It was a dark and stormy night. Business hadn’t been great. The dames were even worse. You know how it goes. I gave Miss Jones the night off and shut myself up in my office and decided to crawl inside a bottle of Old Number 7 and tried to wait it all out.
I heard the knock at the front door, but with no Miss Jones to answer, I thought maybe if I just stayed quiet whoever it was would go away.
No such luck.
That’s when she walked in. A pretty face, stems up to here and a rack that could cause traffic accidents. The dame wore red. She smelled like money. She said she needed help. She said she could pay.
Her name was Trouble.
Or it might as well have been. I could smell it a mile away. You could have driven a ’49 Olds through the holes in her story. But what was I gonna do? A man could get lost in those eyes for days and I’m a sucker for a pretty face. Besides, this broad would do anything for my help and I hadn’t done the nasty in nearly a week. Sometimes you just gotta roll the dice and hope for the six the hardway. And sometimes you crap out.
My name is Philip Marlowe.
Trouble is my business.