Classic Noir: The Long Goodbye (1973) by K A Laity

Crime Fiction, Films, K A Laity, Kim Morgan, Noir, Private Eye, Pulp, Punk Noir Magazine, Writing

Classic Noir: The Long Goodbye (1973)

I read the novel so long ago (back in my L. A. days so looooong ago) I could only remember the basics of the story. There were probably more of them in the original script by the legend Leigh Brackett, but Robert Altman’s style of filmmaking always left room for improvisation and Elliott Gould—unlikely to be most director’s ideal choice to play Phillip Marlowe—works well here.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen this film that likewise memory proves unreliable. So much has changed in the mean time, too. I’ve been soaking in noir and neo-noir for so long now it’s altered my view on the genre, mostly to be much more accommodating. I dug out my vintage paperback to read later and sat down on a sunny Saturday afternoon to visit 1973 Los Angeles with Elliot Gould and co and Vilmos Zsigmond’s singular cinematography.

The ginger cat is the one thing everybody remembers. I should write a book about ginger cats in noir. You can’t cheat a cat. Chandler loved cats. The scene feels genuine to any cat lover: having fallen asleep in his clothes, Marlowe is awakened by the moggy landing on his belly. Ouch. He has no choice but to drag himself out at 3am in his 1948 Lincoln convertible to the 24 hour food store. The car is a nice touch, signaling Marlowe a throwback to another time, Chandler’s idea of the P.I. as a kind of knight with a code.

Then there’s the candle dippers next door. The topless women would feel more gratuitous if they didn’t have a totally believable and completely natural hippy languor. Asking Marlowe to pick up boxes of brownie mix and doing elaborate yoga poses on the balcony at night. The iconic High Tower provides an unforgettable location for Marlowe’s home, outdone only by the Malibu Colony. Apparently the Ward’s house was the one Altman was living in at the time.

Nina van Pallandt embodies the concerned wife with just enough difference from the mostly Californian cast to make her thinking seem mysterious but believable. Sterling Hayden is a legend and manages to uphold that without chewing scenery which would be easy to do in the role of the writer who can no longer write, who is drunk and angry with the world, not necessarily in that order. Allegedly inspired by Chandler’s own struggles as his wife was dying. Ward’s death is changed from the novel and pays off much better, especially in how it affects Marlowe, who develops a fondness for the difficult man. The drinking scene with Hayden and Gould was largely improvised and has an authentic feel.

Henry Gibson, best known at the time as a gentle poet on Laugh-In, is super creepy and menacing in a really unsettling way as the dry-out doctor trying to extort money from Wade.

Jim Bouton, better known for baseball and even more so for his tell-all memoir Ball Four about that career, makes his film debut as the pal asking Marlowe for a lift to Mexico with some suspicious injuries including a clawed face.

What feels most 70s about this movie is the cops. Well, not that they’ve changed much in L.A. according to my friends who still live there. That gritty, don’t care about anything attitude and the clothes—those awful seventies clothes that modern films never quite get right—they provide a good target for Marlowe’s dogged resistance. The ink interrogation scene is another improvised scene.

I had to look it up, but yeah, there’s a portrait of Leonard Cohen in the Ward’s house because Altman was a fan. Speaking of fans, I love the gatekeeper at the Colony and his impressions of the stars.

A cool thing: except for ‘Hooray for Hollywood’ that opens and closes the film, all the other music is variations of the theme tune by Johnny Mercer and John Williams—even the dirge played in the scenes in Mexico. It’s a great thematic device that gives the picture aural coherence.

The changed ending is often credited to Altman, but it was part of Brackett’s original script which was shopped around for some years before finally coming together with this unexpected group of talents. It works. The final scene is almost an inverse of The Third Man’s iconic ending, with a harmonica in place of the jaunty zither.

Well worth a revisit if it’s been a while for you, too. If you’ve not seen it, a treat awaits. Bonus: here’s a great interview with Gould by Kim Morgan.


John Wisniweski interviews Dana King

Crime Fiction, Dana King, Interviews, John Wisniewski, Private Eye, Punk Noir Magazine

JW: When did you begin writing, Dana? Did you write short stories? 

