Tag Archives: noir

Humor

Boulder Noir: The Theory of Diminishing Joy

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Frank sat at his desk pondering the Theory of Diminishing Joy. By “his desk” he meant the one he found in his newly acquired office. Its current state was “acquired” by dictionary terms, if the dictionary involved doesn’t mention anything about real estate agents or paperwork. He was at downtown Boulder’s newest vacant property and he was waiting for a good time to call Mrs Simpson, his first client, to tell her the good news.

He assured her that discussing it over the phone should be fine but he wouldn’t do it while she was at work. He’d wait until she got home since her husband was probably working late. “Really? She asked. “Really,” he said. She would be happy to hear her husband was just a workaholic and not a philanderer.

The Theory of Diminishing Joy was the most promising supposition about the “magic tunnel mural” that he had read about from the internet links Sticks had given him. The magic tunnel mural was the name he gave to the underpass painting. It wasn’t really a good name, as far as he knew the tunnel was not magic but the mural seemed to be a different story. He wasn’t married to the name. He was hoping inspiration would come to him through the eddies of time that existed in Boulder. That eddies speech had set up shop in his brain and when you’ve lived in Boulder for a while it starts to get some credence.

He had spent quite a bit of time losing himself down the various internet rabbit holes of musings, pondering and conspiracy theories about the mural from locals and non locals alike. The best idea that he had come across was the theory of diminishing joy. Joy was a fairly large umbrella but for many in Boulder the main component was creativity and the theory states that as creativity diminishes so does joy. Creativity takes many forms and as it leaks away the mural gains another character, symbol or some representation of that creative force according to the theory.

The shadow man appeared fairly recently on the mural and there were few ideas as to what he represented. There were also no known incidences of any figure from the mural materializing and appearing before the public at least not without the help of psychedelics. Frank was positive he had not taken any psychedelics on purpose. It was Boulder and he supposed anything could happen but he hadn’t licked any stamps lately and he was pretty sure the water source was safe. Sure he could have accidentally ate an edible but they didn’t tend to give him, um people, hallucinations or so he had heard.

He thought about shadow man for a while and nurtured any embers of a thought that could explain what he represented but the weather had been dry lately and apparently his embers were stunted by fire safety. He was going to have to ask the shadow himself. It was getting dark and jovial sounds from the street beckoned to him so he called it a day and went to investigate. He was in need of joy these days and took the opportunity to grab some when ever he could.

Emerging from his building he found himself along the route for the annual parade of lights. Vehicles and people festooned with holiday lights were cruising down Pearl Street. There seemed to be more people than vehicles sporting various forms of light but this was Boulder and it could be a part of their daily ensemble. The sight briefly brought a smile to his face until across the way he spied a moving shadow obscuring some Christmas lights. He saw an opportunity to get some questions answered and ran after it.

Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Steve Simpson Roulette 1 Empty Chamber

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Frank was just wrapping up a successful sting operation. Technically there still was one more target to show up but he was pretty sure he had the right Steve Simpson. He was playing Steve Simpson Roulette and there was still one left in the chamber so he had to sure. The roulette analogy didn’t quite work but it sounded cool.

The first guy who showed up was Jon S. Doe. Jon arrived bright and early. Frank reasoned he was either expecting a rush or he wanted to show up when it was the least busy on the street. It would be easy to spot Feds watching the place.

From what Frank could tell, Jon S. Doe may or may not be his real name. He listed his occupation as a Paranormal Guide. Just because Frank had never encountered the occupation didn’t mean it wasn’t legit. On the other hand, it may be something that quelled the urge to ask questions although he thought Mortician would have done a better job. This is Boulder so it could go either way. His questionnaire indicated he was single. He had no ring and if he did have one it couldn’t have been on for long period. There was no tale tan or ring line on his ring finger.

It turns out he actually could have picked the guy with the closest correct name. S. Simpson turned out to be the guy. He was married, had a ring and definitely looked like he was keeping late hours. He mentioned “he had to get back to work before they realized he was gone but at the amount of unpaid overtime he was working they should just deal with it.” Now he could have also taken that as an answer to the question of cheating on his wife but he needed to be thorough.

To be sure he had the correct guy, he paid a “trustafarian” 1to follow Mr. Simpson to his car and get the make, model and license plate. If the guy took a ride share he was to get the same information. If he took a bus he was out of luck.

