known that all North Beach dogs bark in Italian.)

I didn’t tell them nothin’, the dirty marimbas.” “A marimba is a musical instrument, kid. Like a xylophone.” “No it ain’t. You’re a stinkin’ liar.” “Kid, when you learn a new word, you can run it by me, see if it’s legit. You know, the usage. My ma was an English teacher, so I got the skinny on vocabulary and so on.” “Ah, I don’t need to know that. I only say other stuff ’cause you get jumpy when I call ’em cocksuckers.” “Oh, well, yeah, that’s true. Thanks, I guess.” “Right, so I tells these xylophone cocksuckers that I ain’t never heard

of you,

the fog off the bay was streaming between the buildings like a scarf through a stripper’s legs, leaving everything damp and smelling of sailors’ broken dreams.

Butch moved through the club like a shark patrolling a reef, which is to say, with the smooth grace of knowing no one dares fuck with you.

Eddie bounced his eyebrows in the manner of a guy who has wang-dang-doodled the dragon and can park in the Forbidden Palace anytime he likes, but as a gentleman, he changed the subject.

Bars and restaurants are always lending stuff to each other, glasses, booze, chairs, whatever you’re short of, the guy across the street or even across town will lend it to you because he never knows when he might be in the same boat. It’s an unwritten law, and until a place welshes and doesn’t pay you back, you live by it. Myrtle knew this and so did Officer Bill, evidently.

I handed over Ho’s snake-catching supplies; he handed them off to his guys and turned back to me. “More rat?” “No more rats. Look, Ho, how long will Pookie be out?” “Three, maybe four hour.” Ho wobbled a wizened hand in a three, maybe four hour way.

Every guy can basically be boiled down to what he wants and what he’s afraid of.

“And oh, kid, if during your adventures you happen to lose Pookie O’Hara in a permanent way, your money will never be any good here.” I shook my head. “You know about Pookie?” “Mr. Powers sent word about your passenger right after you came in.” “Long story,” I explained. “Don’t care,” said Mabel.

“You won’t say anything?” “Discretion is my business.” “Then why’d you tell me about Stoddard, the map?” “You know what you learn from thirty years of selling sex?” I shook my head. “You learn what a guy in love looks like. You’re not my business.

Mr. Powers handed the Walther back to me, he said thus: “Cinch up your belt and tuck it in the small of your back. I’d have never known you had a gat if you carried it that way. I don’t frisk guys, just ask if it’s obvious. Besides, you’ll never clear that rod from your jacket pocket in time if you need to use it, so best case, you got one shot before the slide jams on the cloth and you’ve already ruined your jacket.

I wanted to throw her across the seat and hammer her like Martin Luther on the church door, such was the power of forgiveness, but I wasn’t done confessing. (It does occur to me that perhaps it was best that I never heard back from the seminary as a kid, though.)

“You stinkin’ wallabies are in hot water now,” said the kid. Hatch looked to Bailey, confused. “Small kangaroo,” Bailey explained. “No it ain’t. You’re a dirty liar,” said the kid, who was bound to a chair with some of Sammy’s ties.

Morons, that’s what you are.” “No, kid, we’re not,” said Bailey. “My ma had a record of that Moron Tallywacker Choir singin’ Christmas music. Sounded like someone hurtin’ a dog. I broke it and melted it on the radiator.”

The phone rang. Bailey picked it up. “Yeah?” “That you, Sammy?” the kid yelled. “I didn’t tell these dirty bungalows nothin’!”

“He’s got ya now, ya rotten backhoes,” said the kid. “You goons are gonna die like dogs in the dirt. And he’s gonna kill you slow and watch you suffer.”

“Sammy’s gonna moytalize you mugs,” said the kid. “That’s not a word, kid,” said Bailey. “Not yet it ain’t,” said the kid. “You just wait.”

“Good day to you, sir. To you, sir, I say, good day!”