DK: I did start with short stories, in 1993. I was in the process of getting divorce and what I had been calling my musical career was coming to a close. There was talk of a recent trumpet audition having been fixed, which is no crime but it meant a lot of people spent time and money flying to the audition not knowing the winner had already been decided. I wrote a short story about a private detective who used to be a trumpet player who is asked to look into it. It’s sort of a parody of Mickey Spillane and used my friends as characters. It was great fun to write and everyone liked it, so I wrote another for my job at the time, then another for the next job until people said I should think of writing a novel. Looking back, I have the same feelings most authors have about their very early works, that I had no idea what I was doing and I’d never show them to anyone now. On the other hand, that first story was the basis for my third Nick Forte novel, The Man in the Window, which did earn me a Shamus nomination, so it couldn’t have been all bad.

JW: Any favorite crime pulp authors?

A: I have a handful who started out in the pulps but made their names as novelists, and it’s the usual suspects: Hammett, Chandler, Cain, John D. Macdonald. I guess strictly speaking Donald Westlake and Evan Hunter (Ed McBain) cut their teeth on the tail end of the pulps but are of a different generation.

JW: Could you tell us Dana, about writing your book The Man in the Window which won the Shamus award?

DK: Actually, it didn’t win, but I like the way you think.

The Man in the Window takes Nick Forte back to his musical roots and also marks the beginning of his descent as the violence and injustice he’s encountered start to wear him down. The original short story was written as a satire and much of the humor remains in the book, but the novel is much darker. The title refers to the final scene, where Forte catches his reflection and starts to wonder what kind of man he is becoming. By the time we get to the next two Forte books (A Dangerous Lesson and Bad Samaritan), as well as his guest appearance in Grind Joint, Forte is more accepting of what he has become and starts to embrace it. I have an idea for a story down the road where he essentially becomes his own psycho sidekick.

JW: What makes a good crime novel? What inspired you to write?

DK: To me a good crime novel allows me to look at situations through the eyes of one or more or the characters and play along. “What would I do here?” or “How would I feel if this happened to me?” I’ll confess that means I don’t “get” everyone. I’m not going to name names but there are great writers out there, whose greatness I readily acknowledge, but their stories don’t reach me because I can’t identify with the characters’ situations.

I was inspired to write after that first Forte story was well received. I was out of work and had large chunks of time to read and a good library nearby. I picked up some Robert B. Parker novels and read of how much he was influenced by Raymond Chandler, so I read some Chandler. I read The Big Sleep and that put the hook in me. Then I watched Double Indemnity because Chandler wrote the screenplay, which led to me reading Cain’s novel. That reeled me in. For those who haven’t read the book, get busy. The ending is quite a bit different from the movie and one of the most powerful I’ve read. I remember finishing and just sitting there holding the book thinking, “Damn.” The people who are that good can meet comfortably in my living room (I would not be there), but reading something like that is the carrot that dangles in front of all writers.

JW: Could you tell us about creating the Nick Forte character, Dana?

DK: Forte was easy: he’s me. He’s the main character of the first story I wrote with thinlydisguised descriptions of my friends playing the supporting characters. He’s my age and size (at the time I created him, that is), a divorced dad who’s painfully aware that no matter how much energy he devotes to being a father it’s not the same as actually living in the house, and has a musical background that’s a couple of careers distant from what he’s doing now.

James Ellroy once said that Chandler wrote the kinds of main characters he wished he was and that Hammett wrote the kinds of main characters he was afraid he might be. Nick Forte is the man I’m afraid I could be if given his circumstances, experiences, and skill set.

JW: Is Penns River a location you created, or a real locale? 

DK: Penns River is real but not under that name. It’s an amalgam of three small cities in Western Pennsylvania where I grew up. I use an many real locations as I can and read the local paper on the Internet to keep current with what’s going on there and grab the occasional story idea. These are towns where the economy dried up in the 70s when the steel and aluminum industries pretty much left the Pittsburgh area. Pittsburgh recovered and is back probably better than ever, but many of the smaller cities up and down river did not. Pens River is one of those cities.

