IVing IV 'indict a bean burrito', p. 277

[Robin Landseadel]

On Dec 1, 2009, at 3:00 AM, alice wellintown wrote:

> Who is driving the conversaton?

Maybe it's all simpler than we're making it out. Maybe the  
conservation is really being driven by Pynchon's obvious literary model:

	She stood up suddenly and came near me. "You're in a
	business that doesn't pay fortunes, aren't you?"

	I nodded. We were very close now.

	"Then what would it be worth to you to walk out of here and
	forget you ever saw me?"

	"I'd walk out of here for free. As for the rest, I have to make a
	report."

	"How much?" She said it as if she meant it. "I can afford a
	substantial retainer. That's what you call it, I've heard. A much
	nicer word than blackmail."

	"It doesn't mean the same thing."

	"It could. Believe me, it can mean just that-even with some
	lawyers and doctors. I happen to know."

	"Tough break, huh?"

	Far from it, shamus. I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I'm alive."

	"I'm on the other side. Don't give it away."

	"Well, what do you know," she drawled. "A dick wiIh scruples.
	Tell it to the seagulls, buster. On me it's just confetti. Run along
	now, Mr. PI Marlowe, and make that little old phone call you're
	so anxious about, I'm not restraining you."

	She started for the door, but I caught her by the wrist and spun
	her around. The tom blouse didn't reveal any startling
	nakedness, merely some skin and part of a brassiere. You'd
	see more on the beach, far more but you wouldn't see it through
	a torn blouse.

	I must have been leering a little, because she suddenly curled
	her fingers and tried to claw me.

	"I'm no bitch in heat," she said between tight teeth.

	"Take your paws off me."

	I got the other wrist and started to pull her closer.

	She tried to knee me in the groin, but she was already too
	close. Then she went limp and pulled her head back and
	closed her eyes. Her lips opened with a sardonic twist to them.
	It was a cool evening, maybe even cold down by the water. But
	it wasn't cold where I was.

	After a while she said with a sighing voice that she had to dress
	for dinner.

	I said, "Uh-huh."

	After another pause she said it was a long time since a man
	had unhooked her brassiere. We did a slow turn in the direction
	of one of the twin day beds. They had pink and silver covers on
	them. The little odd things you notice.

	Her eyes were open and quizzical. I studied them one at a time
	because I was too close to see them together. They seemed
	well matched.

	"Honey," she said softly, "you're awful sweet, but I just don't
	have the time."

	Raymond Chandler, Playback, pages 28/29

Updating the Noir conventions of dames & molls & heels & shamuses  
requires a minor adjustment or two—women who make the first moves,  
sinsemilla instead of Tanqueray, explicit stagings instead of  
innuendo. But the loveless sex, the 'hostile takeovers' are very much  
in the tradition.

	It's kind of revealing, isn't it? Revealing? It's positively risque - I
	like it. She said: "You're a man with a thousand Gs, right?"
	
	[J:] "A thousand what?" I quipped. "G-men, girls, guns, guts."

	[H:] "You're my type."

	[J:] "Wrong, baby" I slapped her hard. "I'm a `L' man: strictly
	liquor, love and laughs."
	Bonzo Dog Band—Big Shot