Well... I was going through my old files, and I encountered a very short story I wrote a while back. I'd asked my mother for three words and a line of dialogue that had to be included.
She gave me the following words: Wombat, Eggplant, Lamppost.
And the Line of Dialogue?
"I didn't know the plumber was from Lithuania"
The result is Vegetable Noir. I thought I should contribute it to Writersmerge for your thoughts.
Vegetable Noir
The moment she entered my office, I knew that broad was trouble. She had them big eyes, and long lashes and thighs like a pregnant wombat. I guessed she had blonde, brassy hair. It was hard to tell in a black and white film. She might have been a strawberry blonde. It was big hair, anyway, hidden under one of them broad brimmed hats.
I offered her my chair, but she refused it. Instead, she parked on the edge of my desk, her long, painted fingernails sat on top of my paperwork. She took out one of them long thin cigarette holders and sat there, waiting for me to bring her a light. Classy dame.
I checked my gun was in my holster, as I stood up and moved around the desk. I whipped out my lighter, flicked up a flame and lit her cigarette. She smoked Rutherfords. This was a broad with class and money. I sat back down at my desk, and looked her in those big, fluttering eyes.
‘Thankyou for seeing me on such short notice,’ she said. ‘I hope it wasn’t any trouble.’ She had a Southern accent. This was no local girl.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But maybe I don’t mind trouble.’
She smiled, her full lips smothered with dark lipstick. Then she blew a smoke ring. ‘I hope you can help me, Mr. Gracie.’
I took my cigar outta my mouth and gave her the look that said, “I’m a businessman, Sweetheart.” Dames had tried that lip-quivering, sweet talking act on me before. I ain’t runnin’ no charity here. It’s the money that matters.
‘You got bread?’ I asked her.
‘A little,’ she said. I tried to place her accent, New Orleans’ maybe. Clichéd, a bit forced. Maybe a New York actress putting on her best Southern Broad accent. ‘I still got a little from what Daddy left me.’
‘I charge fifty a day, plus expenses.’ I told her.
I thought she’d try the eyelash act on me, but she reached into her purse and pulled out a new fifty. She threw it onto my desk, and buckled her purse back up.
‘My name is Lola Rutherford,’ she said.
Money from what Daddy left her? ‘Lola Rutherford?’ I asked, and took a long puff on my cigar. ‘Rollo Rutherford’s kid?’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘What brings you to Chicago, Miss Rutherford?’
She looked down at my desk, and I knew there was something she was hiding. Typical broad. They’re all the same, pretending it’s a routine case. Then a third of the way through the movie, someone starts shooting at me, and suddenly the plot thickens. Always turns out someone else is after the Cypriot Bluebird too. They never tell you that when you start, and you always end up trapped in an alley, behind a garbage bin, shooting at Peter Lorre. Either that or an Italian mobster. Or both.
‘I asked why you’re in Chicago, sweetheart.’
She looked up at me, doing the fluttery eye thing from under her big hat. I was tempted to chuck her outta my office then and there, but I knew her intentions were good. She was the blonde. The minute the brunette broad showed up, that was the time to get the gun out. Wait for the brunette, she’s the one who’ll try and distract you, and then she’ll turn out to be a mobster. I’ve seen it before.
‘I…’ she said. ‘It’s… well to be honest, Mr. Gracie, it’s about my father’s eggplant.’
The Rutherford Eggplant. The secret to those cigarettes with the smooth taste of eggplant. I got up and went to the door. ‘Hold my calls, Martha.’ I shut my door, and sat down at my desk. This was gonna be one of those cases. ‘Okay, kid. You better tell me everything.’
I got my trenchcoat and fedora and headed out into the mean streets of Chicago. The lighting boys had done an excellent job. The dim lighting invoked a sense of mystery, and lit up the crevices in my craggy face perfectly. The artificial light supposedly coming from the lamppost outside my office was at exactly the right level to illuminate my permanent five o’clock shadow.
It was raining of course, and the intermittent shafts of lamppost light showed the grey mist of rain-drops that got lost in the shadows. The rain was slanting, though there was no wind, but the rain machine didn’t often go straight downwards. On a small TV screen, no one would even notice the difference.
I was still thinking about my conversation with Lola, as I crossed the artistically wet street and walked to my car. My car had unlimited gas, and the bullet holes seemed to miraculously disappear in between movies, and even in between scenes. Although it was late at night, I started my engine and drove to Mickey’s anyway. A Hard Boiled Detective doesn’t stop working just because it’s nighttime. And he doesn’t sleep unless it’s to be woken by a phone-call or an attempted murder.
I strode into Mickey’s and sat on one of his tatty, grey barstools. Mickey was behind the bar, cleaning a glass. Mickey is always cleaning a glass. Unless his place is under repair after a barfight or shootout. Usually my fault. Or Bogey’s.
Mickey gave me nod. ‘What’ll it be, Dirk?’
A scotch on the rocks. Mickey didn’t serve anything else, except the occasional straight vodka, usually by the bottle. But that was only for a certain kind of gumshoe.
‘Scotch, Mickey,’ I said. ‘This ain’t no James Bond.’
Mickey gave his wry, typecast smile and poured me out a scotch. I sat there, hunched over in my trenchcoat and waited for the scene to start. No point in wasting time on me ordering a drink, the scene usually started right about now, while I was nursing my glass.
‘What you know about Rollo Rutherford?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know nuthin’ said Mickey. ‘At least, my memory’s a little fuzzy tonight.’
‘Hey Mickey,’ I reminded him. ‘You still owe me for sorting out that business with the immigration people.’
‘That wasn’t my fault,’ Mickey insisted. ‘I didn’t know the plumber was from Lithuania.’ I gave him my hard-boiled stare and he sighed. ‘Well, I do know someone who might know somethin’…’
but the rain machine didn’t often go straight downwards. On a small TV screen, no one would even notice the difference.
Tehe.
This made me laugh, good Kayt
So I shall challenge you to continue;
Your three words are:
gambol, hippopotamus and dodecahedron
And the sentence is:
He liked to eat oranges when it rained.
lol certainly passed time sitting in my office waiting for someone to tell me what to do next [img]http://s4.images.proboards.com/tongue.gif" alt=":P" border="0"/>
yes please go again!
Indeed, you must go on. I want to see you work in that phrase of Rigel's.
lmao! That was great! I can't wait 'til the next story - which you WILL write, on pain of death by armadillos. [img]http://s4.images.proboards.com/tongue.gif" alt=":P" border="0"/>
Oh yes - bring on the armadillos! I wish I'd thought of that earlier. [img]http://s4.images.proboards.com/cheesy.gif" alt=":D" border="0"/>
