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    Noir: A Novel
    Noir: A Novel
    Noir: A Novel
    Ebook405 pages7 hours

    Noir: A Novel

    By Christopher Moore

    4/5

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    INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!

    The absurdly outrageous, sarcastically satiric, and always entertaining New York Times bestselling author Christopher Moore returns in finest madcap form with this zany noir set on the mean streets of post-World War II San Francisco, and featuring a diverse cast of characters, including a hapless bartender; his Chinese sidekick; a doll with sharp angles and dangerous curves; a tight-lipped Air Force general; a wisecracking waif; Petey, a black mamba; and many more.

    San Francisco. Summer, 1947. A dame walks into a saloon . . .

    It’s not every afternoon that an enigmatic, comely blonde named Stilton (like the cheese) walks into the scruffy gin joint where Sammy "Two Toes" Tiffin tends bar. It’s love at first sight, but before Sammy can make his move, an Air Force general named Remy arrives with some urgent business. ’Cause when you need something done, Sammy is the guy to go to; he’s got the connections on the street.

    Meanwhile, a suspicious flying object has been spotted up the Pacific coast in Washington State near Mount Rainer, followed by a mysterious plane crash in a distant patch of desert in New Mexico that goes by the name Roswell. But the real weirdness is happening on the streets of the City by the Bay.

    When one of Sammy’s schemes goes south and the Cheese mysteriously vanishes, Sammy is forced to contend with his own dark secrets—and more than a few strange goings on—if he wants to find his girl.

    Think Raymond Chandler meets Damon Runyon with more than a dash of Bugs Bunny and the Looney Tunes All Stars. It’s all very, very Noir. It’s all very, very Christopher Moore.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateApr 17, 2018
    ISBN9780062434005
    Author

    Christopher Moore

    Christopher Moore is the author of seventeen previous novels, including Shakespeare for Squirrels, Noir, Secondhand Souls, Sacré Bleu, Fool, and Lamb. He lives in San Francisco, California.

