The Maltese Britomart- The Faerie Queen as Film Noir
By: Dan Nockels, P.I.
I was sitting in my office at dusk, the smoke rising from my cigarette almost blocked out the stench of the city stretching out behind me. It really is a filthy town especially in the parts where I do business. That’s when she came in; she was tall for a dame. Not bad looking either. She stood there for a minute and I gave her one of those long Hollywood look-overs, you know the type they do in movies right before you know it’s a misogynist piece of shit. Red hair slightly matted so you knew she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. That’s a good quality in a city like this. She had a spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, looked kinda like the shoddy work of some union worker stopping off at a job between visits to the bar, looked good on her. She was pale, I guess the spooky lookin’ bucket she had in the crook of her arm explained that, looked like she hardly took it off. “Thou art Nockels P.I.?”
“That’s what it says on the door, baby, what can I do for ya?” I leaned back in my chair swirling the glass of scotch I had been nursing since the last one. She was speaking with a British accent, kinda phoney sophisticated, too much more of this and I might grow fond of her.
“My dearest love hath become lost to me…”
“Say no more doll face, I know the story already.” Turns out I was wrong, the magic mirror thing kinda came out of nowhere. Seems like there is always some new trouble bubbling in the bowels of this city. Seems like I’m always right there in the middle of it. I took the case. As she walked out, I lit another cigarette and noted a nod of approval at a John McCain pamphlet in my mail slit, makes sense I guess, both veterans