Friday, July 23, 2021

The Big Snooze - July 23, 2007

 

I was sitting in my office, wondering why I was staring at the cobwebs instead of the bottom of a glass of bourbon. 

The dusty quiet of the afternoon was broken by a man who wasn't quite as fat and bald as a giant baby. He said his name was Hitchcock and that he directed pictures. His writer, a gink named Chandler, had gone off on a bender and was missing and could I find him?  

Drunken writers aren't my line, but after Hitchcock pulled out a wad of bills the size of a bale of hay, I told him I'd see what I could dig up. A little research told me about this Chandler -- born July 23, 1888, went to a fancy-pants school in England before coming back to America and failing as an oil executive. Started writing mystery novels about shamuses like me in the '30s. 

In spite of the payday, I had to turn the job down. Dipsos like that always return home and, besides, I'm a fictional character.

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