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    Reviews for Noir

    4/5

    278 ratings32 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Another terrific Christopher Moore book! I especially liked the noir style. Having grown up in the Bay Area in the 60s and 70s, I really enjoyed all the references to places that that have are just a memory, like Vanessi's.
    • 5/5
      1947 San Francisco--atmospheric, picks up the flavor of the place and the time, like a hard-boiled detective novel without the PI. Sammy works as a bartender and has a secret that his boss knows and is willing to use to control him. He meets Stilton at the bar where she comes after her shift at the diner. Sammy is always looking to make money so he has a cast of characters that he runs schemes with. Sometimes they work, sometimes not so good. I loved these characters. Sammy and Stilton are some pair but they work. Eddie Moo Shoe and his uncle in Chinatown are hilarious. The story has some quirks in the beginning--Men in Black, UFO's, a general looking to join a certain club--but the craziness picks up in the last third and it is great! Sammy and Eddie and their schemes made me laugh. I delighted in how all the people in Sammy's main group have each others' backs. They are there for each other and, if they an make money on it, they are definitely in. This is fun! Just as good as any other Christopher Moore book.
    • 4/5
      Christopher Moore is one of those authors that when he is good, he is really really good, but when he's bad, its unreadable. Luckily, this is book is in the good category - probably one of my favorites by him. We have a bartender forced detective in San Francisco - whose boss forces him into a scheme of finding girls for a big league party for the rich and exclusive... but things don't go as planned.Sammy's girlfriend disappears, and while tracking her down, he finds a creature that isn't from this world. A general trying to get into an exclusive club screws up majorly, and a very poisonous snake gets loose.The story is fun, doesn't take itself seriously, but is well written. The author even manages to throw in a bit of social justice, without going overboard and without it taking over the whole story.Overall, very well done.
    • 4/5
      Sometimes hard-boiled, sometimes slapstick, always entertaining, this novel describes a slice of life of post-war San Francisco. Sammie is a bartender with a tendency toward trouble, and he finds plenty of it, starting with his boss being killed by a poisonous snake Sammie had delivered to the bar. Then there's the racist police officer, the two or more men in black who are following him, the woman he adores who disappears, the general who expects him to do his bidding, and finally the moonman. Sammie and his endearing friends manage to land on their feet, and I'd be happy to read more about them in the future.
    • 5/5
      A beautiful blonde walks into a San Francisco gin joint, and Sammy "Two Toes" Tiffin is suddenly smitten by the mysterious woman named Stilton (after the cheese). Thus begins Christopher Moore's tale of Noir. It's 1947, and the Allies have won the war. Now regular folks are scraping by and trying to get through a rough and dangerous world, and hoping to maybe earn a bit of dough on the side. Sammy is a man with a lot of plans and schemes - Sammy knows people - he's friends with all sorts around town, and for that he is dragged into a plan by his boss at the saloon to help an Air Force General get into a swanky nob club. But Sammy has several irons in the fire and as his plans for a quick buck begin to unravel, Sammy soon learns how closely all these strange events are connected together. As his new girl, the Cheese, goes missing Sammy must avoid being caught by the mysterious guys wearing black suits and sunglasses as he saves the Cheese and uncovers a mystery that is out of this world. I really enjoy Christopher Moore, and Noir does not disappoint. It is a gritty, hard-boiled story filled with many nods, winks, and nudges at classic noir fiction. But it is classic Moore as well, so his Noir is also filled with a lot of sly and witty humor on the side. The combination is a fun-filled adventure that mixes pulp sci-fi with pulp fiction. I swear that Moore makes an attempt to use every bit of noir slang in the story, and the characters are rich and full of life. As the story unfolded I could picture the scenes rolling out like classic film noir, with enough dark humor to cause me to burst out laughing several times. Sammy is the classic noir hero - the regular guy, working a crummy job, and who is trying to do better at life but doing it by the seat of his pants. Into Sammy's life walks the mysterious and sultry Stilton (don't call her Toots), a woman who takes no guff from anybody and who has more secrets than you can shake a stick at. Together they make a great pair, playing off each other and basically making up everything as they go along, hoping to come out okay at the end. The other characters the Moore sprinkles into the mix, from Sal, Sammy's boss and a regular douchbag, to Sammy's friends and ersatz assistants, to the mysterious Men in Black, all make this is fun and entertaining read.I listened to the audio version that was expertly read by Johnny Heller. Heller does a fantastic job of bringing life to all of the characters, and you can hear the influences from Bogart, Cagney, Ladd, and Burr throughout the narration. Heller sets the stage and his voices immerse you into the wonderful world that Moore has created. I highly recommend this entertaining and witty interpretation of the classic noir genre.
    • 4/5
