Today’s Writer Friday, albeit a little late, is a special one. The writing prompt is the emotion/state nervous with the added bonus of written in the noir style. This is brought to you by Chuck M, an old buddy of mine who has exceptional writing chops (especially in this genre) and who I hope to have on this blog at some point. I’m not that great at this style, not without reading more Hammett and whatnot but here goes nothing.
Let’s dip the bill Chuck, next rounds on me.
Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart
It was dark when she approached the opaque glass door but there was enough light to highlight the name broadly painted on the door; Dash Marlowe, Private Dick.
The name alone was enough to stop her in her tracks. But she was in an honest to goodness jam and despite the profession, or because of the profession if she was honest with herself, she needed Dash. He was an honest jobbie who played fair and square with his clients.
He wouldn’t involve the coppers and he wouldn’t endanger any dame even if she was guilty. She knew that. Knew it without a doubt.
It didn’t make any of this easier.
She swallowed against the dryness in her mouth.
She didn’t want to do it; didn’t want to knock on the door to face the man inside. They had too much…no, they had a lifetime of history and she didn’t have the gall to face the shamus inside.
“You can do it Nancy,” she murmured to herself as she smoothed sweaty palms over her pink wool skirt, she adjusted her matching straw hat and took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to. It wasn’t a matter of wanting to. It was a matter of life or death. If Elizabeth wasn’t found by Friday…she bit her rouge stained lips and tried to block the mental image of her sister being tormented.
It would be the big sleep for her baby sister.
Despite the butterflies in her stomach and the bile rising in her throat with each passing minute; despite all that, she had a duty, an obligation, to make sure her sister was brought back in one piece.
Shivering in the dim hallway, she steeled her spine. Her parents were dead, her brother was trying to marry into money in London and the only person she could trust, she had kicked to the curb a year ago.
She had no one.
Except for Elizabeth.
Though she was the moll of Frankie Abruzzi, the leader of the local trouble boys, Lizzie was still her baby sister and Nancy couldn’t just let her get caught up in shenanigans that could kill her.
No, she had to forget Dash’s kisses, his tenderness, his broad shoulders that could take on much more than hers ever could and just focus on the means to an end.
Dash was the best. She needed the best.
Opening her eyes, she licked her lips. Professional. Yeah, she had to keep this professional and distant.
She could be cold. Dash had accused her of that many times.
A bubble of laughter spilled out of her mouth as she reached for the door knob. Dash might be the best flatfoot in the business, but he wasn’t terribly observant when it came to his personal life.
Professional.
Cold.
Pushing back her errant thoughts and the feeling of wanting to be sick, she turned the cold steel knob.
She could absolutely do this.
She had to.
All Mirth and No Matter 