***Out In Film Noir Night – With Robert Mitchum’s “Where Danger Lives” In Mind  

From The Pen Of  Frank Jackman:

He should have known, thought young, well, maybe not so young these days, after the last few go-rounds, Robert Mitchell as he lay all patch-worked up in yet another hospital bed, this time San Francisco General, as a result of yet another, ah, indiscretion, indiscretion meaning only one thing, a woman entered into it, that she was poison, that she, Faith, would do him not good. It was not like he had not been through this kind of thing before, an occupational hazard in his chosen, uh,  professional, private investigator, gumshoe, private eye, peeper, shamus, snooper,  and every other dirty defiling name you could think of, except a guy, guy who has been down on his uppers had to make a living, make a living anyway he could, any legal way (he had been a cop, a good cop, so he knew the illegal way, the grafter way only too well).

That “rep,” that sleazy rep kind of came with the territory (although he did no divorce work, no setting some guy or dame up for the adultery fall, complete with strewn bed sheet photos, court-certified photos, those beat down guys really were sleazy) , part of the overhead in the business where some heavy- lifting was necessary, and where a young guy, well, kind of young the way he was feeling just then,  had to take what came his way in the form of business before he got so he could wave off the tough cases. Besides if a dame, a good- looking dame, came with it he was young and eager enough to go chasing a few windmills to help that good-looking dame out, and maybe get a little something extra beside twenty- five a day plus expenses for his efforts.

Like he said though he had been through this kind of caper, this Faith caper, before and should have known what was coming unlike that first time with Jane, Jane who was so tied into a mob guy, Kirk, yes, Kirk Donnelly, the now departed big numbers guy over in Reno, the tie-in a little fact that he was unaware of when he took the case, when Kirk hired him to find her whereabouts, which is how he got blind-sided by her charms. Yes, she took him for a ride, rode him through the Mexican nights after he Kirk money followed her there and he caught a whiff of that gardenia perfume (as he thought back about Jane he kept coming up against the image of smelling that perfume even before she hit the café door, hit the door running, running right at him, with that “big boy, got a cigarette for a lonely girl” line, adios hermano, adios). That minute, or maybe that minute before she opened that door, he was hooked, hooked bad, bad as a man could be hooked on a woman.  

They were going to run away together, South America maybe, and spent some of old Kirk’s dough she had grabbed living the easy life. Except old Kirk, the late Kirk, through no fault of his own, or maybe he too should have known, known what she was capable of , didn’t get to be a big numbers guy by letting dark-haired drop-dead beautiful no holds-barred dames take him like that. And so he found them, brought them back, and was ready to make a cement resting place for them, him anyway, when Jane let Kirk have a slug, or six, from a .32, his,  to settle the matter. And then she clipped him too, clipped him in the shoulder, to put frosting on the cake, and then fled, fled with everything she could grab from Kirk’s safe, and was probably living in Rio, or some sunny spot like that right now while he was crabbing strained baby food, or whatever the called the hospital meal fare.                   

Or if not with Jane he should have learned the last time, the last time with Lana, another dark-haired beauty although complete with jasmine perfume that time, when he was supposed to follow her to from Frisco to Mexico (he thought, when he was half coming out of surgery, maybe Mexico was unlucky for him, something in the air, something in the tequila, maybe that reefer madness these dark-haired women were hungry for to get them in the mood, their mood, maybe that explained it) in order to protect her interests in case some actor she had her hooks into welched when he was supposed to get a divorce from his wife to marry her.  She had played footsies with him on the side once she hear that Raymond Morales, a mob guy, Mexican section (dope, gold, white-slave), was putting the squeeze on the actor for dough owed, big dough, and she was afraid she was going to be left out in the cold with nada (or she had it planned out – him the next best thing, windmill-chasing, durable heavy-lifting best thing for what she had in mind). That one ended up with him chasing rainbows on some off-shore ship that Raymond was using as a hide-out from the Federales and he had received a serious working over by Raymond’s boys. Lana, well, Lana shot a couple of guys, dead-aim shot them too, a handy girl, who were guarding Raymond’s dough, cleaned him out, grabbed in passing the actor’s dough sitting on Raymond’s desk ready for deposit, the dough he was set to pay over to Raymond for his debts, fled, alone or aided he never did find out although a flashy dark-haired dame with curves in all the right places and that damn jasmine would have them lined up ten deep  to provide whatever little service they could render the bonita senorita, adios hermano, and maybe she too was living in Rio and Jane and she were charter members of the Robert Mitchell Sucker Club. Welcome another member girls, Faith is on her way.           

