To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 6
Subject: Collaboration Story
Working Title: A Nail Through the Heart
Dirk Conrad didn’t know a lot about life, but he did know that the idea of the noble man was just so much chewing gum nonsense. In this crummy world, it was a damn miracle anyone managed to achieve anything even close to picket fence dreams. This world wasn’t made for kindness. The human heart was a cancer, and it didn’t take much for the disease to spread and corrupt a person’s better senses. The human heart was full of anger, jealousy, bitterness, and other putrid emotions that led them into the sort of depraved life polite society shunned, even as they themselves harbored their own festering hearts. After twenty years of digging out the grime from humanity’s gutters, he’d realized that this emotional filth was the explanation for the majority of the cases he’d worked. Everything else could be summed up by greed or accident. He himself had an unsentimental soul; some might call him cynical, but he just thought of himself as rational.
He’d begun writing up his papers, memoirs to be exact, but he wouldn’t be caught dead using a narcissistic word like that. Conrad just thought of them as his papers, and if you wanted to get real fancy, then maybe they could be called reports. He’d come to that point in his life where he’d realized it was time to put pen to paper and record the major cases he’d solved over the years. It was for posterity, not for any sort of egotistical reasons; doubtless it would offer some sort of guidance to those who came after him. They could learn from all the years he’d spent sweating in the gutter, uncovering society’s garbage. He wrote in the most dispassionate, frank terms possible. He had no patience for rambling or bombastic nonsense, nor could he tolerate the kind of hysteria and self pity the weak-minded poured into memoirs and gossip columns. His was not a tell-all; it was a tell it like it is. The world was a dirty, ugly place, and the kind of people who wore their hearts too far on their sleeves were bound to get them ripped out and torn apart by a predator. Conrad was damned determined not to let that happen to him.
But that was all before the dame walked in.
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“You’ve got to ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” -- Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 8
Subject: A Nail Through the Heart? RE: Collaboration Story
The woman’s name was Meredith, and she’d never sought out the help of a private detective before. She’d never even met a private detective for that matter, but now, here she was in this man’s office standing in front of him like an idiot, waiting for him to notice her.
He was dressed in a rumpled brown suit and appeared to have a receding hairline under his old-fashioned fedora. He looked like the kind of guy mothers would warn their daughters about, but he’d come highly recommended by her friend Kady, whose rich aunt had hired him to find a jewel thief. She supposed if he could find a jewel thief, he could probably locate one lousy, sticky-fingered ex-boyfriend.
Finally, after the silence had stretched out too long, she cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me. Are you Dirk Conrad?”
The man looked up, and Meredith was immediately captured by his lovely, dark eyes. He had probably been good looking in his youth, before time and too much food had had their effect on his body, but still, there was something about his face that made her catch her breath. She gave him a little smile and then blushed when she caught herself sucking in her tummy and worrying about her fog-drenched hair. I’m acting like a silly teenager, she thought. A middle aged divorced woman shouldn’t be thinking about her looks. She straightened her back and held up her chin to make herself feel more confident.
The man took his sweet time responding. He picked up a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, thumped it twice against a folder on his desk, pushed it between his lips, and lit it with a silver lighter. After a big drag, he blew smoke out of his nose. Finally, he sighed as if he were suddenly tired and asked, “That’s what I’ve been told. Can I help you, Miss…”
“Oh, Ms. Avery,” Meredith said, approaching him with her hand outstretched. “Meredith Avery.”
He reached up to shake her hand, and Meredith closed hers around his palm and squeezed firmly. His hands were warm but tough, like he wasn’t a stranger to hard labor. She glanced down at his desk and noticed that the top drawer was open. What she saw inside made her gasp in surprise.
Dear Lyle,
We missed you at cribbage on Tuesday. I hope you’re not feeling under the weather. Please let me know, and I’ll tell the other ladies in the Wellness Brigade that we need to bring you a bowl of chicken noodles. I would have come over myself, but I have been so busy helping plan the holiday ball. You would not imagine how much work it takes to put a dance together!
I am so glad that we finally started this co-writing venture. I was pleasantly surprised when we discovered we had a mutual interest in writing. There are sure to be others, so what do you think about approaching the Club Committee and asking about forming a creative writing group?
Your writing is so beautiful, and it really evokes that old movies like The Maltese Falcon and The Big Heat. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never actually read anything in that genre. I tend toward romances, period novels, and the gothic. I do enjoy a good cozy mystery though now and again.
I love the idea of a noir even though I’m a bit ignorant of the genre, but I thought we had decided to do a romantic story. I mean, I think detective novels are fun, but could we somehow add in a romance element? Maybe we could do a mash-up of a hard-boiled detective story and a rom-com like “the kids do these days” (the mash-ups, I mean). We could even make it a bit quirky or even do a parody. Wouldn’t that be amusing?
