noirtales

[noirtales]

Chapter 6

There’s nothing quite like the scent of salt in the mild early-morning breeze. The clinking of pulleys mixed with seagulls’ songs. I love the docks. Somehow, it’s always made me feel at home.

Someone else had chosen this place for quiet contemplation tonight. A dark silhouette of a strong man leaning against the shipment, as if he’d been waiting for someone to arrive.

I can feel his presence before I even see his face. That unmistakable energy of someone who's comfortable in their skin but keeps their distance. Quinn.

I: Detective Murphy. What brings you down here?

His eyes flick to mine as he pushes himself off the shipment, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze lingers for a fraction longer than necessary.

Detective: I assume the same thing that brought you. And please, call me Quinn.

His voice—low, deliberate—makes something in my chest tighten.

I: Quinn... Is it the O’Neil murder?

Detective: Tonight, it is.

I’m suddenly aware of the space between us, the cool air wrapping around us both. He doesn’t make a move to close the distance, but his presence feels closer than the inches separating us.

I: It wasn’t Ray.

His gaze sharpens, though I catch a flicker of something—maybe surprise—in his eyes.

Detective: Wasn’t he?

I: He couldn’t have been. And he’d never do anything so grim.

He leans in slightly, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes never leaving mine. There’s something about the way he does it that makes my breath catch for a split second.

Detective: You seem very protective of him.

I: He’s like a brother to me. I know him better than anyone.

A small, almost imperceptible shift in Quinn’s posture, as if he’s reassessing me. He doesn’t look away, his gaze a little too intense for comfort. Or maybe it’s the way his voice drops just a little, softer now.

Detective: When we love someone, we’re inclined to ignore the fact that they’re people. Capable of making mistakes.

I swallow hard, but I don’t back down. The silence between us feels heavy, but I hold his stare, feeling the weight of the unspoken.

I: Actually, it’s our mistakes that brought us so close together. I know the kinds of things he’s capable of. Murder isn’t one of them.

His lips twitch, barely an effort to hide a smile. He exhales a slow breath through his nose, like he's considering whether to say something more, but instead, he looks out over the water, his hands sliding into the pockets of his coat.

Detective: If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about. Justice will be served.

I feel the pull of his words, but something about them rings hollow. His eyes return to mine—soft, but guarded.

I: I think we both know that following laws doesn’t guarantee justice. And breaking laws doesn’t always mean injustice.

He steps closer, just a few inches now, and for the briefest moment, I swear his hand brushes mine as he adjusts his coat.

Detective: Careful. That’s the kind of statement that gives the impression breaking the law is acceptable.

I: We play according to rules we came up with to explain a world we didn’t create — nor fully understand. I’m not saying breaking the law is acceptable. Just that there are times when the law doesn’t represent the moral high ground.

Quinn stands so close now, I can feel the warmth of him, and there’s something in the way his eyes soften—just for a second—that makes me wonder if he’s seen the world in the same way.

Detective: I agree with you. But my job isn’t to serve justice. It’s to make sure the law is being followed. I’m just a pawn in this game, like everyone else.

I tilt my head, the corner of my mouth lifting. I can’t help it.

I: Pawns don’t ponder complexities. And I think you care about serving justice more than getting the job done.

His gaze flickers to my lips for a fraction of a second before he clears his throat. The tension between us feels like it could snap, but neither of us moves.

Detective: Do you feel so strongly about everything?

I let out a quiet laugh, though my pulse is racing just a little faster than usual.

I: No one ever does.

His eyes lock with mine again, his voice lower, more intimate.

Detective: It’s hard not to consider what you say with a voice like that.

The silence stretches for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. There’s something magnetic in the way he looks at me—like he’s considering the possibility of something more, or maybe just waiting for me to say the next thing.

[Both smile.]

Detective: I’ll get to the bottom of it. Good night, Malcolm.

I take a slow breath, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on both of us, and for a moment, I don’t know if it’s just the city or if it’s him making the air so thick.

I: Good night, Quinn.

[noirtales]

Chapter 5

[Later that night]

Jimmy: Can you believe that fancy slime would accuse us of murder? Ray: He accused me, Jimmy. And I think you’ve had enough, so pass me the bottle! Mike: Come on, Ray! You’ve got an alibi. He knows it wasn’t you. I: It’s her you’re upset about, isn’t it? Ray: She was a good person. Why would someone do such a thing to her? Jimmy: I bet it was jealousy. You go through a lot of women, and though you only want them for one night, there might be a bitch or two who’d want you for the long haul. And in order for that to happen, the herd must be thinned out. I: That’s actually plausible. Almost as much as you trying to thin the competition in the escort business. Ray: Enough!!! She wasn’t a prostitute. She was married. Mike: Nice! Ray: No!!! Use your head! I: The husband had a vendetta. Jimmy: If it were him trying to pin it on you, he’s not doing a great job. You’ve got an alibi. Ray: Not exactly. Mike: You lied to the detective? I: He looked desperate. I had to do something. Ray: I appreciate it. Mike: Where were you? Ray: Out for a walk. Had to clear my head. Jimmy: Did anyone see you? Ray: I don’t think so. But someone has seen her walking in and out of here a couple of times, apparently. Mike: Is there a way to find out who the witness is? I: There might be.

