Introduction: Chickadees and Chickadon'ts

Our scientists tell us that someday we will be able to resurrect extinct species (or at least a cloned facsimile of the same) by reconstructing the creatures' genomes with DNA. Indeed, there have been recent news stories on this subject published in both the New York and London Times*. Of course, to a layperson like myself, it sounds like a mighty tall order to bring back the world's proverbial dead dodos like this, but apparently it can be done. It seems that you just take some well-preserved hair, flesh, or bone from the corpse of the creature in question, extract the DNA contained therein, decode its genomic sequence, modify the egg of a living female relative accordingly, and then Bob's your uncle! -- or rather Bob's your Great Great Grandfather's genetically reconstituted doppelganger! (Don't look at me: This is what our scientists tell us!) What's more, the technology is here now (witness the 1996 cloning of Dolly at the Roslin Institute in Scotland.) Just think about it: We could see Woolly Mammoths roaming Yellowstone Park again in our own lifetimes! (And the ranchers out West thought that they had it tough dealing with the reintroduction of wolves by the Fish and Wildlife Service! Ha! Just you wait, Annie Oakley: Just you wait!)

Of course, I'm all for the reintroduction of extinct species myself. It would certainly give the hobby of bird-watching a much-needed shot in the arm if an occasional pterodactyl would show up at our neighborhood birdfeeders, rather than the same old dime-a-dozen chickadees and chickadonts. (I'm referring, of course, to the toothless pterodactyls such as the tiny Nemicolopterus crypticus, the mid-size Pteranadon, or even the biggie-sized Quetzalcoatlus, "the largest flying animal ever" according to the Enchanted Learning website, checking in with a leathery wing span of 36 feet (11m.) I'm in no hurry, however, to see the 13-foot wing span of a bucktoothed Brazilian Cearadactylus anywhere except in a museum, or perhaps in a carnival sideshow under the strictest of security arrangements. I realize that those latter reptiles dined mainly on fish -- but then the species Homo sapiens was not on Mother Nature's menu during the Cretaceous period, was it? If we had been on offer in the Cretaceous period, I fancy we humans would have made a 'dainty morsel' for those toothy Pterosaurs.)

But my apologies to Michael Crichton fans if this introduction of mine has whetted your appetite for a spin-off on "Jurassic Park," because the story that follows is set in modern-day America, circa 2009, and features not so much as one genetically reconstituted reptile of days gone by. Instead, I've chosen to underscore my misgivings about genetic reanimation by speculating on the potential consequences of a lab error during an attempt to reconstitute various famous human beings from the past. Not that America's scientists themselves will screw things up as I envision below (oh, no, no, no, no, no!), but one does worry about the underpaid flunkies that they might employ to meet various deadlines that will surely arise when this reanimation business really starts to take off commercially speaking. Say, for instance, it's a busy day at the lab and one teenage part-timer has been assigned the task of modifying a human egg in accordance with the DNA profile of Raymond Chandler. Everything is going to plan, until, halfway through the process, the part-timer begins daydreaming about his latest girlfriend, at which point he absent-mindedly begins working off of the wrong genetic print-out, and before you know it, he's modified the egg in question to equally emulate two (count 'em: two) human genome's: the genome for Raymond Chandler, of course, AND... (wait for it) the genome of Socrates (whose own reanimation was supposed to be handled tomorrow by some full-time scientist who actually knows what he's doing!)

Just imagine the outcry when the resulting child prodigy becomes old enough to lisp its first Socratic reflections in the form of a pithy modern-day Chanderlism:

"The unexamined life is not worth living, sweetheart -- Mind you, I can't say much for the examined life, either."

For today's story, however, we travel 25 years into the future, to the crime-bedeviled mansion of a blackmailed invalid by the name of General Deadwood, to bring you The Big Slip-Up.




eneral Deadwood: Oh, hello there, Marlowe. Please come in.


I'm not interrupting anything, am I?


What's that, Marlowe? Oh, no, no: I was just inappropriately fondling my secretary, that's all. Please, take a seat.


Earth to Marlowe: Stop gawking at my young and exceptionally pretty secretary, and pay attention: I'm about to tell you why I called you here today!


Yes, of course, General. You told me over the phone that the case involved some kind of nymphomaniacal daughter of yours, round about the age of Miss Chippy here, I believe.


