The Big Sleep, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, based on Raymond Chander's novel, Warner Brothers, 1946
A private detective, a private dick, gumshoe, shamus, call them what you will has to be tough, tough as nails, in this wicked old world unless he, or she, wants to end up face down in a muddy back street down Sonora way, or something like that. No, not some peeping tom who hardly works up a sweat peeking through keyholes for kicks in some low- rent alimony case and gets twenty-five a day plus expenses (must be for the camera film) and works out of some seedy downtown office building with the pimps, failed dentists, and repo men as co-tenants. And not some strictly muscle, some ex-contender, who took more falls that rounds, an ex- contender with cauliflower for ears, and most definitely not some ex-cop thrown off the force for being just a little too corrupt shaking down Aunt Millie for coffee and cakes and she turned out to be connected, or for forgetting protocol and not kicking back to the captain his fair share. No, more a guy like this guy Marlowe, Philip Marlowe, who used work the coast, the left coast if anybody is asking. A guy with some brains, a guy who could figure the angles quick, and a guy who was not afraid to take a punch or slug in the chest for the good of the cause. A guy who was not afraid to tilt at windmills once in a while, okay.
Like this last caper of his, a classic one of the guys at Jimmy’s Grille was talking about. Seems this old ship wreck of guy, some old oil boomer who made his dough, build himself a castle, and wasn’t afraid to spent it, out on the coast, the left coast, okay, was looking for an old drinking companion, a guy Marlowe knew, knew by reputation, was a straight guy, a guy who all of a sudden went missing. Reason: unknown. Whereabouts: unknown. Leads: none. Yes, a Marlowe job. Add in this cute little fact the old goat has a couple of, well, lively, daughters and young (which shows he knew how to spend his time well after he hit pay dirt) who liked, as lively and young daughters with time on their hands will, to hang around with tough guys, and in tough joints, well maybe not so tough but expensive. So Marlowe, and it doesn’t take a detective, private at twenty-five a day and expenses or public at whatever the traffic will bear to figure that, at best had his hands full.
Hands full when baby sister liked to get high, high as kite, didn’t mind a guy or seven making an easy pass at her, and liked the wheel at a tough guy’s little club. Trouble was she didn’t want to pay the tariff so said tough guy tries the old squeeze play. And runs smack into Marlowe. The older, kind of wild in her own way, sister (hell, she married the old man’s drinking companion on a whim), a looker too, if more discreet than younger sis doesn’t seem to concerned that her hubby has vanished. So this whole thing stinks of frame-up, blackmail, and too many loose ends, way too many. But Marlowe liked the old geezer and so, yes, he will tilt at those windmills, take a few punches on the face, drink a lonely scotch or two, drink a friendly scotch or two, and find the old man’s buddy, or find out what happened to him. Yes, Marlowe had to be tough, tough as nails, on this one, especially when tough guys tried that old end around move, and younger sister really did need to be house trained.
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