A Film Noir Story of Greed, Murder, Ankle Bracelets and Love

“The whole messy business began on Tuesday, 3:45 PM, in May.  I forget the date.  I had driven out to Santa Monica to deliver a policy on a dairy truck and a lemonade stand when I remembered that Mr. Diesel’s auto policy had expired.  I headed to his house in Glendale.  As I pulled into Diesel’s drive on Boca Diablo Loco, I remember thinking how these Spanish houses had cost plenty of money before they went out of style and folks defaulted on their loans.  Everybody was nuts about these houses except the Spanish. 

The maid, Nettlesome, answered the door.  It was a nice enough home.  Sunlight passed through the venetian blinds bathing everything in horizontal stripes reminding me of a prison cell.  Nettlesome, a fussy, stout woman was reluctant to allow a stranger into the house, but I oozed confidence and reeked of pomposity, and brushed right past her.  I told her I needed to speak with Mr. Diesel.  But before she had a chance to answer, Mrs. Diesel appeared at the head of the stairwell. 

Looking up at her, I forgot what I was doing at the Diesel house.  She was wearing a terrifically textured blond wig and had a bird face.  No raving beauty, but not exactly the bottom-shelf prize at a carnival ring-toss either.  She had a bath towel wrapped around her, and on her feet were high heel slippers. 

I introduced myself, trying to swallow all the drool that had pooled in my mouth. “Hello, baby. I mean, ma’am. I’m Walter Nuff from the Pacific Risk Insurance Company. I’m here to see your husband about your car renewal. 

She smiled. “You’ll pardon my appearance, Mr. Nuff, but I’ve been sunbathing. It’s the only way to keep one’s skin leathery. By the way, I am Mrs. Diesel.” 

I couldn’t resist, “Well, I’d like to see you get this renewal so you will be fully covered. Or you could just put more clothes on.” 

In a few minutes, she came down the stairs wearing a pale blue dress and Max Factor Lip Crème Number 47 “Desperation”. She was also wearing a clunky anklet. I couldn’t tell if it was cheap costume jewelry or a chain gang shackle, but I sure liked the way it cut into her leg. She passed me and went to the mirror. 

“I hope my wig and face are on straight,” she said with self-satisfaction. 

I chuckled and said, “I hope you kept the receipts!” Not many people like me because of my sarcasm, but she didn’t seem to mind.  

After she sat down in a wicker chair she said, “You seem like a sharp cookie, Mr. Nuff. Do you handle accident insurance too? I don’t know when my husband will stumble and die on one of his construction sites.” I knew what time it was; I was no idiot.  

“Call me Walter, baby. Sure wish I knew what’s engraved on that anklet of yours.” 

“That’s for you to find out,” she said with a smirk.  

“Would you like to stay for supper Walter? Nothing fancy, mind you. My husband has low brow tastes.” And looking at the wig, I said, “I can see that.” Nevertheless, there was something mesmerizing about her. I thought it might be love. However, I finally snapped out of it and told her what I knew was going on.  

“You want to kill your husband and you want me to do it. Then you can collect the money and keep yourself in laundered wigs.” 

“You are right. However, it’s because I love you so much, I simply have to get rid of my husband.” 

Her passion for me seemed a little exaggerated, but I was willing to give her credit for knowing her feelings. 

So, we planned. We killed her husband by throwing Mr. Diesel off a slow-moving train. I knew the chances of dying from a fall off a train were small, but I was so in love with her that I had temporarily lost my mind.  

I won’t give you all the gory details but let me say this. After her husband was dead, she shot me and I, in turn, shot her. I’m pretty sure we both died. Bottom-line, I killed a man who never had done me any harm for a woman who never did me any good. I did it for the money and I did it for a woman. I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman. That’s what love looks like in film noir land.