I have to go now, dear. Little Tootsie needs her weekly bath; she got into some mud this morning on the walking path. I can’t wait to hear back from you to see what you add to our little story. What exactly is the surprising thing Meredith saw in Dirk’s desk drawer? I can’t wait to find out, and of course, if you’d like some company, you know how to reach me.
Your friend,
Maria
PS--I was thinking about that word “dame.” To tell you the truth, it was a bit jarring for me to read. It seems a little outdated, don’t you think? I can definitely see using it if we decide to make this a parody, but I’m not so sure about its usage in a contemporary story. Women are so much more liberated these days than we were when I was young, and I just think a word like that might turn them off. Of course, I’m open to your point of view though.
Oh, also, I’m not sure about the title. Don’t you think it sounds a bit, I don’t know, harsh? The image of a nail in someone’s heart gives me the shivers.
I hope to see you soon, and if you are unwell, please let me know so I can bring some soup.
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 15
Subject: RE: RE: Collaboration Story
Dirk noticed that the gender female human in front of him was glancing down at his open desk drawer. He was sure that what had gotten the gender female human’s attention was the gun he kept there. It wasn’t any old gun though. It was a Colt Single Action Army revolver, also known as “the peacemaker” or “the gun that won the West.” Unfortunately, it was just a replica though; Dirk sure didn’t have enough dough to buy an antique revolver. He was a tough guy but not an extortionist, not the type to squeeze his clients for that kind of cabbage.
This one, in fact, had been built at his local library. He’d downloaded the specs for it, altered it to make it more historically accurate, and used a 3D printer to create the pieces, which he put together at home. He’d devoted hours to painting it. The barrel was shiny silver, the grip, a lustrous teak color; it was a work of beauty. He could plainly see the look of admiration in the gender female human’s eyes.
And what eyes they were, hazel, almost green, wide and innocent looking, framed by eyelashes that any gender female human would kill for, and no doubt, some had. Her face was delicate, her nose straight and aristocratic, and her lips, full and red, slightly parted. They were the kind of lips magazine editors used photo editing software to achieve for gender female human models with skinny little worm lips. They were lips that needed to be kissed and quite often, by a man who knew what he was doing. In a word, she was gorgeous.
But fragile too, somehow. Maybe it was the innocence he saw in those big, green eyes, or the bit of feminine ruffle on her collar, or the way she clutched her pocketbook close to her chest, as if she were afraid someone would snatch it away if she relaxed her grasp. She was a gender female human who needed protection, and Dirk found himself wanting to take on that role.
But that wasn’t his job. His job was to catch the bad guys. It was a ruthless job with no room for emotion. He quickly shut down the tender feelings he might have enterained for a second and slammed the desk drawer shut.
“Do you need something, ma’am? I’ve got a ton of work to do here, as you can see.” He gestured toward the stack of files on his desk. “So say what you’ve got to say.”
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“You’ve got to ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” -- Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 18
Subject: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Meredith knew that when men looked at her, they saw what they wanted to see. Just because she liked to wear makeup and dresses, they assumed she was a helpless little damsel that needed to be saved by some big, strong man. What they didn’t know was that she had been a judo champion in college and could bench press a hundred and fifty pounds. Somehow they managed to overlook the ripped muscles in her arms and legs. They didn’t realize that if a guy got too close, she could have him face down in the dirt in less than ten seconds.
Don’t jump to conclusion, Meredith, she told herself. Maybe he’s not like that. At least he’s not looking at my chest.
Meredith tossed her hair back and gave the man a bold stare. “I’m looking for a comic book,” she said. “My ex stole it when I kicked him out, and I want it back.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows squeezed together in puzzlement. Meredith figured it wasn’t every day someone came into his office with a request for help finding a comic book. Then, the fold between his eyes disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he folded his hands together on his desk. “Uh, comic book, you say?” The cigarette was still hanging out of his mouth, a long stick of ashes hovering at the tip, but even so, he reached over to his pack of cigarettes and took out another one. Just like the previous one, he thumped it twice on the desk and jammed it between his lips, lighting it and then blowing smoke out his nose.
Meredith watched the tip of the old cigarette with the blade of ash trembling at the end and the newly lit cigarette flaming orange as he puffed at it. She wondered if he even realized he was smoking two cigarettes at the same time. He was either very forgetful or very nervous, and neither one bode well for her missing property. Still, he had come highly recommended.
“Yes, a comic book,” Meredith said. She knew what the man was thinking. Comic books were for kids, little boys. But she’d been reading them since she was eight years old, and not just Wonder Woman either. She had read most of the Marvel and DC comics and even the ones from the fifties, when Marvel was still called Atlas. And she’d started collecting as a teenager, hiding stacks of comic books behind her Nancy Drew books because she knew her mother would not approve. Her most prized possession was an old Green Lantern comic she kept under glass; it was worth roughly the price of a Mercedes Benz. And it was the only one that bastard Shane had taken with him when he left.