JW: Could we talk about Grind Joint and Wild Bill. What may have inspired you?

DK: Very separate inspirations for those two.

Wild Bill is that rare example of what non-writers think happens all the time: it came to me in a dream. Well, the ending, anyway. I was in that half awake, half asleep state and the germ of a scene came to me. I let my imagination wander and by the time it was done I had the climactic scene and the plot twist set. Took me several years to come up with a story that led to that ending. There was a major mob trial in Chicago that opened up some inside material on the Outfit that picked up about the time Gus Russo’s outstanding book The Outfit left off. I knitted the two together and came up with a book
I’m proud of even though as my only standalone it doesn’t get the attention of the series books.

Grind Joint is the result of driving through my old home town in Western Pennsylvania and seeing an abandoned strip mall. Two formerly major department stores (Ward’s and Penney’s) connected by some local businesses and restaurants. All the business moved out at least ten years earlier and the building looked it. I lived in Maryland then and the state was pushing casino gambling as a way to solve the state’s economic issues. I pointed to the abandoned mall and said to The Beloved Spouse, “They should put a casino in there. Everyone in Penns River gets well.” After that it was a matter of thinking how such a casino would affect the exiting power structure in town.




Close To The Bone, Crime Fiction, Fiction, Horror, Mark Slade, Private Eye, Punk Noir Magazine, Short Stories



Here’s a story for you.

This was about eight or nine years ago, just when I first bought the building which has become my shop/office/place of residency.

Francis and her friend Jan came in my shop by accident. There was a pale blue box sitting on the counter by an old book of Virginia folk songs. They stood at the door, looking about the cluttered place. Francis wasn’t keen on staying. She felt claustrophobic. Dust floated about in the air, which always caused Francis skin to itch, and her nose to twitch. Jan wandered around touching books stacked above her head and different pieces of pottery with missing parts. She found a record trough and immediately began thumbing through them. Francis didn’t move an inch, for fear of catching scurvy or worse.

“Look at this,” Jan said shaking her head. “My mother’s vinyl collection. Nothing worse than Rick Astley.” She looked up at Francis. “Oh no. You’re not having one of your germ fits again.”

“I’m not moving an inch until we leave.” Francis’ face tightened in a frown.

“You’re hopeless.”  Jan went back to flipping through the records.

“You said this was a shoe store.” Francis said in a huff.

Francis looked at the sign that hung above her. Francis stood under the flailing sign and mouthed both names. EVELINA’S CURIOSITY SHOPPE, EVELINA GILES: WITCH. The other side said Haverty’s. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.

“I haven’t had time to buy a proper sign,” I said. “Nor the capitol, for that matter.”

Francis shrugged. “It happens.”

I felt her eyes move up and down on me, and her disapproval. She walked away and went to her friend Jan. They whispered back and forth. I was curious as what they were saying to each other. Because both of them took turns glancing at me and went back whispering. I know what you’re going to say. Who cares what people think? Yeah, right. You do. And so do I!

So I thought of the spell and rewound the tape so to speak. Then I thought of another spell that made their whispers easier to hear.

“Who the hell does she think she is?” Francis said.

Jan looked at me. “She says she owns this place? No way. She’s all of twenty?”

“Mhm,” Francis said. “I thought she was fifteen. She’s a teeny bopper trying to dress like mommy.”

“Oh my God,” Jan muffled a chuckle with the palm of her hand. “That skirt is wayyyyyy too short. Her legs are like a stork.”

“That’s it,” Francis nodded. “Mommy and Daddy actually own this place.”

Those bitches!! My legs are like a stork? Ohhh, fuck you……


Jan went back to being preoccupied with the vinyl records, picking one up every few seconds reading the contents on the back of the jacket. “I guess I was wrong, then.”

“This is ridiculous, Jan. I want to leave.” Francis stamped her feet.

“If you want to leave, leave. Wait for me in the car.”

Francis looked at the door, her face fell. She sighed. “You know I can’t do that.” It was true. Francis could only walk through a closed door if someone did it first. A bad habit she developed after her husband Mick left her six months ago. When she and Jan have to work, Jan picks her up in the mornings, Jan has to go out the door first.

