StanleyWheeler

Philip Marlowe: Private Eye
"Blackmailers Don't Shoot"

I had never even heard of this series that debuted on HBO in 1983. Of course, I was out of the country at that time, and wouldn't have had cable anyway. So it's not like I would've been able to see it. I thought this was the first episode. I see now that it was actually the first episode of the second season. I'll have to go back to see the first season. Nope. Just checked. The first season isn't on Prime.

I think Powers Booth does a fair job in the role of Marlowe. In this episode, he is hired by a mobster to protect his movie star girlfriend from blackmailers. The dame gets kidnapped; Marlowe mounts a four-corpse-count rescue, and demonstrates the superiority of hot lead over cold rolled steel. That's it for the show--average stuff. I liked the old cars. I do wonder if it would be better in black and white.

The story below has little to do with the actual episode, other than the pictures which I use as the basis for my own (mis)creation. I call it: LIPSTICK AND LEAD

There was someone on my phone. He said he was troubled by a skin condition that left dark bands across his face. I told him that I could see that, and asked him to put down my phone. 

I gave him a bar of soap and a towel. I told him not to fall asleep on the newspaper, and his skin condition would probably clear up. 

Later, I went down to the club. I met a dame that I knew. Clare had tried to disguise herself with a dark wig, but I recognized the earrings...and her particular shade of lipstick. I had a hankering to sample that lipstick; it was the color of strawberry jam, and I wagered that it would be twice as sweet. I asked her about a sample. She blew smoke in my face. She was waiting for another man.

He waltzed in beneath a white hat that he wore like a halo. A dark red handkerchief peered from the breast pocket of his pale jacket like a crumpled and tipsy rose. I thought about that; I imagined that someone could write a song about that sweet tipsy rose; but what did I know? 

I watched the two of them walk out together. I couldn't tell what she saw in him. I mean, sure, he was a sharp dresser. He made more money in an afternoon from his women's apparel dry cleaning business than I made in a year. Sure, he drove a nice car that didn't belch smoke and knock like a pair of peg legged pirates dancing on the quarterdeck, but wit, good looks, and charm should count for something. 

The following day, I wandered in the direction of Clare's apartment. I wanted to make sure that she had found her way home without any trouble. I should've known there was something wrong when a strange man bumped into me. He was walking about with a telephone receiver pressed to his ear. The cord from the receiver disappeared into his jacket; there was no telephone in sight. He kept wandering along, repeating, "Can you hear me now?"

He seemed like a strange bird, but I liked the idea of a portable telephone--sort of a wireless unit. I wondered about such an instrument. What if it could take photographs and play music? Nah. The radio tubes and film would make it too bulky for handy portability. Oh well.

When I got to Clare's apartment, the door welcomed me in, hanging open on its hinges with the casual lassitude of a slack-jawed yokel draped over a porch swing. I quickly got over that welcome feeling when I met the barrel of a black revolver with a meaty hand and an even meatier man behind it. He said that he had been expecting me. He had a message for me. He gave me an address; he told me to be there at a certain time if I ever wanted to see Clare again. I was happy to let him leave without getting a sample of either his ammunition or his lipstick; I didn't think that shade flattered him.

I arrived on time at the designated location, but a French maid refused to let me enter. When I explained that I had an appointment and promised not to leave things in a clutter, she let me pass without answering any riddles.

The man with the white halo lay on a table. A masseuse was squeezing him like a tube of toothpaste. I had to do a double take to see if the masseuse possessed the arms of a wolf-man, or if he had bathed in used motor oil. I decided on the former. Angel-man explained that a couple goons had jumped him on the way to Clare's place. They had taken Clare, and wanted a hefty ransom. He had the ransom money, but he wanted me to come for moral support. The rich man needed my moral support; so I had that going for me anyway. He didn't actually say, "moral support;" he called it protection, but I knew what he meant.

 We went to the abandoned factory were the bad guys had taken Clare. She had lost the wig but managed to keep her earrings.

 I was calculating the odds of precisely drilling the goon who held Clare without mussing her gown,

when a dapper dude with a fist full of pistol persuaded me to forsake my arithmetic and to drop my piece.

Angel-man swooped in with full halo and wings like an invincible heavenly messenger to the rescue. The trouble was the bullets; they didn't know about the invincibility of heavenly messengers. While he was busy not dodging dapper dude's thunderbolts, I scrambled for my heater and sent the dapper man several rapid epistles from Messieurs Smith & Wesson. 

With both Angel-man and the dapper dude engaged in sharing their blood types with the concrete and hailing cabs to the after life, it was just the three of us: Clare, the kidnapper, and me. I thought that would've made a catchy tune, if one of us had been named McGee. Alas, we were McGee free, and two guys with one frail almost never works out. Clare took the initiative. She introduced the kidnapper's instep to the business end of her open-toed high heeled shoe. He felt a sudden and intense need to create some space in their relationship. I gave him a pill for the pain, delivered via my remote-high-speed-injection system.

And then there were two. She didn't blow smoke at me. She offered me a sample of her lipstick. It's never polite to refuse a lady.