The name is Dolly, Mister...


Marlowe. Socrates-Marlowe.


Socrates-Marlowe? Strange name for a Private Eye.


Yeah? Well, I'm thinking of going public in the fall, sweetheart, as soon as we get through the worst of the current bear market.



I could be quite bullish on such an investment, Mr. Socrates.


Well, just remember to read my curriculum vitae before investing.


I'll do that.


And remember: past performance is no guarantee of future results.


Nothing ventured, nothing gained.


Ahem! Are you two QUITE finished?


Oh, I'm sorry, General. Will you be needing anything else from me?


What, are you trying be funny, Dolly? Now, beat it. Me and Socrates here have business to discuss.


Yes, General.


Oh, but leave that feather duster, would you? It's a wonderful keepsake for a invalid my age. I think of you bending over in a short skirt every time I look at it.


General, you are encourageable!


Yeah, and don't you forget it.





Now then, about this nymphomaniacal daughter of yours --


Sorry, Marlowe, but I'd better start at the beginning. This case of mine is complicated, to put it mildly.


Suit yourself. The meter is running.


I myself can't keep track of all the principals in this affair without a cheat sheet. See? Look at this outline that Dolly typed up for me this very morning: There must be 100 names on there in small print, each with its own miniature biography.


Well, I'll be.


There's gambling kingpin Eddie Mars, a shady bookstore owner by the name of Arthur Geiger, a small-time pornographer name of Lundgren, a two-bit chiseler called Joe Brody -- let's see, who am I leaving out... and that's just the front bench of the 'away team,' so to speak.


You don't say?


Yes, indeed. And then, playing on the home court, we have my psychologically troubled daughter Carmen, her completely sane but understandably worried sister Vivian, Vivian's currently AWOL lout of a husband (the aptly named 'Rusty'), Shawn Fiddlestone, my new personal secretary of the male persuasion -- and good looking, girlfriend, I am telling you! I mean, woof! (Or rather I WOULD mean woof, if I weren't so busy admiring all the FEMININE wiles around this place -- who has time for the male ones, be they NEVER so dazzling!)

Let's see, who else? There's Norris the Butler, of course.


You called, sir?


Wow! Talk about service!


No, Norris. I was just pointing out that you, too, are up to your pretty little tuxedo collar in this business for which I've called in the great detective Marlowe here.


I'll be going then, shall I, sir?


What, you mean you're not already gone? (Humph! Servants these days!) Away, away!





Norris was voted Butler of the Year this year in Los Angeles Magazine.


I can see why.



We immediately framed the certificate and placed it prominently in the scullery so that even our most underpaid wastrels would be inspired to pursue a career path here at the mansion. We like to hire from within, you see.


Yes, General, but about the case!


Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Here, take a copy of the cheat sheet that Dolly created for me.


Wow, the case must be complex, indeed, with all these characters in it.


Are you kidding me? Why, even my own chauffeur (rest in peace) is mixed up in this thing -- or at least he was until last Thursday, when he reportedly drove his own car off of the nearby Lido fishing pier, apparently despairing over his ongoing inability to retrieve some allegedly compromising photographs of my daughter (the crazy one, I mean).


Aha! So the case involves blackmail.


Not so fast, Marlowe: I'd better start at the beginning.


You said that an hour ago, Deadwood: Now, make with the dope before I hoof it back to my beater, which is double-parked, by the way, in a handicapped zone -- and my clients pay all my traffic fines that I incur during regular business hours.


Fair cop, Marlowe. Fair cop.

Shawn, I see you peeping through the door there: Close it would you...




Um, Shawn. Try closing it again, but this time, if you could contrive to be on the outside of the door when it's closed, I would greatly appreciate it. Thank you so much, my friend. (Humph!)


Please, general!


Okay, okay: I'll describe my case from the beginning.


At last.


Provided that you then tell me why they call you Socrates.


Fair enough, General.


Strange name for a dick.


I beg your pardon?!


I said --


Oh, 'dick,' I get it: As in Detective, Shamus, Gumshoe, Sleuth, Snoop, Flatfoot --


Back atcha, Marlowe: Who's wasting whose time now, my good, sir, eh???