Jan walked away from the record trough. “Alright. You really need to see a psychiatrist about this problem. Well, problem among problems—-”

“Wait!” Francis eyes moved to the counter where the cash register was. “What’s that over there,” She pointed at the pale blue box. She rushed to the counter.

“You are too freakin’ weird, Francis Scofeild.!” Jan followed Francis, shaking her head. “It looks like an ordinary cigar box.”

“I don’t think so……” Francis moved to touch the box when a man popped out from behind a curtain that separated the rooms.

“Don’t touch that!” The man cried out in a shrill voice.

Francis and Jan jumped. “Where did you come from?” Jan said, catching her breath. “Wait…what happened to that teeny—young lady?”

The man was taken aback. “What young lady? I’m the only one here.”

Francis asked a more important question. “Why can’t we touch it?” Francis was intrigued by the box. “Is it for sale?”

“You want to buy a cigar box?” Jan cackled.

The man winced.

“You are so weird,” Jan went on to say.

The man wore a pinstripe suit with a white bow tie. He took a comb from his breast pocket, and combed his thick bushy mustache, then placed it back the breast pocket of his pinstripe jacket. “If you touch that box, it becomes attached to you. It will never leave your side.” He retrieved the comb from that breast pocket and ran it through his greasy receding hairline, and put it away again.

Jan cackled again, a noise that could pierce eardrums. The man winced, he turned two evils to Jan, who at once backed away from the counter.

“And yes,” The man said to Francis in a whisper. “For the right price.”

Francis nodded, studying the pale blue box. “What’s inside, “She said after a few moments.

The man shrugged uneasily. “I—I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, “Jan said mockingly. “C’mon, Francis. Let’s leave.” Jan took Francis by the arm to lead her out. Francis pulled away, went back to the counter. “Francis. Let’s leave.” She said it in that Motherly tone that Francis always hated.

“Surely you know the contents of this box. You know about every item you sell,” Francis said to the man.

He shook his head. “Not this. The owner, Mr. HAVERTY. He won’t tell me what’s in it. And I’ve learned the hard way not to question him.” The man pulled the sleeve on his coat to reveal a discolored skin and a burn mark of three interlocking circles.

“What happened there?” Francis moved away from the man’s arm, worried it might be catching.

“I lit some candles I was not supposed to.” The man closed his eyes to rid himself of the painful memory. “Only one. Before Mr. HAVERTY stopped me from lighting the rest.”

Jan clucked her tongue. “It just looks like a freaky tattoo to me.”

The man cut his eyes at Jan. “That’s what I get for not listening to Mr. Haverty.”

“Where is Mr. Haverty? Is he in?” Jan said.

“No, he is not,” the man rolled his eyes. “Are you interested in buying this box?” He sniffed. “ It’s two hundred dollars.”

“C’mon Francis, he’s conning you.” Jan tried again to take Francis arm. She shook Jan off.

“I want this,” She told Jan confidentially. “I don’t know why…..I just do……I’m……drawn to it.”

At this point Jan was considering having her friend committed. But she also took pity on her. She had only Jan and the job in the office that was it. Jan let out a deep sigh. She touched her friend’s elbow. “Okay, dear.” Approval is what she needs now, approval she’ll get, Jan thought.

“Give me two hundred dollars, then.” Francis held out her hand with a huge smile on her face.

A sale was made. Jan and Francis left with the box. The man who sold the box to them pocketed the money. He went to a mirror that was perched on an oak table, the wall propping it up. The man vanished, and I reappeared. I turned to the left, then to the right.

“My legs do not look like stork, bitch!”



Francis was sitting on the couch, just staring at the pale blue box on her coffee table. She hadn’t opened the box at all. She was very curious, but remembered what the man in the gift shop said. Still, she wanted to know what was inside…….

She picked up her cell phone and called Jan. It rang twice, went straight voice mail. Francis closed the lid on her phone and thought a moment. She stood, slowly ambled to the kitchen. She grabbed a bag of chips and turned to head back to the living room when she saw the box sitting on the kitchen table.