“It’s not just any old comic book,” she said. “It’s an original mint condition Green Lantern from 1946. It’s worth a lot of money, and I want you to find it.” She paused, watching the man to see his reaction. “Do you think you can help me?” she asked.
Then, he did something that convinced her he was the right man for the job.
Lyle,
I hope I didn’t upset you before with my little note. Oopsie! I’m always sticking my foot in my mouth! I suppose you were just having some fun with me. I understand. I suppose the word “dame” is far better than “gender female human,” so I get the point. It’s really not a big deal. Besides, I know how much you like those lovely old classics on TCM.
I really liked your description of the gun. I myself don’t know much about weapons, unless, of course, it’s sabers or swords. I do love a good historical novel. I was also taken aback by the description of making a gun using a printer. Is that true? My, how times have changed. Remember mimeograph machines?
I hate to bring it up because I know how much effort you put into it, but I was a bit uncertain with Meredith’s description. It sounds a bit--oh, I don’t know--maybe a bit condescending, I think. I realize this is one of those hardboiled detective stories, but does the female lead have to be portrayed as fragile? Did I ever tell you how I marched alongside my grandmother, of all people, for women’s rights? Those were exciting times. Things have changed so much since we were young.
By the way, are you still unwell? I missed you again at cribbage, and I’ve been there every Tuesday. I really need to get around and stop by your house for a friendly chat; I apologize for not doing so before. I am still in the middle of all this planning for the holiday ball. Would you believe we are actually going to have old-fashioned dancing cards? Such a hoot! It was Nancy Fitzpatrick’s idea. I already have three spots filled in; I can barely believe it. But I am saving the first dance for someone special. I hope to see you soon.
With great affection,
Maria
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 18
Subject: RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Revised Title: The Fully Evolved Man with a High Emotional IQ
Dirk said, “I’m the right man for the job.” He knew he had caught the woman by surprise when her eyebrows shot up and that kissable mouth hung open like an empty tin can lying discarded in a street alley.
Dirk was a fully evolved man with a high emotional IQ, and this DAME was as easy to read as a Dick and Jane book. She was one of those DAMES who didn’t just think she was equal to men; she thought she was superior to them. Or at least, she was damned determined to make them think she was. Sure, she had muscles--he could see that--but did she graduate from Rice University with a degree in civil engineering? He didn’t think so. She had probably majored in something useless like English or interdisciplinary studies, whatever that was. Maybe she hadn’t gone to school at all. Sure, she may have won a few athletic trophies back in the day, but he bet she had never gone to state in track or finished the one hundred meter in under twelve seconds. Maybe he hadn’t won first place that year, but he’d come in a close third, and that was even after he’d gotten a cast off his leg only a month before.
In any case, he didn’t care much for the challenge he saw in those snake green eyes. But he didn’t have the same problem with women that she seemed to have with men. Maybe he was a hard-boiled detective, but that didn’t make him a misogynist. His doctor was a woman, and so was his lawyer. Not that he needed a lawyer, but a woman lawyer had drawn up a few contracts for him.
“I once found a criminal who’d been in hiding in plain sight for two decades. He lived right across from the police department too, even had coffee at the same cafe where the cops hung out. If I could find him, I think I can find a lousy comic book,” he said. “Not to be offensive or anything. I wouldn’t want to offend you or make you think I don’t believe in the 19th amendment or anything.” He didn’t actually say that last part though because he was a gentleman and a fully evolved man.
He saw the expression in the DAME’s eyes shift then, from scorn to respect. She knew that Dirk Conrad was not a man to be messed with.
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” -- The Big Heat (1953)
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 25
Subject: The Completely UNevolved Man Meets His Match RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Meredith had no doubt the detective was capable at his job. If he saw scorn in her eyes, he must have been looking through a sty. Or maybe he had glaucoma. He looked like he was getting up there in age. On the other hand, she thought, so am I. She wasn’t as young as she used to be.
She didn’t think she was superior to the detective, so if that what he was thinking, he was way off. She just didn’t want to engage in sexist stereotypes that had been out of fashion for decades. If a young girl could lead the education movement in Pakistan, if a woman could be president, if a woman could fight in a combat role in the US military, then she deserved to be looked at as a capable human being as well. Calling a woman “dame” or saying she had “kissable lips” was demeaning; it relegated a woman’s importance to her looks. It was the kind of language that forced women to play the role of the angel in the house, there just to cook and clean and have babies and look good doing it.
Meredith reached out her hand, grabbed one of the cigarettes out of the detective’s mouth, and put it in her own. Fine, if she had to play the role of the femme fatale, then she would do it. And in the end, if a man ended up flat on the floor with a bullet in his chest because of it, then so be it.