Okay, you got me, General. I'm through with my list of synonyms for 'Det..'


And NOW I can tell you all about my case.


I have one quick question, though.


Now, now.


Why do they call you 'infirm'? You look sound of body to me, albeit you're ugly as a mudtoad.


Oh, well, if you must know, I have a peg leg, okay? Happy now!


Can I see it?


No, you cannot see it! And if you make so much as one wisecrack about this little infirmity of mine, you're off the case.


Aha! So that means I'm on the case now, providing I don't say anything inappropriate about your bum leg, I mean! Thank you for making it official, sir!


Now, if I may FINALLY proceed... (Honestly, Marlowe, have you any idea how long this first act is becoming!?)


Who's stopping you?


You are!


Nonsense: Proceed, General: Tell us all about this 'case' of yours... I've got all the time in the world -- always assuming, of course, that you have all the money in the world, which I'm told you just about do, you old Croesus, you.




What?! What?! I'm silent: Begin!



eadwood: Now, then: Once upon a time, there was a two-bit blackmailer operating a porn racket under the guise of a rare bookstore.


Hold it right there. I think I've heard this story before?


Really?


Yeah. Isn't this the one where the blackmailer takes smutty pictures of a millionaire's nymphomaniacal daughter and then threatens to show them to the world if the Sugar Daddy in question doesn't cough up a significant chunk of do-re-mi?


How do you do it, Marlowe?


Call it women's intuition.


I beg your pardon?


I've been talking with a certain Daisy down at the hock shop on Milburn.


Oh?


She says she saw a Jane that looked a lot like Carmen hailing a cab in front of Geiger's place on Hollywood Boulevard, all tipsy like, like she had just taken a mickey -- or better yet been given one unawares. What's more there was a fat palooka in hot pursuit with a roscoe in his flippers.


Oh, you private detectives! I can't understand a word that you're saying. Now, who exactly are Jane and Mickey? And how did this Roscoe person suddenly get involved in the story? This alphabetized cheat sheet of mine has all the main players on it, and I see no 'Roscoe' either among the good guys or the bad!


Relax, Deadhead.


That's DeadWOOD.


I'm going to go bump gums with Geiger.


Bump gums?


Yeah, you know, make a little chin music.


Excuse me?


I'm gonna give him the third, okay, find out where he keeps these compromising pictures of your crazy daughter.


Tut-tut, before you leave...


Yes?


You said you were going to tell me how you got the first name of 'Socrates.'


Oh, that. Well, it's a little complicated, General. How much do you know about the reconstruction of genomes belonging to dead and/or extinct animals?


Only what I hear on NBC Nightly News with Ted Brokaw -- according to which, if I understand rightly, our scientists are on the verge of reanimating a woolly mammoth using (what was it?) mitochondrial DNA or something?


Not bad. Well, what if I were to tell you that I myself was created by 'our scientists' as you call them, from a human egg that was custom-coded with the DNA of Philip Marlowe?


I'd say, good for you -- but that still doesn't tell me why your first name is Socrates.


Yes, I was coming to that. Well, there was a mixup in the lab on the morning when that egg I mentioned was prepared.


Oh, dear.


It seems that the underpaid flunky that they assigned to my genetic 'creation' (or 're-creation,' if you will) got a little absent-minded during the business of egg manipulation and inadvertently inserted some DNA from Socrates into my 'ovum' along with the appropriate DNA from Philip Marlowe.


Outrageous.


You're telling me. Anyway, my old lady (rest in peace) thought that a hybrid name was appropriate under the circumstances to hint at what they then felt certain would eventually be the dual nature of my adult personality: namely half gumshoe, half egghead extraordinaire.


But I still don't get it: We've been talking together for over an hour now, and I have yet to hear you say one truly high-minded thing in the manner of the great Socrates for whom you've been at least partially named. If you're half Socrates, why are you always spouting home truths in the terse vernacular of a tramp?! Why don't we ever hear you absent-mindedly speculating on the ideality of chairs, for instance, or on the relative merits of oligarchy versus democracy?


Well, you can't expect me to be two people at once. Anyway, after 10 years of therapy, I've given my Socrates personality the heave-ho in favor of my detective persona.


Whatever for?