“Boy, that guy wasn’t kidding. Touch it, and it won’t leave your side,” Francis shrugged went back to the living room. She sat carelessly on the couch. The box was back on the coffee table. “Good grief,” She said.

She quickly dialed Jan again. This time she answered on the first ring.

“What, Francis? What?” Jan sounded annoyed.

“It follows me wherever I Go, Jan,” Francis retorted in quick succession.

“I thought your cat ran away.” Jan yawned.

“I’m not talking about the cat, Jan.”

“What are you talking about?” Jan yawned again.

“The fucking box!” Francis screamed into her phone.

“My God,” Said Jan. “Do you have to be so loud? Go to sleep, Francis.”

“It’s getting on my nerves. I don’t know what to do,” Francis said frantically.

“Well, I know what I’m going to do,” Jan said.

“What’s that?” Francis had excitement in her voice.

“Get some sleep,” Jan hung up.

Francis tossed her cell phone on the coffee table. “Bitch.”

Jan rang the doorbell of Francis apartment. She heard Francis call out for her to enter. Jan saw Francis sitting on the couch, still in her nightgown.

“What are you doing? We are going to be late for work.” Jan took a few steps inside, closed the door. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Francis staring intently at the pale blue box. “Oh no,” Jan said, sighed. “Francis, you’ve been up all night, staring at that stupid box.” Jan sat next to Francis, letting her fall to the floor.

“I can’t help it. I want so badly to see what’s inside, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.” Francis rubbed her eyes, thinking of how much she dreaded going to work.

“This is my fault. I shouldn’t have took you to that place. You better get dressed, Francis. You know how Maggie hates you.  You’re always on her shit- list.”

Maggie Frank was the manager at the call center, and she hated all of the operators.  Their jobs were to answer questions about the insurances HI-LOW sold.  Maggie and her assistants listened to every call. She critiqued everyone. But Francis was always the one she used as an example in every meeting. She was an extremely harsh woman.  Company allowed a 45 percent success rate how good customer service and how well the customers rate you. Maggie’s rate was 80 percent. Her operators mostly had a 65 percent. Francis received a 35 percent over the last 60 days.

They arrived at the office still arguing over being late.  It was only one other person there, as the other three operators had quit last week.  Bill, who sat in cubicle next to them, let them know right away that the dragon lady was at a meeting, they were safe.

“You girls are damn lucky the dragon lady is out. Out partying late?” Bill leered at them. Once, at lunch, he mentioned in passing of inviting both of them to his place later that night and having a few drinks. Well….if that might lead to something between the three of them…..

Needless to say, Jan, who was driving, left him stranded downtown at the cafe they were.

“Shut-up, Bill.”  Jan said. “Your Mother still dressing you, I see.”

Francis giggled.  “I bet he still keeps her in the basement with the other stiffs he dates.”

Jan cackled. Bill winced, his face looked as if he ate a lemon. Jan placed her headset on her head, started up her computer. She saw the pale blue box sitting on Francis desk.

“You’re kidding me,” Jan said. “Francis, you brought that box with you?”

Francis made a face. “I told you. That thing follows me wherever I go. I can’t get rid of it.”

Bill looked at around the corner from his cubicle.  “Smoking cigars now, Francis. How butch of you.”

Francis crumpled a sheet of typing paper into a ball and threw it at Bill. It nearly missed him.

“My headset isn’t working,” Francis rose from her desk.

Her elbow brushed the pale blue box. It fell from her desk and fell on its side. During the fall, the lid on the box opened. Francis looked on in horror, her hand covering her gaping mouth. Her eyes cut to Jan, then to the box. Her hand covered her mouth.

“Oh GOD! Oh, good GOD! Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, God, God, God, God, God, God………Goddddddddddd!” Francis trembled.

Jan went to her side. She looked on, with that I told you so expression. Jan picked up the box, dumped out whatever was supposed to have been in it.

“Nothing,” Jan said. Then she cackled. “Nothing in that stupid box.”

“What’s going to happen now?” Francis was still trembling.

“Nothing, you stupid woman!” Jan shook her friend violently. Haverty ripped you off! Wait,” She thought a moment. “He ripped me off!”