Betty, the gal who nursed him back to health when they shipped him norte after the Lana, ah, incident, and whom he started dating, seriously dating, before Faith got her hooks into him, said one night when he was talking about this stuff to her that he, Robert Mitchell, was the kind of guy that any woman would be looking for as a protector. Tall, rugged, brawny, good looks, manly, a guy who looked like he could take a few punches and not squawk about it when some woman asked him to chase an off-hand windmill, and looked like he might be interesting for a tumble in bed too. He had laughed at that one. Yah, Betty, solid, no nonsense, fetching, funny, proper, although a little improperly surprising in bed and he hadn’t complained, now long gone, lost in the fateful Faith tumble. Faith, a woman who guys, wind-mill chasing guys too, would give up hope for, and she would make them do so, and who had no charity no charity at all as those two slugs about six inches from his heart that had just been surgically removed attested to. Betty said this too, funny Betty, she said the only different between her and these “fallen” women that he had run around with, when it came to men, was that she did not  know how to shoot a gun. Yah, funny Betty. Gone Betty      

He did not want to think how Faith had played him, played him for a fool, not now, not ever, but as he lay there all patched- up he could not help but think back to how he could have played it better, if for no other reason than professional pride. She had come into his office all a-flutter, kind of school -girlish and laid her proposition on the line. He husband, her older very jealous husband, was being abusive (thinking she was being unfaithful, she swore to Robert she had not. He assumed she was lying.) and she wanted to get a divorce and needed some proof of his abuse to take to court. He had said sorry that he did not do divorce work. She pouted, started to cry, and then her Chanel No.5 kicked in. He took her to dinner, they had a few drinks, and they tumbled over to his place. Done, flame-broiled done. The next few weeks were like that, like some strange exotic, erotic dream, except she kept pressing him to confront the husband, to tell him they, she and Robert, were in love and that he had to grant the divorce.

Well, Robert bought it, bought her argument, and they went to confront dear old hubby. Naturally with a good-looking dame like Faith and with a ton of dough the husband laughed. Not for long though. Faith pulled a gun, and plugged old hubby bang- bang- bang (as he recollected the scene he grimaced and thought about what Betty had said about these dangerous women and their guns). He rushed over but apparently hubby was a goner. This time he was cooked, he was going to take the big step- off on this one, and she would probably not even take the fall. The poor as a church mouse guy took advantage of the poor distressed wife to grab some dough and the easy life. Yah, that’s the way the jury would get the case all wrapped up in a pretty bow. He, they had to get away. Mexico he thought without thinking, thought better of the idea too once she said she had some dough stashed in Mexico City. Yah, that was a good idea, head south.                

And so they did, although keeping on the back roads and out of sight was tough especially when their dough was low and expenses were high as they had to depend on low-lifes to eventually get then across the border at Nogales, an easy exit spot. Then in Bakersfield he picked up a newspaper that got him wise, got him wise in a hurry. It seems that Faith had not leveled with him about the fact that she had killed a couple of other guys (let off on self-defense grounds by the time she got through with the all-male juries) who allegedly had abused her, had spent a considerable time in some swanky mental institutions for all kinds of problems and, the kicker, had failed to inform him that hubby had not been killed by the bullets she threw his way but had died from being smothered by a pillow, her pillow when he went to see if anybody had heard her shots . He was off the hook. But Faith didn’t see it that way, not at all and so the little gift of a couple of slugs. And she long gone, maybe to Rio like he said before.  And so here he was, sitting alone in a hospital, no Betty, no nothing, nothing except the high heaven hope that when he got back on his feet he hoped that no more young women came through his office door. But he was not sure, not sure he hoped that.