      Take a slightly dysfunctional bartender, throw in a beautiful dame, a corrupt cop, a deadly snake, a secret society for wealthy men, a general, a couple of men in black, and an alien with a penchant for blowing things up (but mostly cows), set them all in western US in 1947 and you’ve got Noir by Christopher Moore. It’s a zany, action-packed, extremely entertaining send-up of post-war noir and it had me giggling throughout.Thanks to Edelweiss+ and Wm Morrow Publishing for the opportunity to read this book in exchange for an honest review
    • 4/5
      We'd just finished a Nordic Noir mystery on the car drive up from Charleston to Canada, and picked this as our next book. Fantastic. We listened to the audible version, and the reader had the perfect voice for this novel. As much as I enjoyed the novel itself, the afterward by the author was great, and , oddly enough really personal, as I'd read just about everything he mentioned in it for the time, and knew some of the authors. Christopher Moore has yet to disappoint.
    • 5/5
      Set in 1947 in this spoof on the old noir novels like Dashiell Hammett and James Cain only in the crazy funny way of all Christopher Moore books, Sammy Tiffin a bartender's life changes when he meets a dame named Stilton whom he refers to as the Cheese. The Cheese is a war widow who is a waitress at a five and dime and Sammy who never served in the military yet has a limp that people think he got from the War. His boss Sal wants him to find some fresh-faced girls for this Air Force general friend of his who is trying to join a club and wants to make an impression with the girls who will put out. Sammy figures he will go to Madame Mabel's to pick up some prostitutes, but Sal vetoes this, so Sammy has no idea where to get the girls.Meanwhile, while eating dinner with his Chinese American friend Eddie Moo Shoes he sees the older men eating a soup made from snake piss that is supposed to be good for male erections. This gives him an idea for a business venture as a friend of his is passing through with some animals some of which are snakes and he agrees to buy one with money he borrows from Eddie and some he had saved up. He had the snake delivered to the bar because it wasn't safe to have it delivered to his apartment. Sal gets curious and opens the crate marked "Dangerous: Snake Inside" and gets bit and dies. Sammy not knowing what to do hides his body in the giant ice chest and tells Eddie about the snake which is now missing.Sal had gotten the Cheese and her co-worker Myrtle to agree to go the party for the weekend for $100 each along with some of Mabel's cleanest girls. He also made plans with Mabel to have a girl take pictures of what goes on there at the secret meeting so that they can blackmail the members later. When the Cheese and Myrtle go missing, Sammy begins a hunt for them that leads him to some interesting places. A pair of men in black is hunting him down as well as the two dames.This book contains a cast of interesting characters. Eddie Moos Shoes is led around by the nose by Lois Fong a performer at the Shanghai Club where they both work. Milo Andreas who is too disturbed by the war to drive his cab, so instead he sells shots to people coming out of Cookie's Cafe at night to put in their coffee. Lone Jones is a large African American who believes that Roosevelt is still alive and that he will one day go and work in his Secret Service. Lone Jones helps Sammy by punching out a troublesome, crooked, mean cop. But, of course, this only causes more problems and Eddie and Sammy takes him to Eddie's outcast (for being a "cat fucker"), Uncle Ho, to be doped up until they can figure out what to do with him which needs to be fast because they can't afford Uncle Ho's prices.The writing is a delight and takes the noir language and plays with it like a kid with a new toy such as "the fog off the bay was steaming between the buildings like a scarf through a stripper's leg, leaving everything damp and smelling of sailors' broken dreams". Moore has once again outdone himself and written a book that takes the noir genre and puts it on its head in such a zany and utterly creative and unique fashion. This a fabulous book and I cannot recommend it enough. QuotesThe fog lay spread across the city like a drowned whore—damp, cold, smelling of salt and diesel—a sea-sodden street walker who’d just bonked a tugboat…-Christopher Moore (Noir p 17)“And I’d curse in French when I got stuck behind a cable car.”“In French?” said Stilton.“Yeah. Cursing in French is classier. It ain’t even like cursing. More like poetry.”-Christopher Moore (Noir p 54)And they were off again. Oh yes, there were trains and tunnels, rockets blasting off, torpedoes clearing their tubes, pistons and cylinders, oil rigs pumping, bridges collapsing, stars exploding, galaxies expanding, and a squeaky part that sounded like angry mice. He was Romeo and she was Juliet, he was Heathcliff and she was Cathy, he was Tristan and she was Isolde, he was Ahab and she was Moby-Dick, she was the Titanic and he was the Iceberg, and they liked that so much that he was the Iceberg for a while and she was the Titanic. She was Snow White and he was the Seven Dwarfs, he was the Scarecrow and she was the Flying Monkeys—it was a epic and divine disaster they acted out in that crawl-space apartment, taking breaks to breathe, and drink gin and smoke, and they even dozed off together toward dawn.-Christopher Moore (Noir p 74)“Sal knows a general?”“Air force. Not a real general.”-Christopher Moore (Noir p 199)
    • 5/5
