A Fancy Piece of Homicide by E. D. Bass

The road as was dark, an inky black tunnel with only the headlights of the car lighting a small funnel of fading white leading me through it. My hand throbbing, bruised and bloody, gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, I drove fast, not sure where I was headed, just as long as it was away from where I had just been.

She was asleep in the back seat, I hoped it was sleep, as she was barely moving, and the familiar sounds of a restful slumber hadn’t come from her in more than a few minutes. Her name was Medora Fielding, and soon she would be known as the wealthy widow, of the late Maurice Fielding, obscenely rich diamond merchant, and now, leaking fluids in an unmarked grave.

My name is Ozzie Tumbler, I’m a private dick, and I’m the man who killed him.

This little blood-soaked soiree started 28 days ago, when the soon to be widow Fielding walked into my office, on a  day that saw me in less than perfect form. I deal in cheat cases, and until now, they were pretty standard fare. Find the cheat, take the pics, and standby with a clean handkerchief or a shot of whiskey, and wait to get paid.

But recently the cases were few and far between, and I had to make ends meet, as private muscle for Vincent Casper, a reputable villain with more money than the Getty’s. He’d occasionally throw me a bone or two, out of his rare bouts of generosity. All for saving his son’s life one night, in a bar dust-up turned knife fight. Since then, you could say he’s been my guardian angel, with less than angelic tendencies.

Last night, while escorting him to the bombay haggis, in the boiler-room of the Paramount Hotel, a few of his rival’s goons took offense to his large winnings, and got up enough steam to make a run for him, A few broken jaws, and a .38 to the temple, and they backed off. But not after one nearly punched my nose off. The endless shots of bourbon, courtesy of Casper, eased the pain that night, but caused a greater pain that morning Mrs. Fielding walked through my door.

Most dames that come into my office, are crying, distraught, in a state that could only be described as truly screwed up, but not this dame. She was cool and calm, like a woman who just stepped out of the salon, into the Four Seasons. She was gorgeous, pale luminous skin, a face that could turn priests against their vows. Her coal black hair falling in curls around her face, with lips so red, they made apples seem pale and colorless.

She wore a deep purple suit, with a cream colored blouse that had shiny black flowers as buttons.The suit seemed to  flow over her body, it was a silk like fabric, and not being a tailor I couldn’t tell you what is was made out of, in my gut I know it looked expensive, she’s got dough, and probably buckets of it. It takes every bit of addled concentration I have, to keep from drooling because this is going to be a good case.

What's the big friggin deal?

It's 1:16pm on one of the hottest days of the year here in New York City, and I'm flummoxed. Not from the heat, which could incite violent, screaming riots in Franciscan monasteries. No it's from trying to figure out the best way to say, that I'm going to post a story, in pieces, about a detective who's toothy greed, overcame his good and common sense, and gets into more trouble, than a bootlegger at a Teetotaller's picnic.But only if the teetotallers carried Magnums and thirty-eighty, and had a mad on that lasts for weeks.

I did not want to unceremoniously, post snippets of this decidedly pulp noir tale of greed, lust, deceit, and murder. The thing is, I've no idea if anyone other than my family (hi ya'll) will read this, so as with anything you love to do, do it for yourself, do the best you can, and let 'er rip!

So, without any adieu, the first installment of "A Fancy Piece of Homicide" by E.D. Bass.

You don't write a "love letter" to Pulp Noir.

You don't wax romantic about a style of writing or filmmaking or comic book writing that deals with the darker, meaner, grittier side of life. The side of life that makes you look behind your back, thinking you'll see a burly brute with a hat over his eyes, and a set of shiny brass knuckles, that hit with the kick of a mule.

You don't get all mushy about character who drink whisky like most people drink soda pop, smoke cigarettes like fish breath water. You don't get soft in the gut when you think about the dirty deed and double crosses of women who are as calculatingly evil, and they are drop dead gorgeous.

You talk about the dark alleys and city streets wet with the rain that should wash away all the dirt in the world, but all it does it make it easier to see the cold hard cruel world reflected back at itself, in distorted features.

You don't use sweet words to describe a world where the double-cross, and the knife in the back, become art-forms, where you know that every move you make brings you closer to a sticky end, with the wrong people looking over you, and the the long black sedan comes to collect you and it's off to "Potter's Field," and you wind up filling the belly of a worm.

Where money has the same pull as a beautiful pair of getaway sticks, connected to caboose with moves sweeter than a ripe Georgia peach. Only money won't turn the tables on you, it won't put a roscoe to your bean and squirt lead until you're dead. Only that dame is worth the risk, the odds are in her favor of being a shady Sadie, but you don't care, you're in it to your eyeballs, and the only way out is down, the big sleep, the dirt nap with a granite blanket,

Yeah, you don't write a love letter to Pulp Noir, you give a rap in the mouth, and a stiff drink to numb the pain, have a smoke, and walk down that dark alley, and live to scheme another day.