It was getting a bit chilly with the window open but Frank was trying to quit smoking and he was having a rough go of it. Besides in addition to clearing out the smoke it kept him awake. The decision to finally quit was helped out when he discovered upon returning to Colorado that smoking indoors was now banned. He was waiting for the last potential Steve Simpson. He was playing roulette. He had to be sure he had the right guy. He decided he needed a warm up courtesy of a short pour of the old GlenBargain. He took a sip and savored the slow warmth in his stomach

His thoughts were interrupted but the ring of a small bell he had put on the door downstairs.

“Ah, the last Steve Simpson in the chamber. Time to finish the game of roulette,” he thought. He finished off his Scotch and decided against another pour. He could celebrate when he was positive he had the right Steve. Suddenly he heard more than one set of footsteps on the stairs and a man’s voice “I thought I recognized the SOB”. Frank started to panic. Someone had recognized him. It wasn’t the previous two Simpson candidates they would have seemed familiar.

I’ll have to figure who later. Frank cut his thoughts short. It was fight or flight time and he was outnumbered. Time to cheese it. It’s a good thing he left the back window open .

Exit Backstage.

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Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir: Bub

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It was a bright sunny day but you wouldn’t have known it from the inside of Rick’s Place. There wasn’t a window in the whole bar.

The fans were there, barely visible in the dim lighting. The sounds of blues chords could be heard in the background and went well with the decor. Frank didn’t recognize the musician but he approved.

The look on the bartender matched the atmosphere. Dark and foreboding.

To Frank it seemed like this mug knew him and had no pleasant memories associated with him. Dancing lightly was going to be the task for the day.

“What’ll it be Bub”

Bub? I’ve never been a Bub before. I’ve been a Dude, a Mac and one time a Mac and Cheese2. but never a Bub thought Frank.

“I’ll take a Scotch and Soda. Whatever your rail brand is.”

“We’ve only got one brand. We call it our bar brand.”

“Ok, sounds tasty I’ll take one”

“Do you want to know what our bar brand of soda is ?”
“Uh, no. Surprise me.”

Frank knew the bartender was showing off his witty repartee but Frank was not impressed. Over the years he had encountered many bartenders with wit and this guy couldn’t hold their bar rags but Frank wouldn’t let his opinion of the guy show. He had to play nice to get the information he wanted.

The Scotch and Soda was set in front of Frank with little fanfare.

Taking a sip Frank was surprised the bar brand was decent for a blended Scotch. The soda was nondescript but soda should not take the limelight anyway.

Frank waved over the bartender.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course I mind. I didn’t like it in school and let the teachers know I didn’t like it but I am trapped here It’s not as if I can avoid you for the next 6 hours. So ask what you gotta ask.”

“The last time I was in here I sat next to a guy who gave me some good advice. I never got his name and I’d like to thank him properly.

He was a big guy, maybe six two. Looked like he might have been a boxer.

I got a line on some Jewelry and maybe he might like something for his wife.”

“I might know a guy like that except he’s not married,”

“Oh my mistake I just assumed he was. Well

here’s my number if you could give me a call when he shows up here I would appreciate it.”

“What’s in it for me bub?”

“Well here’s some cabbage and there will be another one if you call.”

The bartender looked down. “Oh ten bucks. Save your money Rockefeller it looks like you need it more than I do. I’ll call you if he shows up.”

Sensing this was a good time to conclude his business, Frank finished his drink and left. If he had turned around he would have seen the bartender making a call.

Walking back to his car Frank heard someone actually utter “Psst Buddy”. Looking around he saw a figure in the shadows.

Wow, his first case and his first “Psst” from the shadows all in the same week.

Things were really shaping up. Frank walked toward the shadow to investigate.

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Next “Voices from the Shadow”

Noir, Humor

The Gig (Boulder Noir 2)

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Newbie private detective, office squatter and wrinkled clothed Frank Bronski has his first gig as a client wanders into “his” office.

“Don’t you think It’s a bit chilly in here Mr. Bronski?”

“I apologize. I’ve, um, complained to the landlord but no action from them yet.

So what’s the gig?”

“Gig,” asked Desiree Simpson.

“I’m sorry. What would you like to hire me for?”