Suffice it to say, I'd rather make a measly salary as a private detective than make no salary at all as a philosophical gadfly, only to be unjustly killed before my time by jealous cronies with a deadly draft of hemlock.


Hmm, I didn't think of that.


But stick around: I always revert to the old Socrates personality whenever I let myself truly relax -- which is almost never, thank goodness, but once I wrap up this case of yours, come see me at the Golden Lion.


You'll be Socrates then, will you?


General, I will be as high-minded as a kite --


What?


After I throw back a little eel juice in celebration of a job well done.


There you go again with the confusing slang! What precisely is eel juice now?


You know, hooch, molasses: a Jorum of skee!


No, sorry. Still don't get it.


The man is squaresville.


I beg your pardon?


Look, Deadwood, I'm out of here. If you don't see me tomorrow, then check for me at the county morgue.


The county morgue -- gotcha. And where is that located?


Later, general. Don't wait up for me!


Oh, I almost forgot: I think my son-in-law might be mixed up in this too. One Terrence Regan, alias Rusty, my daughter Vivian's AWOL husband.


Remind me tomorrow if I happen to survive my coming rendezvous with your big fat greek blackmailer, Arthur Geiger.


Good luck.




Oh, NOW I remember: the morgue is right at the corner of Broad Street and Seventh. I shop down that way almost every day. Fancy me forgetting THAT! Ha ha!



was exiting the subway at Hollywood and Vine, musing, as usual, over the improbable banality of the local scenery, notwithstanding the legendary connotations of the address. Even the all-too-numerous pedestrians on the insufficiently wide sidewalk seemed to have gone out of their way today to be one-dimensional and cheerless. Of course, it didn't help that it was sporadically raining buckets and I had inadvertently left my umbrella at home, not to mention both my raincoat AND my poncho. Still, I was shaved and sober for once (miracles DO happen, after all) and I didn't care who knew it. I was even wearing the powder-blue suit in which I had solved my famous so-called "Big Sleep" case 10 years ago, right before she...
But that's all behind me now. That's water (or rather moonshine) over the Golden Gate Bridge. I was going to solve the Deadwood case now and prove to the world that I, Socrates T. Marlowe III, was not yet past my "sell-by" date, thank you very much, at least when it came to solving crimes. True, I was currently wearing what Daisy at the hock shop would later inform me was a 'ridiculously short' tie, but ignorance is bliss for a fashion-challenged gumshoe such as myself, and the positive impression evoked by my somewhat misplaced sense of self-confidence no doubt compensated for any negative impression generated by the faux pas itself.

I was rounding the corner at Orange Street, just in time to bypass the upcoming long gray line of diehard brolly-toting tourists loitering, as it seemed to me, rather disconsolately over the Walk of Fame in front of the faux-Chinese facade of Grauman's Theatre. Word on the street had it that Geiger's place was nearby, directly opposite the valet entrance to the Hotel Roosevelt. I frisked the rain-soaked insides of my famous suit coat, just to make sure that my heater was still locked and loaded. Of course, I hoped to keep things low-key by posing as just another customer who was there to buy a (wink, wink) "rare book," but I was feeling on top of my game that day, and I feared that Geiger would sense as much and thereby peg me as a shamus -- or at very least as a man on a mission, and that fact alone must necessarily appear highly suspicious to a man in his position. They say fat people are jolly, and who knows? maybe this blackmailing tubbo here will be no exception. The only question is: will he be laughing WITH me or AT me?

Something didn't add up. Every time I threw my deductive dice, I was coming up with snake-eyes. How could a simple case of blackmail involve a cast of thousands like this? It did not compute. And then suddenly who did I see but...



Hey, buddy, watch where you're going, would ya? You practically ran straight into me there!





Coming through! Watch your step, folks.




Oh, never mind! Just FORGET it! They've spoiled it now. Humph!


Yoo-hoo! Detective.


I couldn't believe my eyes (and that's saying a lot considering the fact that I had laser eye surgery just last month!): It was General Deadwood's "other" daughter: you know, the sane one -- Vivian, I believe her name was. But what was she doing here? Had someone tipped her off to my itinerary? I thought her big concern was finding her husband: Rusty what's-his-name. Why would she come way out here in this weather to discuss such matters at the scene of a completely unrelated crime? Or could it be that the husband's disappearance is, in fact, somehow related to the smutty photographs of her sister Carmen and the ongoing blackmailing of General Deadwood? The questions kept rising like bread dough in the yeasty palms of Julia Child -- no, strike that -- like Phoneix out of the interrogatory ashes of its collective... its collective... hmm, I'll have to come back to that one, I'm afraid Anywhoo....