[noirtales]

Chapter 4

I: Concerning? Detective: A woman has been murdered. She’s believed to be associated with one of you. Ray: That’s pretty vague. What’s this assumption based on? Detective: A witness saw her coming in and out of here on multiple occasions after hours. Mike: Who is the woman? Detective: Scarlet O’Neil. Did any of you know her? Ray: I did. Sort of. She’d come to see us many times. I noticed her in the crowd... we slept together a few times. Detective: So Miss O’Neil was your girlfriend? Ray: Not at all. I barely knew her. She’d come backstage after a performance, we’d... spend time together. And then she’d leave. Detective: Do you treat everyone you “spend time with” with such high respect? Jimmy: Last time I checked, sleeping with someone wasn’t a felony! Detective: It isn’t, but murder is. Ray: Listen, I’ve slept with several women. Some of them I’ve seen more than once. Scarlet was one of them. That’s why I remembered her name. But we weren’t romantically involved, nor did I hurt her. Detective: Where were you last Thursday between midnight and 2 a.m.? I: He was with me. We were at the docks until dawn. Detective: Alright. Thank you for your time! Jimmy: Is that it? Detective: That’s all I needed... for now. It was Ray, Mike, Jim, and... I: Malcolm. And you are...? Detective: Quinn Murphy.

[noirtales]

Chapter 3

The second time I saw him, he had beaten me to the bar. His unmistakable finesse caught my eyes immediately. He didn’t notice me as I passed him and made my way to the dressing room in the back. The band’s already here. Mike is heavily justifying a ten-minute piano solo he’d planned for the third quarter. Ray’s rolling his eyes. Jimmy’s in his own world, probably planning a burlesque number in his head. I sit on an end table, pull a cigarette out of my pocket, and light it. I glance over the sheet music one more time, but my thoughts drift back to the man in the suit. The thoughts in his bright blue eyes, just like his coat, were soaked in mystery. The spotlight is in focus. Silhouettes, smoke, and three instruments begin to set the mood. I join in minutes later, but my eyes are still busy searching the crowd for him. He’s looking at me with a conspicuous grin on his face. Who is he? What does he want? I look away, then glance back. He’s gone. I’m more confused than ever. Why would he leave before the end of the show? Applause fills the room, rewarding the performance. We walk backstage, all of us thirsty for the complimentary bourbon. Then, standing in the narrow hallway, there he is. Detective: “Good evening, gentlemen! May I have a word with you four?”

[noirtales]

Chapter 2

The band consisted of four — a couple of musicians brought together by a mischievous mistress: Jazz. Ray, the lead, my best friend, an undiscovered saxophone virtuoso. A man from humble beginnings with an out-of-this-world talent for brass. Many said the Devil himself gave him His own skill in exchange for his soul, but that was just fabrication. His secret lay in his incomparable fingerplay, which he practiced every chance he got — on his instrument, and on the ladies. He and I became good friends years ago, when neither of us could afford to eat more than twice a week. But that’s a story for another day. Mike, the tallest pianist I had ever met, and eternal rival to Ray. There wasn’t an instrument you could give him that he couldn’t play — at least a little. But his bread and butter was the piano. He could turn the most cheerful piece into a heart-wrenching requiem. Any open-minded woman or man unsuspectingly sitting down to listen to him perform usually walked away with more than an auditory catharsis. Mike had a little brother, Jim. A burlesque showgirl trapped in a 22-year-old boy’s body. He had always dreamt of performing on stage in sequined lingerie and pantyhose, but the closest he could ever get to his dream was settling for the cello. His parents caught on to his true desires early on and beat them out of him mercilessly. That’s part of the reason he and Mike ran away from home. When Ray heard the story, he gave Jim a boa some woman had left in his apartment. I had never seen little Jimmy happier. I understand him. I’d probably be just as happy if I had gotten even the most insignificant role on the silver screen. I am Malcolm, and I provide the vocals. Gifted with a uniquely deep vocal range, I give life to soul and jazz better than anyone in a five-mile radius… Yes, only five —it’s a big city, after all, with lots of striving talents. It’s a gift I never wanted, but was granted — and I’ve put it to use just to survive. One day, I will appear on the flickers; but until then, I will make do with what I’ve got: bourbon, Jazz, and love.

[noirtales]

Chapter 1 (og Jun 30 2019)

A fine suit, a fedora, and bourbon on the rocks. The first night I saw him, he seemed burdened — hardly a shocking look for a detective in a city built on larceny, treachery, and murder. Deep in thought, yet his eyes were wide open, scanning the room as if searching for something… or someone. A troubled mind and a simple drink — the perfect companion for a night like this. Our eyes meet, and I tremble. Am I in trouble? Nonsense! He isn’t here to investigate. A room full of gangsters and ample-bosomed women — he could find crime if he wanted to. He locks eyes with me, and a question stirs. What does he want? He nods and lights a cigarette. I make my way toward the Gentlemen’s. Freshening up in the back, I work up the courage to seize the moment. When I return to the bar, he’s gone. The rain’s pouring outside. He must’ve had a hell of a reason to leave. Oh well... I make my way back to the band. “Come on, guys, let’s make some jazz.”