The Underwood gleamed up at me in contempt. I thought trying to write on an old fashioned typewriter would connect me more intimately with the language. So far my muse had remained elusive. I could hear the soft noir soundtrack drift across the parking lot entering my room through the open window. My Technicolor world transformed instantly to the grainy black and white world of Manhattan 1943. The bare bulb in the overhead lamp swung slightly from an unexpected breeze. Words…where were my damn words?
Unfortunately, it takes more than a cheap suit, bourbon and a stale cigar to create inspiration. I do like the black and white theme. The world seems both comforting and sinister as if at any moment men armed with Tommy guns would emerge from the bank across the street disturbing the genteel urban peace of another day. Prohibition may have been a decade in the past, but the deadly wise guys tearing up our fair city were still around. I need a story damn it. What good is a hard drinking PI without a story?
Then came the soft wrapping of youthful knuckles on the door and a slim figure silhouetted in the frosted glass; my heart was suddenly hopeful.
“Enter,” I snarled
The door swung open. The kid was pure street hustler and trouble wrapped tightly in a look of desperation and sexual tension that beamed from doe-like eyes. My muse had arrived.