“Look, I don’t care about your little ego or whatever. I just want to get my property back from the asshole who stole it, see? And if I have to talk like a lousy dame from 1941 to do it, then I’ll do it. I don’t need no guff from you either, mister. If you’ll excuse me, gumshoes are a dime a dozen in this town, and I got a whole piggy bank full of FDR’s.” She puffed a couple of circles of smoke around the detective’s face, stubbed the cigarette out on a folder on his desk, swirled around in her Jimmy Choo leather pumps--which she had bought on her own dime, thank you very much!--and marched to the door of the office, her head held high.
With great respect,
Maria Oswald
“I resent it when they write the part of a woman who’s just a sexy femme fatale who seduces people to get her way, perpetrating the myth that that’s how women have to operate instead of using their brains or their wit.” -- Teri Garr
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: December 3
Subject: Re: The Completely UNevolved Man Meets His Match RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Revised Title: All Tied Up
Dirk didn’t appreciate being called a chauvinist pig, even if the words had not actually been spoken. He was just an older gentleman who loved film noir and stories with hard-boiled detectives, and for him, that’s the only thing he was in it for. It was fun. It passed the time. End of story.
Anyone who really knew him would know that he had great respect for women, and if he’d ever come off as being sexist, then the fault obviously lay with...him. He didn’t have Linda around anymore to deflate his ego when he was being a bit too macho. God, how he missed her.
The truth is he just wanted to go back to being a jaded detective in a lousy city with rats in the street and poor mugs tied up and dumped in the river. Sure, it was grim, but it was better than sitting around watching game show reruns on cable with a bunch of other old geezers who had no plans and no future.
He didn’t want to be young again, no. He just wanted something to look forward to. He just wanted to disappear and become somebody else for awhile. He wanted to be Mike Hammer or Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade or Perry Mason. Hell, he’d even settle for gray-haired Matlock at this point.
So if he came across as gruff and inconsiderate, well, that was just because he wasn’t himself anymore. He was that hardboiled detective combing the grimy streets for the type of human garbage nobody thinks to throw out.
And he wasn’t ill either.
The man inside the story,
Lyle
“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” -- Joan Didion
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: December 6
Subject: All Tied Up
If Dirk could be completely direct, then so could Meredith. She turned back from the door, marched across the floor, and swept all the files off his desk. He looked at her with his mouth so wide open, he suddenly had three chins.
“Now listen here, mister,” she said in the kind of voice that demands to be listened to. “The thing is I like a good story myself. I could stay lost in the pages of a novel for hours at a time and then feel disappointed when I return to the real world with its dusty white blinds, coffee table with rings, and television with nothing on it but gossip shows and reruns of something called The Big Bang Theory.
“But if you want me to just be some pretty face, you can take that cigarette and jam it up your nose so that you’re sneezing nicotine ‘til Christmas. I’m not just some cardboard cutout of a person who you can move around wherever you want. I am a living, breathing human being, an honest to God gender female human! And I’ve got the same hopes and dreams and disappointments and failures and sins and passions and desperations as every other person in this crazy world, male or female.
“So see here, Dirk Conrad--or whatever the hell macho name you come up with--I’d love to be a part of this story, but if I am, it’s got to be split 50/50. Don’t make me some dumb broad or lousy dame or cliche femme fatale just because you like old film noir. I want to be something more interesting than that. I want to be the hero or the villain. I want to be the dame who catches the bad guy or the criminal who gets away with murder. I want to be interesting. So if all you want to do is relegate me to the role of a pretty piece of furniture, count me out!”
--Maria Oswald.
By the way, my dance card is all filled up.
“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.” -- Maya Angelou
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: December 8
Subject: A Meeting of Equals RE: All Tied Up
Damn, Dirk thought, what a woman!
“You know,” Dirk said. “I’ve been looking for a partner to assist me in my cases. What do you say about joining me and hunting down some bad guys. Imagine it: ‘Conrad and Avery’ in big gold letters right across the door.”
She gave him a sly smile. “How about ‘Avery and Conrad.’ I like the sound of that better.”
He smiled and stretched out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment and then met him in the middle with her own hand. They shook.
“‘Avery and Conrad,’ huh? It’s got a nice ring to it.” He paused for a moment. “By the way, how would you like to join me for a cocktail later? I know a nice place with a dancefloor. That is, unless your dance card is too full.”
Truce?
Lyle Pruitt
“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.” -- Plato
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: December 9
Subject: RE: A Meeting of Equals
Meredith released his hand and threw back the hair that had fallen into her eyes. She gave him an amused smile. “I think I can scratch a few names out,” she said.
Truce.