“Haverty?” Bill spoke in a whisper.

“What, Bill? You been there?” Jan said. “The whole time?”

Bill shook his head yes. He looked up at Jan. Francis knelt beside the box and reached out to touch it. Suddenly, her nose began to twitch. Her face contorted. She buried her head in her hands and sneezed.

Bill was lost in his thoughts. “He sold some candles to my sister.”

“So?” Jan shrugged, started back to her cubicle.

“He told her not to light the candles. They found her body burned beyond recognition. Her house wasn’t touched by the fire.” He said, looked at both of them incredulously. “Not one flame burned anything in that house.”

At this point, Jan heard a strange, low grumble from behind her. She cocked her head, heard it again. No, it wasn’t a grumble, but growling. Like a dog or a wolf…..

Bill let out a shrill cry as Jan turned to find Francis face to face with her. Francis eyes had turned a weird milky white. The pupils were almost non-existent, and long purple veins were pulsating throughout her yellow-skinned face.

Francis threw back her head and several panic-stricken screams pierced Bill and Jan’s ears.

Bill began sobbing, crawled underneath his desk. He whispered a prayer he learned in Sunday school as a child over and over.

Francis grabbed Jan by her blouse and tossed her to the floor. Jan felt a stinging pain rise up through her body. Jan tried to get up but fell back. She looked up and saw Francis chasing Bill around the office, knocking the flimsy plastic cubicles over in her trek. Bill was screaming, calling out for help. Jan managed pick herself up and rushed towards Bill. She saw the stationary closet door open. She waited for Bill to lead Francis to it. Just as he turned the corner, Jan pushed Francis inside. She slammed the door shut and tried to hold the door in place. Jan called for Bill. He ran to her and helped hold the door. Francis was getting angrier and angrier, pushing, scratching, and bumping the door as hard as she could. They heard her cry out like a wounded animal, followed by several more inhuman screams.

“Push a desk in front of the door!” Jan commanded.

“He’ll do no such thing,” they heard a voice. The two of them turned and saw Maggie standing behind them. She was alone. Unusual. She always had an assistant at her side.  The tall, dark haired woman in her late forties stepped closer to them, her heels sounding like a round of bullets fired from a machine gun. Maggie was the ever consummate businesswoman. Business suits that obviously cost more than she could afford with her paycheck.

“I leave you three alone for twenty minutes and look……what the hell is going on——wait…….where is Francis?”

The three of them listened. A growl came from the stationary closet, nails clawing at the door.

“Is she in there?”  Maggie said.

Jan and Bill were silent. Scared out of their wits of Maggie, knowing their jobs were over. Maggie ushered them out of the way.  Bill and Jan gingerly moved from the door. Maggie stepped up and slung the door open. Before Francis could let out another round of screams, she sneezed.

A line of white stringy snot covered the top of Maggie’s lips and right cheek.

Maggie was flabbergasted. .Francis was confused. She slowly moved out of the closet. She saw the mess in the office. She walked toward Jan and Bill, they immediately backed away from her. Maggie wiped the snot from her face with a hand. She turned on her heels and screamed.

“You filthy animal!” Maggie was furious and embarrassed. “I’ll have all of your jobs for this disgusting joke!” She stormed into her office. The echo from the door slammed shut could be hear throughout the office building.

“What—-what—–happened here?” Francis pointed to the office.

“You don’t remember anything?” Jan looked her over, making sure her friend was back to normal.

Francis shrugged. “No,” she said. “What’s wrong with Bill?”

Bill was sitting in a corner, his thumb in his mouth. He was mumbling a prayer and rocking back and forth.

At the end of the day, they had calmed Bill and cleaned up the office. Maggie hadn’t stepped out of her office all day. Jan and Francis were getting ready to go home when Bill reminded them of the pale blue box under Francis desk.

Jan reached down and picked it up. With much joy and relief, she stuffed the wooden box into a trash can.

Inside her office, Maggie was sitting at her desk, stewing. The purple veins pulsated as they formed long deep creases in her body. Her eyes were a milky white.

The echo of several inhuman screams could be heard all through the empty office building.

Evelina Family Portrait_edited-2