“Well I’m sure this is almost cliche for a man in your position but I think my husband, Steve is having an affair.”

“It is somewhat cliche but not to me. I won’t treat it as such.”

That’s actually the truth he thought. It’s not a cliche if it’s my first case. What’s a cliche in this instance are my thoughts,“why would a man cheat on this lovely dame”. I am definitely sure that’s been asked a million times in a million cities about a million dames and just in this year alone.

“Why do you believe your husband is having an affair?

“Oh the usual signs you hear about. Many late nights at the office. I can understand some late nights. We are fairly new in town so it’s a new job for him but every night is a little much. To add to that, friends have said they have seen him out an about when he said he was working late. On one occasion a friend said she saw him with another woman. She couldn’t explain why but thought there was something between them.”

“Well that seems worth investigating,”he said.

Because I don’t believe in jumping to conclusions but he seems guilty from the get go, he thought.

“So you think he may be having an affair?”

“During this part of the dance I try not to think and prefer to act on instinct and let my footwork lead. Early conclusions can cloud the truth.”

“You sound like a man of experience.”

Frank didn’t know if he should feel flattered or disappointed in her lack of judgement.

“I’m afraid of the outcome but I’d rather know than feeling perpetually uncertain.”

“Thats brave of you”

“Oh I don’t think it’s being brave if the alternative is to drive myself crazy.”

“Do you have a recent picture of your husband?”

She pulled a photo out of her handbag.

Frank expected a ruggedly handsome guy. Looking at the picture he decided he was half right.

The rugged part fit but rugged in the way a failed boxer looks after a career of blocking many punches with his face. He thought “Fooling around? He should be hanging on to her like grim death.

Somehow though he seemed familiar. Had he seen him around town?

Frank asked her some routine questions about where they lived, where he worked, places (ie bars) he hung out after work, who his friends were etc.

He diligently took notes until his hand stopped in it’s tracks.

“Oh, he doesn’t drink.”

“Recovering alcoholic?”

“No he just doesn’t drink.”

Hmm, something was definitely fishy about this guy but what did he care, it was his first Gig.

“Well I think that’s enough dope, uh information, to get started. I’ll be in touch.

“Thank you Mr. Bronski. I hope it will be good news.”

With that she spun on one heal and exited leaving the slight scent of lilac in her wake.

He never liked lilac until now. It usually reminded him of a nonagenarian dipped in it leaving church. But it gently draped Desiree Simpson and she barely wore it at all.

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Humor, Noir

Boulder Noir

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The cold grey sky of downtown Boulder became dotted with flakes of falling snow.

The writer is beginning this story breaking the “rule” of not starting out with a description of the weather. He doesn’t give a rats “bahooty” about rules. Now he’s just making up words ( bahooty is not in the dictionary). He’s a rebel. Hell, he may even drink the old gallon of milk in his refrigerator. He’s pretty sure it’s at least a week past its sell by date. So yeah, don’t mess with him.

If one where to gaze up at the top floor of #1313 Pearl Street,  one could see the figure of our hero3,Frank Bronski, surveying the area. There is much to know about Frank and that knowledge will be revealed as the story unfolds. One question our dear reader may have is why a man in his mid thirties in the 21st century would act and speak as though he is a character in a Sam Spade novel. That is a question for which there is no obvious answer. Sometimes the all knowing narrator doesn’t know as much as he pretends.

Boulder is a town of free spirits so when Frank was out and about wearing a trench coat and a fedora no one gave him a second glance. On second thought , maybe some folks check to make sure he’s wearing pants. I’ve monopolized the story enough. Take it away Frank.

“I dragged my peepers up and down the street and glaumed no sign of trouble. Is “glaumed” the correct slang? See, saw, glaumed? I think so. In this case trouble is anyone that looked like a landlord type. I’m not exactly a paying tenant. What I am exactly is a squatter. This gumshoe gig is new for me and I needed to have a respectable office location. Unfortunately respectable is pricey in downtown Boulder. All I could afford was an embarrassing stall at an out of the way strip mall. Out of the way in Boulder is nowhere near town.

Because of it’s high real estate prices, downtown Boulder never seems to be lacking in available space. I was taking advantage and making one such space unavailable.

