We turned the window sign to “closed” and pulled the privacy shade. A flourish of deskdrawer
paper cups and a back-pocketed flask of rye. Her watery eyes beneath the
broad brim of her cocked hat. She'd handed me a mystery to solve – a candid entrance,
a suspect wager. Okay, but we'll do it my way. Graft is no new matter. Drowsy porn,
allowing oneself to go limp all over. The way her sandals braided around her ankles. The
way the greenhouse sweat. When the plumage was revealed as plastic, when the late
hour tolled and the exotic bird clucked. There, somewhere, the heart got lost. At night,
tooling around in cars, pulling into strange garages. Blue-tiled pools where the water was
warm, floating candle lights one by one extinguishing. An elaborate and vacant seaside
porch, its wind-chimes tinkling. This is where I want to sleep. This is where the final word
on the matter lies. As when the weapon in question is found in hand; suddenly,
during the unsuspected ablution of, say, a car-crash.

_________
 Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep, 1939.
Howard Hawkes, The Big Sleep, 1946. Feature film starring Humphry Bogart and Lauren Bacall.