Pulp Noir

The yellow number four pencil hung limply in the thin pale lips of Glenn Maher. He chewed on the eraser, trying to coax brilliance from its slender core. There was an electric connection between the dull tip and his crystalline consciousness, and a beautiful, simple plot entered his minds eye. He closed his ideas and let his creativity leap down his arm and onto the thin, ink stained paper that lay on a mostly destroyed desk. The graphite connected and a story was born.

From the Desk of G. Maher

In the dingy bowels of Eastern New York City there is a nondescript building of ill repute and character; a storehouse of female stock, gathered from the darkest corners of the world. In the eyes of lonely married men it was a temple of escape and of most holy fornication. In the eyes of embittered women however, it was a sinkhole that stole away their husbands and made their little boys grown men before their time.

Countless women had called this particular brothel their home over the years, and countless men had made use of the services they offered. Violence echoed down the dimly lit hallways, forever embedding its scent in the carpet, the ceiling, and in the memories of everyone caught in its quiet breeze. For years it had been picking up speed, collecting the debris and flotsam of mistakes made and of time wasted. It was no wonder that on a quiet December night in 1948, that little breeze would transform into a hurricane force gale a sweep a young unsuspecting man into madness.

Willard Cromwell was, according to his overbearing mother, was quite and frail, more mouse than man. He had plain, dust colored brown hair and brown eyes that stare with the intensity of a dying vole. He worked at a butcher’s shop one block away from the apartment he shared with his mother, Helen. He didn’t make much sweeping up after the coming and goings of everyday carnivores, but he stayed out of the way and for that Mr. Green, the proprietor of Green’s Meat, was thankful.

Willard was invisible to the inhabitants of the city, and as a result became privy to the everyday dark secrets spilled by construction workers, stock brokers and neglected wives. He had heard of affairs, of no good children, of dogs that lived three apartments over that never seemed to shut up. One day a pair of less that favorable looking, and smelling, men walked into the store with their shirts ruffled and their hats filthy. They ordered a pound of pastrami, and rested against the countertop. Willard listened in as they bragged about their conquests from the previous night and he felt inside of him a sense of longing. That day marked a change in Willard’s life, and he began gathering his assets for a hopefully wonderful night. When the night finally came and the time felt just right, Willard grabbed his coat, filled his pockets with a random assortment of bills and told his mother he was going off to the movies. He walked out onto the cold streets and walked away from his boyhood and into the arms of a stranger.

Willard entered the smoky house and picked himself out a young girl with peroxide hair and a femme fatale smile. He paid for a night and she led him into a small room with a bed, a desk and a rickety old chair. She undressed and Willard approached her prone figure, love in his eyes and forever on his lips.

Glenn set down his pencil. He smiled gently to himself and gazed down at his work. He felt a sense of pride as he picked up the story and folded it into a neat square. He stood up and tucked it into his pants pocket. He left the pencil on the desk where he had laid it. His coat had fallen off the back of his chair, and he bent down to pick it up. It was loose around the shoulders. It smelled like cigars and sweat and he wondered if he should get a new one. He turned to face the center of the room and gazed upon her sleeping form. A chain of blood crawled slowly from her neck and soaked into the white linen sheets. A long thin knife lay on the bed beside her, shining in the electric light, almost innocent in its smile.

Glenn sighed the sigh of a man with a light heart and ran his fingers through his dust colored hair. The door opened and closed with a whisper.