Film Noir

I am behind the large white wheel of an Oldsmobile. I am a page ripped from a Raymond Chandler novel. Clipped words curl close to my lips as hot as ash. Dreamy eyes are cold tonight, there will be death at the side of a desert back-road. Revolvers will be shaken until blood spills from a mouth. I park carefully until the cars white-walls appear at the four corner’s of the night. I am on a case, another Hollywood sex scandal. I sit there smoking until dawn mists swim into the valley. Speeding squad cars blast past me; the City Dicks are tough around here and most are on the 'take.' I let the engine idle wondering where this all fits into a half-written plot? “Lets move” I drawl to my suit rumpled self, easing the rim of my fedora over weary eyes, heading now to where flash-bulbs expose what we do when the stars turn blue.