Maria
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 6
Subject: Collaboration Story
Working Title: A Nail Through the Heart
Dirk Conrad didn’t know a lot about life, but he did know that the idea of the noble man was just so much chewing gum nonsense. In this crummy world, it was a damn miracle anyone managed to achieve anything even close to picket fence dreams. This world wasn’t made for kindness. The human heart was a cancer, and it didn’t take much for the disease to spread and corrupt a person’s better senses. The human heart was full of anger, jealousy, bitterness, and other putrid emotions that led them into the sort of depraved life polite society shunned, even as they themselves harbored their own festering hearts. After twenty years of digging out the grime from humanity’s gutters, he’d realized that this emotional filth was the explanation for the majority of the cases he’d worked. Everything else could be summed up by greed or accident. He himself had an unsentimental soul; some might call him cynical, but he just thought of himself as rational.
He’d begun writing up his papers, memoirs to be exact, but he wouldn’t be caught dead using a narcissistic word like that. Conrad just thought of them as his papers, and if you wanted to get real fancy, then maybe they could be called reports. He’d come to that point in his life where he’d realized it was time to put pen to paper and record the major cases he’d solved over the years. It was for posterity, not for any sort of egotistical reasons; doubtless it would offer some sort of guidance to those who came after him. They could learn from all the years he’d spent sweating in the gutter, uncovering society’s garbage. He wrote in the most dispassionate, frank terms possible. He had no patience for rambling or bombastic nonsense, nor could he tolerate the kind of hysteria and self pity the weak-minded poured into memoirs and gossip columns. His was not a tell-all; it was a tell it like it is. The world was a dirty, ugly place, and the kind of people who wore their hearts too far on their sleeves were bound to get them ripped out and torn apart by a predator. Conrad was damned determined not to let that happen to him.
But that was all before the dame walked in.
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“You’ve got to ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” -- Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 8
Subject: A Nail Through the Heart? RE: Collaboration Story
The woman’s name was Meredith, and she’d never sought out the help of a private detective before. She’d never even met a private detective for that matter, but now, here she was in this man’s office standing in front of him like an idiot, waiting for him to notice her.
He was dressed in a rumpled brown suit and appeared to have a receding hairline under his old-fashioned fedora. He looked like the kind of guy mothers would warn their daughters about, but he’d come highly recommended by her friend Kady, whose rich aunt had hired him to find a jewel thief. She supposed if he could find a jewel thief, he could probably locate one lousy, sticky-fingered ex-boyfriend.
Finally, after the silence had stretched out too long, she cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me. Are you Dirk Conrad?”
The man looked up, and Meredith was immediately captured by his lovely, dark eyes. He had probably been good looking in his youth, before time and too much food had had their effect on his body, but still, there was something about his face that made her catch her breath. She gave him a little smile and then blushed when she caught herself sucking in her tummy and worrying about her fog-drenched hair. I’m acting like a silly teenager, she thought. A middle aged divorced woman shouldn’t be thinking about her looks. She straightened her back and held up her chin to make herself feel more confident.
The man took his sweet time responding. He picked up a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, thumped it twice against a folder on his desk, pushed it between his lips, and lit it with a silver lighter. After a big drag, he blew smoke out of his nose. Finally, he sighed as if he were suddenly tired and asked, “That’s what I’ve been told. Can I help you, Miss…”
“Oh, Ms. Avery,” Meredith said, approaching him with her hand outstretched. “Meredith Avery.”
He reached up to shake her hand, and Meredith closed hers around his palm and squeezed firmly. His hands were warm but tough, like he wasn’t a stranger to hard labor. She glanced down at his desk and noticed that the top drawer was open. What she saw inside made her gasp in surprise.
Dear Lyle,
We missed you at cribbage on Tuesday. I hope you’re not feeling under the weather. Please let me know, and I’ll tell the other ladies in the Wellness Brigade that we need to bring you a bowl of chicken noodles. I would have come over myself, but I have been so busy helping plan the holiday ball. You would not imagine how much work it takes to put a dance together!
I am so glad that we finally started this co-writing venture. I was pleasantly surprised when we discovered we had a mutual interest in writing. There are sure to be others, so what do you think about approaching the Club Committee and asking about forming a creative writing group?
Your writing is so beautiful, and it really evokes that old movies like The Maltese Falcon and The Big Heat. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never actually read anything in that genre. I tend toward romances, period novels, and the gothic. I do enjoy a good cozy mystery though now and again.
I love the idea of a noir even though I’m a bit ignorant of the genre, but I thought we had decided to do a romantic story. I mean, I think detective novels are fun, but could we somehow add in a romance element? Maybe we could do a mash-up of a hard-boiled detective story and a rom-com like “the kids do these days” (the mash-ups, I mean). We could even make it a bit quirky or even do a parody. Wouldn’t that be amusing?
I have to go now, dear. Little Tootsie needs her weekly bath; she got into some mud this morning on the walking path. I can’t wait to hear back from you to see what you add to our little story. What exactly is the surprising thing Meredith saw in Dirk’s desk drawer? I can’t wait to find out, and of course, if you’d like some company, you know how to reach me.