I was just about to start catechizing the attractive sane girl on these very subjects when I suddenly stopped:

What did I think I was doing? An ad hoc interrogation of this type would doubtless take up a good half-hour if not more (while transpiring, no doubt, in the ritzy seclusion of some nearby cafe, possibly the notoriously expensive Cafe Audrey just up the Boulevard at the corner of Las Palmas).

In other words, I could interview the good-looking Vivian Deadwood all I wanted to -- but dramaturgical decorum dictated that I wait until Scene IV to do so! Humph!

(Whew! Caught myself just in time.)



he Cafe Audrey bills itself as "a relaxing haven, evoking both taste and glamour," but the scandal-ridden storyline that Vivian fed me there made me nervous all the same. It proved, however, that there were certain facts about this blackmail case of which Deadwood Sr. had neglected to inform me. For starters, Arthur Geiger was in actuality an undercover detective (albeit a big fat Greek one) who had gotten a job at the rare books shop in an attempt to gather evidence against a certain Eddie Mars, a gangster kingpin suspected of financing the Orange Street operation. Geiger had yet to find any evidence against Mars, but the case was heating up after a local fisherman found a badly mutilated body in the L.A. Aqueduct. It turned out to be the mortal remains of one Sven Lundgren, a two-bit pornographer and police informant who had used his connections with some local heavies to help Geiger get the job in the first place. The detective's own life was now probably in danger, although he was so far ignoring his handlers' nightly pleas via secure telephone line for him to back off, insisting that he's on the verge of a breakthrough in the case, and that he's safe, at least for now, since the hatchet men who guard the store still appeared to be buying his act. Vivian was worried, however, and asked me to check on him after our little chat.

Vivian explained this series of bombshell developments with frustrating matter-of-factness while browsing on a house salad, even pausing at one point to disingenuously offer me a large handful of onions with which her plate had been lavishly decorated despite her explicit orders to the contrary. The doll had some nerve, I'd give her that. She was as cool as the iceberg lettuce that she was eating while making these extraordinary revelations. Still, it didn't make sense: How had this probably spoiled (if extremely sexy) daughter come to know that Geiger was working undercover, much less to know the agent so well that she was concerned about his personal well-being? Why would the General, for his part, accuse an undercover cop of attempted blackmail? Could it be that Deadwood's claims of blackmail were just a ruse to enlist me in a probably much more dangerous case, one that I'd probably be smart enough to refuse if I knew what it involved? And does that, in turn, mean that there are no so-called compromising photographs of a fabulously beautiful but crazy nymphomaniac after all? (Not fair!)

I patiently let Vivian finish her harangue, however, figuring that my best strategy for the moment would be to keep her ignorant of the ever-growing list of questions that she was arousing in me. I had to be sure that she had played all her cards before I upped the ante with a cross-examination. Besides, I had been so favorably impressed by the menu's wide assortment of pastries that I had forgotten my original plan to order a simple cup of coffee for this interview and was now going to work instead on the place's signature carrot cake, pausing between bites, however, to absent-mindedly ponder the significance of the la
plot twist that had been introduced by this Lucy Loose Lips across the table from me.


There's just one thing that troubles me about your story, Vivian.


Oh, yeah? What's that?


Everything. Everything about your story troubles me.


Oh, you're just sore because you naively fell for that cock-and-bull story of my old man.


But I don't get it: what possible motive could he have for misleading me like that, thereby making his own case harder for me to solve?


He was testing you. He had to be sure that you weren't one of the many dicks in this town that are on the payroll of Eddie Mars.


Aha, so then Mars is the blackmailer, is he? (Waiter, bring me the check, please.)


He's got to be behind it somehow. (That's okay, waiter: I'll pay.)


Eddie Mars, huh? That's a pretty big fish. (Waiter, if you hand her the check, you're getting no tip at all.)


Well, well: Chivalry is not dead among the working classes.


