***Out In The 1950s Film Noir Night- With Robert Mitchum And Jane Russell’s Macao In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Sometimes a guy, a guy on the lam, a guy wanted elsewhere for this and that, or just a restless guy, a guy who has seen his share of the world’s woes without even looking for them, has got to do what a guy has to do. Ditto with a gal, ditto on that on the lam, or just restless, gal has got to do what a gal has to do theme. And sometimes, not by accident I am sure, that restless guy longing for some stability meets up with that restless gal, ditto on the stability meet up, meet up in Macao (although that is not the only locale where such perhaps star-crossed meetings could take place, not by a long shot). Macao will do just as well as any other locale when the restless need the background of an open city, an exotic city, a no holds barred city, a place to not be from city, a place that is not wherever your last port of call was. That was Macao back the wild west days when Robert and Jane met up, met up to find some stability and to see if they were indeed star-crossed, or something.

Naturally a story goes with it, or rather stories when you are talking about male and female waifs, about drifters, grifters and midnight sifters (and in Macao that last category was full to the brim with candidates for the jobs). Him, Robert, a big rough, tough guy, a guy who could take a punch and throw one, who you would not mind having in your corner when the bad stuff comes down, no, who you want right behind your back on those occasions, as it will eventually come to in a wide open town, where rough-hewn guys, or guys who think they are rough-hewn guys, life is cheap in the Orient, come a dime a dozen, maybe cheaper. A guy with some trouble hanging over him back in the States, probably some woman (or women) trouble, and in any case a guy who was footloose and like a lot of guys who saw heavy service during the war (World War II for those who are asking) had trouble settling down to some nine to five niche waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her, Jane, a knock-out brunette, all woman, all woman enough for any man to handle, even rough-hewn guys, a woman who could handle herself in the clinches, or be handled in those same clinches, depending on her mood, and she too of indeterminate means and where froms. She called herself a singer like a lot of white girls on the loose did in those days, and not just in Asia, a lot of girls trying to avoid the whorehouses and the pawings, trying to hit the high notes like Peggy Lee did when she grooved with Benny Goodman or the sultry Billie Holiday low and sweet did always but never having that just right mix of slavery times and hard times to pull it off. But with enough eye candy appeal to have the customers, the male customers, in any clip joint gasping for air. Yah, she had done a few round-heel things in her time to get by, just like any girl would. But working the whorehouses, the clubs, or working some rich sugar daddy she was her own woman. And she could always sing a little. So they met, met sliding one afternoon into Macao, and what of it.

The what of it was that the town was sewed up, sewed up tight by Vince, Vince Halloran, yah that Halloran, the one who ran everything from numbers, hookers, illegal liquor on up to high- grade opium like Macao was his private plantation. And it was. Everything, everything worth owning anyway was signed, sealed and delivered to Vince. And nobody, nobody alive squawked. There was the rub though the because international police were very interested in Brother Vince, very interested in taking him down a notch. They were on to something until one of their own took a Vince-inspired knife in the back. They then responded like cops everywhere do when one of their own goes down, good or bad, and the cop they had working the case was already in Vince’s right (or was it left) pocket. So they put on the heat. Sent another cop in to bust one Vincent Halloran for good.

But even an edgy, cagy, nervous guy like Vince is not going to crumble over an off-hand murder of a cop, not in Macao anyway. And not when Jane showed up at his door looking for a job (as his mistress, a singer in his Kit Kat Club, or to work in his high-end whorehouse, take your pick, she came to Macao broke) to break his concentration. And not when, cagy and all, clever guy and all, Robert turned up at same door looking, looking for something. And Vince decided two things, first, he was going to have at Jane no matter what, and no matter who he has to step over to get her in his bed full-time, and second, he decided, erroneously not having been back in the States for a long time and seen restless guys like Robert hanging off every street corner, that Robert smelled of cop. Robert had to laugh at that one.

Despite, or maybe because of, the hazards of those two driving schemes in the end guys like Vince try to stretch it too far, try to think just because they own some two-bit city that they own everything and everybody passing through. Jane did not, repeat did not tumble to Vince, not her kind, not rough-hewn enough after she eyed Robert, and not rich enough to keep her holed up like some pet in Macao. She would be the first to tell you, like she told Robert when he tried move in too fast on her, she was good in the clinches either way and she dropped Vince the first way like a piece of dirt. And Robert, reaching back into some old-fashioned memory bank remembered that he had done his military service to rid the world of the Vinces. And while one Vince in the world more or less was not going to change things it might change the balance just a little. And so Vince was served up, served up to those international police, and Vince will have many a starless night to think where his judgment went wrong. Yah, and that Jane, according to Robert, proved pretty good in the clinches… both ways.