IVIV: Midday Refrescos with Marlowe

[Robin Landseadel]

Speaking of Wee-Wee's—

	""Darn! It's that Ida Lupino, every time her name comes up, so
	does this. Please don't take it personally."

	"How curious. I can't recall ever feeling that way about John
	Garfield ... but as I have a meditation appointment at one, we
	might find time for drinks, if we guzzle them down fast enough,
	and perhaps you can even tell me what you're doing here.
	Luz!"

At the same time Inherent Vice is undermining Noir it also sticks to  
its rules. Sloan is the black widow in this scene, naturally we expect  
her to ask—"what are you really here for, anyway?" Again, stuff a lot  
of hair under your short-hair wig and you're gonna have one lumpy  
toupee.

The Luz/Sloan arrangement is straight out of "The Little Sister",  
where assistant Dolores Gonzales looks mighty dangerous and starlet  
Mavis Weld ain't far behind. Here's an extended scene from "The Little  
Sister" that will give a sense of the prototypes for the Sloan/Luz  
scene:

	The dark lady in the jodhpurs handed me a glass and perched
	on the arm of my chair. "You may call me Dolores if you wish,"
	she said, taking a hearty swig out of her own tumbler.

	"Thanks."

	"And what may I call you?" I grinned.

	"Of course," she said, "I am most fully aware that you are a God-
	damn liar and that you have no stills in your pockets. Not that I
	wish to inquire into your no doubt very private business."

	"Yeah?" I inhaled a couple of inches of my liquor.

	"Just what kind of bath is Miss Weld taking? An old fashioned
	soap or something with Arabian spices in it?"

	She waved the remains of the brown cigarette in the small gold
	clasp. "Perhaps you would like to help her. The bathroom is
	over there-through the arch and to the right. - Most probably the
	door is not locked."

	"Not if it's that easy," I said.

	"Oh," she gave me the brilliant smile again. "You like to do the
	difficult things in life. I must remember to be less approachable,
	must I not?" She removed herself elegantly from the arm of my
	chair and ditched her cigarette, bending over enough so that I
	could trace the outline of her hips.

	"Don't bother, Miss Gonzales. I'm just a guy who came here on
	business. I don't have any idea of raping anybody."

	"No?" The smile became soft, lazy and, if you can't think of a
	better word, provocative.

	"But I'm sure as hell working up to it," I said.

	"You are an amusing son-of-a-bitch," she said with a shrug and
	went off through the arch, carrying her halfquart of Scotch and
	water with her. I heard a gentle tapping on a door and her
	voice: "Darling, there's a man here who says he has some stills
	from the studio. He says. Muy simpatico. Muy guapo tambien.
	Con cojones."

	A voice I had heard before said sharply: "Shut up, you little
	bitch. I'll be out in a second."

	The Gonzales came back through the archway humming. Her
	glass was empty. She went to the bar again. "But you are not
	drinking," she cried, looking at my glass.

	"I ate dinner. I only have a two-quart stomach anyway. I
	understand a little Spanish."

	She tossed her head. "You are shocked?" Her eyes rolled. Her
	shoulders did a fan dance.

	"I'm pretty hard to shock."

	"But you heard what I said? Madre de Dios. I'm so terribly sorry."

	"I'll bet," I said.

	She finished making herself another highball.

	"Yes. I am so sorry," she sighed. "That is, I think I am.
	Sometimes I am not sure. Sometimes I do not give a good
	goddamn. It is so confusing. All my friends tell me I am far too
	outspoken. 1 do shock you, don't I?" She was on the arm of my
	chair again.

	"No. But if I wanted to be shocked I'd know right where to
	come." She reached her glass behind her indolently and
	leaned towards me.

	"But 1 do not live here," she said. "I live at the Chateau Bercy."

	"Alone?"

	She slapped me delicately across the tip of my nose. The next
	thing I knew I had her in my lap and she was trying to bite a
	piece off my tongue. "You are a very sweet son-of-abitch," she
	said. Her mouth was as hot as ever a mouth was. Her lips
	burned like dry ice. Her tongue was driving hard against my
	teeth. Her eyes looked enormous and black and the whites
	showed under them.

	"I am so tired," she whispered into my mouth. "I am so worn, so
	incredibly tired."

	I felt her hand in my breast pocket. I shoved her off hard, but she
	had my wallet. She danced away with it laughing, flicked it open
	and went through it with fingers that darted like little snakes.

	"So glad you two got acquainted," a voice off to one side said
	coolly. Mavis Weld stood in the archway.

	Her hair was fluffed out carelessly and she hadn't bothered with
	make-up. She wore a hostess gown and very little else. Her
	legs ended in a little green and silver slippers. Her eyes were
	empty, her lips contemptuous. But she was the same girl all
	right, dark glasses on or off.

	The Gonzales gave her a quick darting glance, closed my
	wallet and tossed it. I caught it and put it away. She strolled
	to a table and picked up a black bag with a long strap, hooked it
	over her shoulder and moved towards the door.

	Mavis Weld didn't move, didn't look at her. She looked at me.
	But there was no emotion of any kind in her face. The Gonzales
	opened the door and glanced outside and almost closed it and
	turned.

	"The name is Philip Marlowe," she said to Mavis Weld.

	"Nice don't you think?"

	"I didn't know you bothered to ask them their names," Mavis
	Weld said. "You so seldom know them long enough."

	"I see," the Gonzales answered gently. She turned and smiled
	at me faintly. "Such a charming way to call a girl a whore, don't
	you think?"

	Mavis Weld said nothing. Her face had no expression.

	"At least," the Gonzales said smoothly as she pulled the door
	open again, "I haven't been sleeping with any gunmen lately."

	"Are you sure you can remember?" Mavis Weld asked her in
	exactly the same tone. "Open the door, honey. This is the day
	we put the garbage out."

	The Gonzales looked back at her slowly, levelly, and with a
	knife in her eyes. Then she made a faint sound with her lips and
	teeth and yanked the door wide. It closed behind her with a
	jarring smash. The noise didn't even flicker the steady dark blue
	glare in Mavis Weld's eyes.

	"Now suppose you do the same-but more quietly," she said. I
	got out a handkerchief and scrubbed the lipstick over my face. It
	looked exactly the color of blood, fresh blood. "That could
	happen to anybody," I said. "I wasn't petting her. She was
	petting me."

	She marched to the door and heaved it open. "On your way,
	dreamboat. Make with the feet."

	"I came here on business, Miss Weld."

	"Yes. I can imagine. Out. I don't know you. I don't want to know
	you. And if I did, this wouldn't be either the day or the hour."

	"Never the time and place and the loved one all together," I
	said. . .