No one seemed to be aware that squatting was being committed so I threw up a temporary sign outside the door. The sign was temporary but I had spent some time and a steady hand  spelling out “Bronski Private Detective Agency” in hopes that it would look somewhat professional. I thought the word “Agency” made all the difference in the world.

By the old clock on the wall it was five minutes before an appointment with my first client, a babe by the name of Desiree Simpson. I hope the clock wasn’t slow, it came with the office. As if on cue the clock decided it had enough and promptly fell off the wall.

I settled into an office chair behind an old ratty desk, again accessories that came with the office. I then heard the high heel driven footsteps of who I hoped was my client. The door slowly opened as a  redhead with sunglasses poked her head in. Satisfied she wasn’t going to get jumped, the rest of her body, including a pair of long legs followed.”

“Desiree Simpson,” he asked.

“Yes and you’re Mr. Bronski?”

“Yep the sign is not lying. What’s with the cheaters?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, sometimes my lingo runs away with me. The sunglasses. Why the sunglasses? It’s not sunny”

“No it’s my poor attempt to avoid being recognized.”

“Oh?”

“I am fairly well known in quite a few circles in this town, enough that I don’t want anyone seeing me walking into a detective agency.”

Frank didn’t tell her that being seen walking into an abandoned building may be worse.

“That’s an Interesting sign you have there”. 

“Yea I like it because I can turn it around at the end of the day and it spells “Closed”.  

Swell, she thought and wondered if this guy was the right guy for the job.

Up next “The Gig”

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Noir, Humor

Vegas: Beat the Day.

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Him:
The gambler left the tables when he hit break-even point.
Sounds simple enough but that had taken most of the day.
He was in a fairly deep hole. When he finally could stand on level -ground he and the day were both exhausted. He had beaten the day. Or, he wondered. Had the day beat him?

He avoided all delays to dream time that night, hitting the mattress after only removing his shoes. He didn’t take off his pants. He didn’t take off his flowered shirt. He didn’t even check under the bed to see the briefcase he knew nothing about.

He had no trouble falling asleep. It wasn’t long before he was visiting his less-than-favorite pawn shop.

He found himself sitting in his usual chair tucked in safely by a copious amount of duct tape. This time something was missing, Gone was the feeling of impending doom but the gentle reminder of the duct tape was an indicator that he was not here by choice.

The curtains to his right soon parted and the pawn shop owner appeared. Gone was his five o’clock shadow. Oh gee, he thought. He shaved for the occasion.

“I am very happy,” said the proprietor. “Can you guess why?” he asked.

“You discovered disposable razors,” said the gambler while waiting for the beating that did not occur.

“Very funny, I won’t even beat you because you finally started to play ball,” replied the clean-shaven man.

“Is this about the company softball team because I already told you I have a trick knee .”

”Ha-ha funny man. No, of course not, it’s about you turning that briefcase into cold hard cash.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Was it cold? I tried to keep it warm,” replied the gambler.

He had no idea what clean-shaven man was babbling about but it was his dream so a little babbling was part of the package.

“Haha. Yes, it took you some time but you did well.”

“Oh, great, I’m happy you’re happy but why the duct tape,” he asked.

“Sorry, forgive me, old habits,” said the clean-shaven man as he cut him out of the chair.

The gambler awoke not much longer afterward. If there was anything more to the dream he could not recall. He only knew he felt great and decided to hit his favorite coffee shop/used record store for breakfast. Taking stock of himself he decided he should take a shower first.

Her:
Her day was like the previous work days. This time, however, she returned a “lost” item, relocating it to under the bed where she found it.

At the end of her day, she was beat.

She barely changed for bed that night before remembering the next day was Saturday. She set her alarm clock for her Saturday wake up time so she could have breakfast at her favorite place.”

Note: The words are coming fast and furious so you may have missed the previous installment. Catch it here.

Noir

Vegas: Waking from a Vision

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The rays of 2018 fell down upon the Vegas desert without much fanfare and with a few less souls around to witness the event. Fortunately for the purpose of this story, we don’t know those souls. The ones we are familiar with are still following their dreams.

Him:
After playing “what can I see in the clouds” with the water stained ceiling for twenty minutes,  he concluded this session of “lets put off my day”.  He also thought that losing himself in the cards would take his mind off of his troubles.

He thought about that for a moment.

