From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Getting The Bad Guys 1950s Noir Style

 

Let’s say a clean-cut, some would say righteous, detective, a public employee detective, a cop, working for cheap dough but with some kind of white knight thing about honest work, honest cop work, and getting rid of crumb bum criminals fouling up the city streets, in any case not the usual private dick, like Phillip Marlowe, tilting at windmills for cheap dough too but maybe a roll in the hay with some femme, who is not subject to the vagaries of fearing for his pension or loss of revenue from his cut of the kickbacks, that people most film noirs takes on the big city, hell maybe the Naked City, bad guys, the connected guys, the big combo guys, and gets much grief for his efforts.

Let say that this guy, again going against type, the cynical seen it all, done it all, third degree shining lights, knuckle rapper boy with big fists and an off-hand truncheon types down at the precinct nervous about shaking down Aunt Millie for coffee and cakes just in case she is c-o-n-n-e-c-t-e-d that people the real cop houses of this world, was ready to stick his neck out, stick it way out, for not enough dough just, just because, maybe he has been working the case for years, was within an inch, maybe less, of putting the jigsaw puzzle together and making a big name for himself knocking off that big bad combo , and just because maybe the bad guys need taking care of so people in that big city could breathe a little, maybe not have to watch their backs every time they went out that big city door to that big city street and face that big city grift. Let’s say, oh let’s say the guy’s tough fisted do-gooder, knows how to take a punch, a rabbit punch too, still stand up to the dips, and move on. Yah, let’s do that.      

Let’s say the bad guys, the big city bad guys were led by a guy named Brown, although everybody knows, everybody who counts knows, that the bad guys, the street bad guys are not some waspy-sounding named guys, some been here since sixteen hundred and something, some uptown swells pinching nickels and dimes down in the gutters, but ethnic types, Kellys, Ricos, Slezaks, and the like, cheap street, maybe down from that just mentioned gutter, growing up types who, well, who scratched and clawed their ways to the top, and who had certain habits, certain, well, unfriendly habits like torture, intimidations, and occasional murder in their resumes to keep the cops, the other low-life, and the average citizen tied- up, tied- up bad. Let say this Brown guy , really Larry La Rosa to give him a real street ethnic name, from big city lower east side, starting out as nothing but a hustler first pool for walking around money, then running numbers for Big Lou (the late Big Lou and you know, or you should know, how he became RIP) to buy his first suits and white shirts, then the girls (taking a little choice piece off the side just to keep them in line, walking daddy in line just to show them who was boss, who they belonged to) and that first big Cadillac, then dope, never touching the stuff himself, alright had the rackets tied-up tight, tight as a man could have a thing tightened up with no loose ends (or just a couple, nothing substantial) because his technique, his beautiful technique, for keeping low-life power, was to  break a man (or woman) to his will, one way or another, and if that didn’t work, well, have one of his boys (you know damn well he had his scrambled egged soldiers working cheap looking for their first suits and white shirts) take matters into his own hands. Let say this Brown’s operation was strictly cash, strictly no heavy ledgers, and no traceable bank accounts, and no fingerprints either. Let say this guy is king of the hill and move on.   

Let’s say that good cop and that bad guy wind up in a life and death struggle to see who, or what, is going to control the Naked City. Let’s say that a beautiful blonde, an upscale blonde, tired of well-mannered, predictable Mayfair swell guys, looked for some unnamed thrills, some bad guy kicks, although it is not always blondes looking for such thrills, before returning to marry that next door neighbor stockbroker and some adulterous affairs, entered into the picture and that the cop and the bad guy are both staking claims to this beauty. Let’s say this beauty actually likes a little rough stuff from a man, doesn’t mind a few slaps as long as it doesn’t show, and maybe has some other fugitive desires that those Mayfair swells wouldn’t dream of fulfilling but are right up old Brown’s street thug alley. Let’s say fugitive bad guy kicks can only take a girl, a beautiful blonde girl made for symphonies and sonatas, so far and move on  

Let’s say that this bad guy is really bad, ready to move might and main to keep his place at the top of the heap, and not afraid to waste half the known world to keep his little secrets secret, including using those previously mentioned little trifecta tricks, torture, intimidation, murder that he has perfected . Let’s suppose that that ethereal blonde, that blonde made for easy castles and downy billows got fed-up with bad guys, with guys who weren’t  afraid to slap her around a little once too often just to keep her in line, and cried copper, good copper, or  wanted to. Let’s suppose that the source of the bad guy’s secret, an inconvenient ex-wife who got in the way on his way up,  turned up after some smooth good cop detective work, not without its own set of false leads. And let’s suppose the bad guy’s world kept getting smaller and smaller, made smaller and smaller by that relentless cop (and some perfume scent he couldn’t get out of his system once that blonde stirred his emotions), small enough for even him to holler uncle.

Then you would have a classic 1950s film noir, grainy black and white in true B-flick glory, like The Big Combo complete with suitable 1950s noir be-bop, slightly beat down, beat around music, by some sainted high white note blower, blowing Gabriel’s horn, suitable gritty feel (wash your hands after watching), and superb framing shots to remember this one. And that blonde, a blonde to disturb your dreams, a blond to disturb a good cop’s and a bad guy’s dreams, walking in some be-fogged night back to Main Street, not alone.