Yes, well, we hard-boiled and seemingly disillusioned cops are often gentle misunderstood souls at bottom with a residual core of optimism deep within.



No doubt, no doubt... But shouldn't you go check on Geiger now, just to make certain that his cover hasn't been blown?


Yes, you're right. In fact, come to think of it, I should have checked on him a good half-hour ago when you first described his plight to me -- but then I made the mistake of opening the pastry menu, and old Geiger immediately slipped right out of my mind.


Better late than never.


Yes, and then there's THAT.


Always assuming, of course, that Geiger hasn't been killed in the interim, due in large part to your almost breathtaking laziness.


Well, you're one to talk: In case you have forgotten, I was on my way to visit Geiger -- nay, at the very door of the sham enterprise that he is risking his life to investigate -- when suddenly you show up out of nowhere, demanding that we hold virtually instantaneous parlay!


Okay, maybe I was a trifle overeager to impart my bombshell.


Bombshells plural you mean: As in cluster bombshells.


O Marlowe, speak no more: Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. (Not.)





Girl, you are weird, do you know that? (Oh, good here comes the check. Waiter!)


Should I go with you?


Only if you want to blow my cover.


That might be fun.


Now I'll just sign this Visa chit here -- Mr. John Hancock Marlowe... -- thereby at least slightly modifying the eventual size of your enormous inheritance from our Sugar Daddy General... and I'm off.


Good luck, Marlowe.


Thanks.





Well, well: What was that for?


Let's just say that I have a soft spot for hard-boiled and seemingly disillusioned cops...


I see.


Especially the kind...




that are really gentle...




misunderstood souls at bottom...




with a great big residual core...




of...




of...




What was that residual core full of, Marlowe?





What? Oh, I, um, believe it was optimism.


Oh, yes, that's it: with a residual core of optimism...




deep...




within.


Yes! Whoo-hoo! That's what I'm talkin' about now! Er, but, say, Vivian: if your AWOL husband were to waltz in that door right now, he'd no doubt give me a bad case of lead poisoning.


How's that?


You know, he'd plug me with a gat.


Come again?


He'd SHOOT me, you know, with a g-u-n GUN -- and he'd shoot you, too, I shouldn't wonder.


Don't tell me the big strong detecty-wective is scared!


Besides, duty calls. And now without further adieu... adieu.





By the way, Marlowe, that ex of mine?


Yeah, what about him?


He won't be bothering anybody soon, I can promise you that.


Oh, really?





That's right, because I've got one final bombshell for you this afternoon:





Well, don't just stand there, Vivian: Open the Bombay doors!


My ex husband, Rusty...


Yes, yes?





...is dead!



o, Terrance "Rusty" Regan was dead, was he? Well, it certainly looked like Vivian had made her peace with that fact, so much so that I half suspected her of murdering him herself. Then again, the General was not in the Terrance Regan fan club either, having adverted to his daughter's ex as an AWOL "lout" during our recent confab at the manor house. Of course the true significance of the death could not be determined until I had figured out why the Deadwoods had hired me in the first place. Did they expect me to run interference between themselves and the mob while they worked behind-the-scenes to bring down Eddie Mars, with a little undercover help from the L.A. police department? If so, what was their motivation for dethroning this particular gambling kingpin at this particular time? And where did a dead ex-husband fit into the story, let alone a dead ex-chauffeur and a dead police informant? And what about that two-bit chiseler named Joe Brody, the Deadwoods' award-winning Butler Norris, and/or that mysterious but apparently good-looking new-hire named Shawn, the one with the suspiciously vague title of "personal assistant"? And what about this crazy Carmen lady: does she exist at all, much less as the kidnapped nymphomaniacal sister that the General had taken such pains to describe to me in his original letter about the case? The questions kept piling up in my mind like Matchbox cars in a chain collision orchestrated by a sadistic 4-year-old: as in Bang, Crash, Ker-blooie! My immediate job was clear enough, however: I had to check up on an undercover agent named Arthur Geiger at the naughty book shop across from the Roosevelt Hotel on Orange Street, you know, just to make sure that he wasn't dead or anything like that.

Fine, I thought: I'll at least have time en route to finish that voice-over description of Vivian that I was providing for the reader before I was so rudely interrupted.