What have I got to worry about? My troubles aren’t anchored to reality. They are attached to something fleeting and nebulous. They’re just dreams. They’re very vivid and painful dreams but they’re just dreams. Maybe “vision” is a more appropriate word.

With that one thought his malaise melted away and he let the hot shower wash any remnants down the drain.

Her:
The light crept into her window and announced its presence by alighting on Nadine’s forehead. She became vertical like a shot. She had no time to waste today.  A man’s life may be at stake. It was just a dream but this one, as well as the man,  stood out from any other in her life. She was worried it may be an actual vision, one that she needed to prevent from becoming reality.

She looked under the bed. Unfortunately, the briefcase was still there. She was hoping it had been swallowed up by her dream. No such luck but she knew what to do.
The hotel’s lost and found was destined to have a new briefcase.

“Nadine putting that in the lost and found will not salve you conscious,” counseled Gladys.

Nadine had not told Gladys about her vision. She didn’t need her boss questioning her sanity. She just told her that the story she shared scared her. She figured that much was true. Whether she had a dream or a vision, there was one thing she knew for sure. The story was certainly the cause of it and it scared the hell out of her.

“You know what you have to do.”

“Yes Gladys, I need to give it back to the owner. Can I just put it back where I found it?”

“Yes, I think that should do it.”

Noir, Humor

Beatdown In Vegas

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This is part of a story started here->

After further inspection, he decided the back of his eyelids had not changed since the last time he visited them.

He came to in what he assumed was the back room of his last known location, a Vegas pawn shop. If not, it should be. The essence of nicotine was strong here. So was the pain.

“I told you your lifespan had a limit and there is no aftermarket warranty,” said Ivan.

He didn’t know his name, “Ivan” just fit.

He also had no idea what this man was saying. Oh, he understood the man’s English, it had no problem cutting through the fog that currently enveloped his mind.
He just didn’t know the reason for the beatdown.

“May I trouble you with a question oh kind sir?”

Immediate pain to the back of his head rudely suggested that sarcasm was not the proper tact to take with this individual.”

“I told you to knock it off with the noir crap.”

His original opinion on the man’s English changed. He wanted to give him a dictionary with the word “noir” hi-lighted but two other thoughts convinced him it was not a good idea; 1) He was plumb out of dictionaries, 2) He was averse to continual pain.

“I apologize, I may have misunderstood your use of the word but how did I get here?”

“You walked in here you fool.”

“Yes, but why am I duct-taped to this chair?”

“Really? Is that your only question?”

“Is asking “Who is your decorator?” out of the question?”
Again, pain danced on the back of the head.

“Ok you want to keep the style to yourself I get it.”

“I told you that you had one week to pick up the package and two weeks to turn that into the two hundred big ones for me.”

His first reaction was to come back with a remark about keeping his private life private but decided the ensuing beatdown was not worth it.

“Who am I, David Copperfield?”

Head meet your new friend pain.

“I apologize, I should have gone with someone less dated. Chris Angel perhaps?
Cue the lights….

 

Noir, Writing

Vegas, Most Dreams Die Here.

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Vegas, most dreams died here. His came alive.

Vegas, he anticipated his return. His last visit tantalized the possibilities. It wasn’t so much what had consciously happened, it was what he couldn’t control.

Gravity boots supported by the broken nose union.                             Blood rushing to his head, vivid dreams indeed.

He awoke to a nightstand holding a pawn ticket for something he never owned. He began to revisit the concept of vivid.

A few years passed. He still had the pawn ticket and he found himself back in Vegas. He checked out the address of the pawnshop. It was not far from the hotel. What harm could it do? Well, to be honest, a few broken bones and multiple contusions but that was an afterthought.

It was dark, it was seedy, it was a pawnshop. It met his expectations for what a pawnshop could and would ever be. From a writers perspective it was perfect.

The moment he entered the establishment he knew he made a grave mistake.

The man behind the counter was the proprietor he assumed because in his limited experiences pawnshop proprietors always looked like they could do with an ironing and extra starch.

He also did not look happy to see him.

“Do you have the ticket,” asked the man in a thick accent. He had seen enough bad television shows to recognize an eastern European accent when he heard one.

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it.”

“Enough with your noir bullshit,” he said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Then there was pain and darkness.