Snappy Pete

Calvin writes - The following is the product of a writing exercise set some years ago.  I was braver then, so to write a piece ‘… in the style of Raymond Chandler …’ fired my enthusiasm, as I was and remain a definite fan.  Could the task be anything, I ask now, other than a poisoned chalice?  Chandler was a true craftsman of immense talent.  Such backhanded compliments as, ‘Chandler was great … in that genre …’ reflect literary snobbery among critics far more than they do the writer’s genius. 

I would, of course, be far more cautious these days in attempting the task.  It’s difficult to ‘fill’ anyone’s shoes when you’re not fit to clean them.  However, if writing were easy, everyone would try it.  I don’t normally write in the first person either, so what follows is a true labour of love.  Wherever he is, I hope Raymond forgives me.

Snappy Pete

 After three dead-end leads, fifty a day plus expenses didn’t seem all that easy to earn.  My head felt like it had bounced through several rounds with Jack Daniels and several more with Joe Louis.  Someone was getting nervous, flexing muscle, but whatever they thought I knew … I didn’t.

          The heat had pressed on my chest all day, pushing my lungs flat.  It was impossible to move without dragging in breath, pushing it out, and oozing sweat.  I was tired, felt dirty, and just wanted to wash up and kick back, ready for dawn’s furnace door to open.  But the thought of ‘Snappy’ Pete nag-nag-nagged.  He’d left a message at the office the day before: he wanted to see me, said it was urgent, and I should come the back way.  Everything’s urgent for Pete Jarrow, but something was spooking him.  There was no back way.  There was a way in the back, but that meant jumping a few fences and crushing the odd weed.

          Jarrow had a small patch on the south side, a community of Russian immigrants in crowded brownstone tenements on crowded narrow streets.  He ran the numbers, a few girls, and protection — nothing big, just enough to stand out in the neighbourhood like a fat maggot.  People thought ‘Snappy’ got his nickname because he habitually snapped the fingers of both hands on concluding business.  That wasn’t it.  Once his scams began paying off, Jarrow suddenly dressed like a movie star: silk suits, shirts, patent leather wing-tips, and especially ties.  Whether he wore pastel, stripes, or fine check, vivid colour always dropped from his button-down collar: azure, cerise, carmine, or bright yellow.  ‘Snappy’ Pete would sell your daughter, pick your pocket, and dress for the occasion.

          I walked the last few streets.  The sawmill looked deserted but still gave out a resinous hint of working days.  I cut through its rear access way, stepped round two bums sharing a bottle, climbed a wall, and landed in Pete’s tenement yard.  Light showed through Jarrow’s curtains, and I made my way to the fifth floor, smelling poverty and over-boiled food.  There was no answer at the door.  Possibilities rattled like streetcars in my head.  He was out — maybe, but his message suggested Snappy wasn’t making a splash just then; he was scared to answer — unlikely, no one who wore those colours scared easily; or there was something worse — if so, the door wasn’t saying.  I shrugged and sighed.  If I had to wait, it would be on my rates and Snappy’s bourbon.  I picked the lock, called, waited, considered myself in Pete’s hall mirror, called again, and waited some more.  Pete might not scare, but he could get nervous.  My companion in the mirror looked back at me; he looked uncertain too.  I went inside.

          I found Pete Jarrow in his office.  It was the first time I’d seen him without a jacket, just a white shirt, taupe waistcoat, trousers with knife-edge creases, and shiny two-tone shoes.  As usual, his tie stood out, blood orange in colour and twisted to a tight cord, suspending Jarrow from the ceiling fan.  The tie’s short end — much shorter now — jutted like Pete’s tongue.  The fan’s motor still turned, labouring, slowly rotating the body like it was a shop display.

          No kicked-over chair suggested suicide, and nothing else in the room seemed disturbed.  It seemed only common decency to snoop a little, but smelling a set-up, I soon wiped what I’d touched and scrammed, reaching my car just as sirens sounded.  Jarrow would increase some flatfoot’s paperwork, and I had more to think about.  It was late and I drove away.  The night still felt hot.

© (2014) Calvin Hedley all rights reserved