Let's see, how did that go again? Oh, yes:



No, wait a minute, that was my ex-girlfriend. Besides, it was Comme des Garcons, not Ralph Lauren. Oh, I know:


Hey, mister, can you give me a dollar?





Come on, mister!


Not now, I'm busy.




Looks to me like you's just talkin' to yourself.


How's that? Oh, I'm talking into my blueberry, okay? or whatever they call it. Now, would you leave me alone?


Come on, man, just one lousy dollar.


Oh, very well. (Honestly, a fella can't walk down the street these days without feeling like a bank manager taking loan applications.) There's your dollar: Now beat it.


God bless you (you old skinflint #!@!#).


Right, now where was I? Something about Perrier Jouet and the moon. Oh, forget it, the store's right in front of me now anyway. Besides, I dare say I've made my case for the timeless beauty of one Vivian Deadwood.

Now I'll just make one more check for my trusty bean-shooter -- and then I'll open up the front door real slow like.

Hello? Shop! Shop!

That's funny: the place seems to be empty!

Yo! Somebody! Anybody!

Hmm, I wonder where they keep all of the "wink wink" books that they sell.

I'll just have a look in this dim little back room here and...

AAAAAH!

I'll give you 100 guesses what had just happened, and the first 99 don't count.

If you think I just saw a dead body, all but swimming in an Olympic-size pool of blood, go to the head of the class, sweetheart.

At least I assumed that the stiff in question was Geiger -- and it certainly looked like blood.

I was moving closer to verify both impressions, when my progress was arrested by a voice behind me in the basso profundo portion of the musical scale croaking the six words that every gumshoe dreads to hear:

'Don't move: I've got you covered!'



ddie Mars: That's it, turn around real slow like.


Well, if it isn't the elusive Eddie Mars.


Socrates-Marlowe, eh?


Okay, now that the introductions are over, perhaps you'd like to surrender to me as part of a citizen's arrest on my part.


No, thank you.


Well, it was a long shot, but I had to ask you, just in case.


No, I think the best thing for me to do would be to shoot you repeatedly with this gatling gun and then leave town with the ill-begotten booty of yet another successful scam.


You'll never get away with this, Eddie.


Oh? And why not?


Because General Deadwood and his daughter Vivian are both training their respective pistols on the back of your neck at this very moment.


You don't expect me to believe that, do you?


I don't know, Eddie: What he says has the ring of truth.


Why, General Deadwood -- and his attractive daughter -- the sane one.


The same.


At least I think you're the sane one: What year is it and who is the president?


Why, it's 1954, of course, and the President is...


Psst! Ike!


Let's have no help from the peanut gallery, please.


Let's see, I know we had Truman for a while...


Truman? In 1954?


That's NOT my final answer. I'm just talking out loud here.


Oh, come on, Vivian: You KNOW this!


It wouldn't be... Eisenhower, would it?


Yes, she got it! Whoo-hoo!


Okay, fine, so she's the sane one: Big deal.


That reminds me: Where is the much ballyhooed crazy daughter of yours with the nymphomaniacal tendencies?


The answer may surprise you.





Why, it's Daisy from the hock shop down on Milburn.


How's it goin', big boy?!


But I've known you for a year now and you've always been the picture of propriety in my presence, may heaven forgive you. I thought nymphos such as yourself were supposed to take major liberties with good-looking hombres such as myself.


Oh, very well. I've got a full schedule though. Let's see... What are you doing a week from Thursday at 11:00 A.M.?


Daughter, I've already disowned you three times in the past for behavior of this kind. The next time I do it, it just might stick.


Oh, pa: I can't have ANY fun.


This is all charming dialog, no doubt, but I'm eager to get down to police headquarters so that one of my well-paid toadies down there can let me off with a very stern warning, indeed.


All right, Eddie, you first. You coming with us, Marlowe?


Nah, I think I'm going to get a few drinks' head start on you guys at the Golden Lion.


That's right, you invited me to the Golden Lion after you solved the case so that I can see you morph into your rarely assumed character of Socrates, the ancient Greek philosopher.





You see, Marlowe here is what they call a genetic hybrid, on account of some screw-up at a genetics lab.


Oh, how interesting!