Your friend,
Maria
PS--I was thinking about that word “dame.” To tell you the truth, it was a bit jarring for me to read. It seems a little outdated, don’t you think? I can definitely see using it if we decide to make this a parody, but I’m not so sure about its usage in a contemporary story. Women are so much more liberated these days than we were when I was young, and I just think a word like that might turn them off. Of course, I’m open to your point of view though.
Oh, also, I’m not sure about the title. Don’t you think it sounds a bit, I don’t know, harsh? The image of a nail in someone’s heart gives me the shivers.
I hope to see you soon, and if you are unwell, please let me know so I can bring some soup.
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 15
Subject: RE: RE: Collaboration Story
Dirk noticed that the gender female human in front of him was glancing down at his open desk drawer. He was sure that what had gotten the gender female human’s attention was the gun he kept there. It wasn’t any old gun though. It was a Colt Single Action Army revolver, also known as “the peacemaker” or “the gun that won the West.” Unfortunately, it was just a replica though; Dirk sure didn’t have enough dough to buy an antique revolver. He was a tough guy but not an extortionist, not the type to squeeze his clients for that kind of cabbage.
This one, in fact, had been built at his local library. He’d downloaded the specs for it, altered it to make it more historically accurate, and used a 3D printer to create the pieces, which he put together at home. He’d devoted hours to painting it. The barrel was shiny silver, the grip, a lustrous teak color; it was a work of beauty. He could plainly see the look of admiration in the gender female human’s eyes.
And what eyes they were, hazel, almost green, wide and innocent looking, framed by eyelashes that any gender female human would kill for, and no doubt, some had. Her face was delicate, her nose straight and aristocratic, and her lips, full and red, slightly parted. They were the kind of lips magazine editors used photo editing software to achieve for gender female human models with skinny little worm lips. They were lips that needed to be kissed and quite often, by a man who knew what he was doing. In a word, she was gorgeous.
But fragile too, somehow. Maybe it was the innocence he saw in those big, green eyes, or the bit of feminine ruffle on her collar, or the way she clutched her pocketbook close to her chest, as if she were afraid someone would snatch it away if she relaxed her grasp. She was a gender female human who needed protection, and Dirk found himself wanting to take on that role.
But that wasn’t his job. His job was to catch the bad guys. It was a ruthless job with no room for emotion. He quickly shut down the tender feelings he might have enterained for a second and slammed the desk drawer shut.
“Do you need something, ma’am? I’ve got a ton of work to do here, as you can see.” He gestured toward the stack of files on his desk. “So say what you’ve got to say.”
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“You’ve got to ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” -- Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 18
Subject: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Meredith knew that when men looked at her, they saw what they wanted to see. Just because she liked to wear makeup and dresses, they assumed she was a helpless little damsel that needed to be saved by some big, strong man. What they didn’t know was that she had been a judo champion in college and could bench press a hundred and fifty pounds. Somehow they managed to overlook the ripped muscles in her arms and legs. They didn’t realize that if a guy got too close, she could have him face down in the dirt in less than ten seconds.
Don’t jump to conclusion, Meredith, she told herself. Maybe he’s not like that. At least he’s not looking at my chest.
Meredith tossed her hair back and gave the man a bold stare. “I’m looking for a comic book,” she said. “My ex stole it when I kicked him out, and I want it back.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows squeezed together in puzzlement. Meredith figured it wasn’t every day someone came into his office with a request for help finding a comic book. Then, the fold between his eyes disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he folded his hands together on his desk. “Uh, comic book, you say?” The cigarette was still hanging out of his mouth, a long stick of ashes hovering at the tip, but even so, he reached over to his pack of cigarettes and took out another one. Just like the previous one, he thumped it twice on the desk and jammed it between his lips, lighting it and then blowing smoke out his nose.
Meredith watched the tip of the old cigarette with the blade of ash trembling at the end and the newly lit cigarette flaming orange as he puffed at it. She wondered if he even realized he was smoking two cigarettes at the same time. He was either very forgetful or very nervous, and neither one bode well for her missing property. Still, he had come highly recommended.
“Yes, a comic book,” Meredith said. She knew what the man was thinking. Comic books were for kids, little boys. But she’d been reading them since she was eight years old, and not just Wonder Woman either. She had read most of the Marvel and DC comics and even the ones from the fifties, when Marvel was still called Atlas. And she’d started collecting as a teenager, hiding stacks of comic books behind her Nancy Drew books because she knew her mother would not approve. Her most prized possession was an old Green Lantern comic she kept under glass; it was worth roughly the price of a Mercedes Benz. And it was the only one that bastard Shane had taken with him when he left.
“It’s not just any old comic book,” she said. “It’s an original mint condition Green Lantern from 1946. It’s worth a lot of money, and I want you to find it.” She paused, watching the man to see his reaction. “Do you think you can help me?” she asked.
Then, he did something that convinced her he was the right man for the job.
Lyle,
I hope I didn’t upset you before with my little note. Oopsie! I’m always sticking my foot in my mouth! I suppose you were just having some fun with me. I understand. I suppose the word “dame” is far better than “gender female human,” so I get the point. It’s really not a big deal. Besides, I know how much you like those lovely old classics on TCM.
I really liked your description of the gun. I myself don’t know much about weapons, unless, of course, it’s sabers or swords. I do love a good historical novel. I was also taken aback by the description of making a gun using a printer. Is that true? My, how times have changed. Remember mimeograph machines?
I hate to bring it up because I know how much effort you put into it, but I was a bit uncertain with Meredith’s description. It sounds a bit--oh, I don’t know--maybe a bit condescending, I think. I realize this is one of those hardboiled detective stories, but does the female lead have to be portrayed as fragile? Did I ever tell you how I marched alongside my grandmother, of all people, for women’s rights? Those were exciting times. Things have changed so much since we were young.
By the way, are you still unwell? I missed you again at cribbage, and I’ve been there every Tuesday. I really need to get around and stop by your house for a friendly chat; I apologize for not doing so before. I am still in the middle of all this planning for the holiday ball. Would you believe we are actually going to have old-fashioned dancing cards? Such a hoot! It was Nancy Fitzpatrick’s idea. I already have three spots filled in; I can barely believe it. But I am saving the first dance for someone special. I hope to see you soon.
With great affection,
Maria
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: November 18
Subject: RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Revised Title: The Fully Evolved Man with a High Emotional IQ
Dirk said, “I’m the right man for the job.” He knew he had caught the woman by surprise when her eyebrows shot up and that kissable mouth hung open like an empty tin can lying discarded in a street alley.
Dirk was a fully evolved man with a high emotional IQ, and this DAME was as easy to read as a Dick and Jane book. She was one of those DAMES who didn’t just think she was equal to men; she thought she was superior to them. Or at least, she was damned determined to make them think she was. Sure, she had muscles--he could see that--but did she graduate from Rice University with a degree in civil engineering? He didn’t think so. She had probably majored in something useless like English or interdisciplinary studies, whatever that was. Maybe she hadn’t gone to school at all. Sure, she may have won a few athletic trophies back in the day, but he bet she had never gone to state in track or finished the one hundred meter in under twelve seconds. Maybe he hadn’t won first place that year, but he’d come in a close third, and that was even after he’d gotten a cast off his leg only a month before.
In any case, he didn’t care much for the challenge he saw in those snake green eyes. But he didn’t have the same problem with women that she seemed to have with men. Maybe he was a hard-boiled detective, but that didn’t make him a misogynist. His doctor was a woman, and so was his lawyer. Not that he needed a lawyer, but a woman lawyer had drawn up a few contracts for him.
“I once found a criminal who’d been in hiding in plain sight for two decades. He lived right across from the police department too, even had coffee at the same cafe where the cops hung out. If I could find him, I think I can find a lousy comic book,” he said. “Not to be offensive or anything. I wouldn’t want to offend you or make you think I don’t believe in the 19th amendment or anything.” He didn’t actually say that last part though because he was a gentleman and a fully evolved man.
He saw the expression in the DAME’s eyes shift then, from scorn to respect. She knew that Dirk Conrad was not a man to be messed with.
Regards,
L. Pruitt
“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” -- The Big Heat (1953)
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: November 25
Subject: The Completely UNevolved Man Meets His Match RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Meredith had no doubt the detective was capable at his job. If he saw scorn in her eyes, he must have been looking through a sty. Or maybe he had glaucoma. He looked like he was getting up there in age. On the other hand, she thought, so am I. She wasn’t as young as she used to be.
She didn’t think she was superior to the detective, so if that what he was thinking, he was way off. She just didn’t want to engage in sexist stereotypes that had been out of fashion for decades. If a young girl could lead the education movement in Pakistan, if a woman could be president, if a woman could fight in a combat role in the US military, then she deserved to be looked at as a capable human being as well. Calling a woman “dame” or saying she had “kissable lips” was demeaning; it relegated a woman’s importance to her looks. It was the kind of language that forced women to play the role of the angel in the house, there just to cook and clean and have babies and look good doing it.
Meredith reached out her hand, grabbed one of the cigarettes out of the detective’s mouth, and put it in her own. Fine, if she had to play the role of the femme fatale, then she would do it. And in the end, if a man ended up flat on the floor with a bullet in his chest because of it, then so be it.