Yeah: Seems he's half Philip Marlowe and half... (wait for it, Mars)...


Half who?


Half Socrates! Can you believe it, Mars?!


It's a long story -- but you're all invited to the Golden Lion tonight to hear it -- all the good guys among us, at least.


I'm BASICALLY good, Marlowe, deep down inside.



Eddie!


Well, deep, deep, DEEP down, you understand.


It's deep, all right -- like Dante's 7th circle of hell! Ha ha!


Very funny, Deadwood.


We'll see you tonight, Marlowe, at the Golden Lion.


As long as you, General, will oblige me by tying up the loose ends of this drama.


What loose ends?


Well, I still don't see why your chauffeur drove his car off the pier, nor why Vivian's ex-husband bit the big one.


Bit the big -- Oh, I see: Tonight then, 8:00-ish. By the way, Eddie Mars, I arrest you in the name of the -- well, I just arrest you, that's all.


You can't just arrest me: You've got to arrest me in the name of something.


He's right, General: You have to cite SOME authority.


Oh, I... I arrest you in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy spirit, okay? Now, about face, and forward, march!


What HE said.


Don't forget your appointment, Marlowe, next Thursday morning at 11:00 at the Hock Shop on Milburn.


Oh, you wanton hussy!


Aw, go easy on her, General. Her wantonness is probably genetic.


Genetic? How do you mean?


Well, you know how I'm genetically half Socrates and half Marlowe, right?


Right.


Well, I bet she's half Mother Teresa and half Mae West.


Yeah, well, she'd still better watch out, because when it comes to genetics, I may be half 'reasonable father' and half Captain Bligh!


I think Dolly, your secretary, would testify to genetic presence of a little Hugh Hefner, too, in your naughty little genome, General.



100 clams says that the hanky-panky that you're probably alluding to never happened, Marlowe.


Oho! So the case does involve blackmail, after all?


What blackmail?


General Deadwood, I hereby blackmail you in the name of the father, of the son, and of the holy spirit.


Amen.





Oh, you guys think you're SO funny! Now, let's get this guy downtown before the statute of limitations kicks in!


Incidentally, I think I know why you REALLY hired me, Deadwood.


Oh, yeah?


Yeah. I've just had a talk with with the editorial staff down at the Post. It seems they were working on a story about your amatory dalliances with your various good-looking secretaries, including the guys, I might add --


What?


Which sheds a whole new light on a certain chauffeur's one-way trip to Davy Jones' Locker.


I didn't kill him, if that's what you mean. I merely suggested to Jeremy that it might be a good time for him to vacation in the Bahamas at my expense after faking his own suicide. He was perfectly free to ignore my advice.


Well, I can't speak for the good guys here, but I myself am shocked by these revelations. Indeed, I never thought I'd be able to say this, but here goes nothing:


Tsk-tsk-tsk! Deadwood! Tsk-tsk-tsk! Ha ha!


Droll. Very droll.


So you thought you'd launch a preemptive strike on the PR front before that story came out by conspicuously campaigning to remove immoral influences from L.A. bookstores, starting with the infamous Eddie Mars and his rare books pornography shop.


Easy there, Marlowe: If you make the entire story public here and now, you're not going to be able to blackmail Deadwood for dozens of highly remunerative years to come.


Right. Now if everybody is finished destroying my character, can we take this kingpin downtown?

Carmen and Vivian: Papa, we're shocked -- sort of. True, we always knew you were a trifle weird, but...


How's that?


Don't go too hard on him, ladies, until we can get a full run-down on his genome. After all, I've already excused Carmen here for being a wanton hussy because I know that her genes predispose her to be one. So it's only fair that we wait and see what genetic baggage that the General here has been schlepping around with him all these years before we tease him for his amatory faux pas with his various attractive servants -- until then, let's suspend judgment.


Yeah, just like I'm going to suspend your paycheck, Marlowe, if you don't help me take this guy downtown this very second. Now, let's move it, people.


What about MY genetic history?


Nice try, Mars, but I've already checked into that.


Oh, yeah?


Yeah. It seems like you were genetically meant to be a saintly philanthropist --


No, really?


And seeing how you failed to become one of your own free will, we are perfectly justified in treating you as a scumbag.


Oh, really?
. Well, thanks for checking, anyway.