“Look, I don’t care about your little ego or whatever. I just want to get my property back from the asshole who stole it, see? And if I have to talk like a lousy dame from 1941 to do it, then I’ll do it. I don’t need no guff from you either, mister. If you’ll excuse me, gumshoes are a dime a dozen in this town, and I got a whole piggy bank full of FDR’s.” She puffed a couple of circles of smoke around the detective’s face, stubbed the cigarette out on a folder on his desk, swirled around in her Jimmy Choo leather pumps--which she had bought on her own dime, thank you very much!--and marched to the door of the office, her head held high.
With great respect,
Maria Oswald
“I resent it when they write the part of a woman who’s just a sexy femme fatale who seduces people to get her way, perpetrating the myth that that’s how women have to operate instead of using their brains or their wit.” -- Teri Garr
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: December 3
Subject: Re: The Completely UNevolved Man Meets His Match RE: “The Detective Meets His Match: A Romance.” RE: Collaboration Story
Revised Title: All Tied Up
Dirk didn’t appreciate being called a chauvinist pig, even if the words had not actually been spoken. He was just an older gentleman who loved film noir and stories with hard-boiled detectives, and for him, that’s the only thing he was in it for. It was fun. It passed the time. End of story.
Anyone who really knew him would know that he had great respect for women, and if he’d ever come off as being sexist, then the fault obviously lay with...him. He didn’t have Linda around anymore to deflate his ego when he was being a bit too macho. God, how he missed her.
The truth is he just wanted to go back to being a jaded detective in a lousy city with rats in the street and poor mugs tied up and dumped in the river. Sure, it was grim, but it was better than sitting around watching game show reruns on cable with a bunch of other old geezers who had no plans and no future.
He didn’t want to be young again, no. He just wanted something to look forward to. He just wanted to disappear and become somebody else for awhile. He wanted to be Mike Hammer or Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade or Perry Mason. Hell, he’d even settle for gray-haired Matlock at this point.
So if he came across as gruff and inconsiderate, well, that was just because he wasn’t himself anymore. He was that hardboiled detective combing the grimy streets for the type of human garbage nobody thinks to throw out.
And he wasn’t ill either.
The man inside the story,
Lyle
“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” -- Joan Didion
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: December 6
Subject: All Tied Up
If Dirk could be completely direct, then so could Meredith. She turned back from the door, marched across the floor, and swept all the files off his desk. He looked at her with his mouth so wide open, he suddenly had three chins.
“Now listen here, mister,” she said in the kind of voice that demands to be listened to. “The thing is I like a good story myself. I could stay lost in the pages of a novel for hours at a time and then feel disappointed when I return to the real world with its dusty white blinds, coffee table with rings, and television with nothing on it but gossip shows and reruns of something called The Big Bang Theory.
“But if you want me to just be some pretty face, you can take that cigarette and jam it up your nose so that you’re sneezing nicotine ‘til Christmas. I’m not just some cardboard cutout of a person who you can move around wherever you want. I am a living, breathing human being, an honest to God gender female human! And I’ve got the same hopes and dreams and disappointments and failures and sins and passions and desperations as every other person in this crazy world, male or female.
“So see here, Dirk Conrad--or whatever the hell macho name you come up with--I’d love to be a part of this story, but if I am, it’s got to be split 50/50. Don’t make me some dumb broad or lousy dame or cliche femme fatale just because you like old film noir. I want to be something more interesting than that. I want to be the hero or the villain. I want to be the dame who catches the bad guy or the criminal who gets away with murder. I want to be interesting. So if all you want to do is relegate me to the role of a pretty piece of furniture, count me out!”
--Maria Oswald.
By the way, my dance card is all filled up.
“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life’s a bitch. You’ve got to go out and kick ass.” -- Maya Angelou
______________________________________
To: Maria Oswald
From: Lyle Pruitt
Date: December 8
Subject: A Meeting of Equals RE: All Tied Up
Damn, Dirk thought, what a woman!
“You know,” Dirk said. “I’ve been looking for a partner to assist me in my cases. What do you say about joining me and hunting down some bad guys. Imagine it: ‘Conrad and Avery’ in big gold letters right across the door.”
She gave him a sly smile. “How about ‘Avery and Conrad.’ I like the sound of that better.”
He smiled and stretched out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment and then met him in the middle with her own hand. They shook.
“‘Avery and Conrad,’ huh? It’s got a nice ring to it.” He paused for a moment. “By the way, how would you like to join me for a cocktail later? I know a nice place with a dancefloor. That is, unless your dance card is too full.”
Truce?
Lyle Pruitt
“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.” -- Plato
______________________________________
To: Lyle Pruitt
From: Maria Oswald
Date: December 9
Subject: RE: A Meeting of Equals
Meredith released his hand and threw back the hair that had fallen into her eyes. She gave him an amused smile. “I think I can scratch a few names out,” she said.
Truce.
Maria