      The perfect book to pick up when you are tired of reading the news of the day and need something completely different. Only Christopher Moore can do Noir like this! Every convention of the genre deliciously twisted in this laugh out loud read. Sammy "Two Toes" and the Cheese need a whole series of books to tell their story because I don't see how I could ever tire of their adventures. So. Much. Fun!
    • 4/5
      This is my 8th Christopher Moore and he fits into that humorous satirical genre. His books "Fool" and "Lamb, Jesus Best Friend Biff" are 2 of my favorite books by him. This book deals with the "Noir" style set in 1947 San Francisco. Because I lived there and still live in the Bay Area, I enjoyed all of the city references. The book has all the elements of dames, gangsters, bartenders, hustlers, shady characters etc. that populate this type of book. Moore uses outrageous metaphors and descriptions. He has great side characters and with all Moore books there is the magical, the silly, and the science fiction elements. If you want a fun read, the you will enjoy this book. A good introduction to Moore.
    • 4/5
      Noir takes the reader on a trip thru the seedy underbelly of post WWII San Francisco. Sammy "Two-Toes", a bartender falls in love with a gorgeous waitress, Stilton. Sam, 'Cheese, and their friends try to outwit a dirty cop, secret agents, an elite organization, horny old Chinese men, and a poisonous snake. The novel has many elements of noir films and literature with a Christopher Moore twist. I enjoyed the side characters who were well fleshed out. They played an integral role in the plot. There were many instances when there was concern for the main as well as side characters unlike some novels with characters with plot armor. Not my favorite Moore book but definitely a fun read worth your time.
    • 4/5
      Sammy Tiffin is a bartender in 1940's San Francisco. When a beautiful blonde named Stilton walks into his bar, he is smitten. An unfortunate series of events involving a snake, an air force general, an alien, secretive men in black, and a secretive club of rich men endangers both of them, and Sammy sets off to make things right.
    • 5/5
      Oh my goodness! What a hoot! Noir: A Novel is a send-up of every pretentious noir or hard-boiled detective novel ever written.As many of you know, I have been studying noir over the past several months, ever since I read Deadbomb Bingo Ray last year. Then Akashic Books sent me three volumes of noir and neo-noir short stories which I reviewed. Which led me to try to discover the difference between noir and neo-noir. Then, just recently, a literature professor told me that our local author Bonnie Jo Campbell’s books could be classified as “country noir.” Now that was a term I had never heard of and will be another addition to my reading agenda.Well, anyway, let’s talk about Noir: A Novel, the humorist Christopher Moore’s newest effort. Frankly, I had never read anything by Christopher Moore, but if all his books are as funny as this one, I have got to tune in to him more frequently. The book takes place in 1947 as the US is getting resettled following the war. The protagonist—the main protagonist, at least—is Sam, a bartender at a grimy San Francisco saloon. The other protagonist is a snake! We meet both in the first chapter when Sam arrives at work and finds his boss dead on the floor, killed by snake venom. The bar owner, Sal, was killed by the snake that Sam had delivered to the bar because he has plans to go into the “snake whiz” business. Apparently many Asian men are eager to buy snake pee as a cure for erectile dysfunction. Of course there is a girl; in this case a gorgeous dime store waitress named Stilton. Sam calls her “Cheese.” He falls instantly in love with her after she walks into the bar one night. Sam says that Stilton has “the kind of legs that kept her butt from resting on her shoes.” Much of the plot hinges on Sam saving Cheese from a gathering of powerful, rich men that she has been hired to entertain at a camp in the woods outside the city.Oh, and I almost forgot, there is an alien—a little green moon man. And a group of men—maybe government agents—out to find the little guy. At this point, any resemblance to any classical noir goes completely off the rails, and the reader just can’t stop laughing. One reviewer says: “In keeping with the noir style, there are many divergent plotlines that ultimately have to be tied up, and Moore’s solution—no spoilers here—is unique to the genre. The riffs on “noir speak” are incredibly funny. I found myself underlining something silly on nearly every page. For example:· “The fog lay spread across the city like a drowned whore—damp, cold, smelling of salt and diesel—a sea-sodden streetwalker who’d just bonked a tugboat.”· “If you’re planning a caper, that’s the flatfoot you want flapping after you. That mug couldn’t catch a cough in a tire fire.”· “he looked like a black-and-white character that had stumbled into a Technicolor movie.”Well, I could go on and on. Those three quotes were on just 3 pages. Dashell Hammet and Raymond Chandler are probably turning over in their graves. A couple of the major reviewers, including Kirkus and Publisher’s Weekly didn’t particularly like Noir: A Novel, but most likely they weren’t in the proper frame of mind. I read it over the Memorial Day weekend when the temperatures were in the 90s and my brain was as frizzled as the garden I had just planted. It all made perfect sense to me.
    • 3/5
      Not his best, but, as always, a fun read. You can certainly tell that Christopher Moore loves language.
    • 5/5
      Imagine a novel set in Dashiell Hammett’s San Francisco, with a plot as convoluted as Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep but as hilarious as a Katharine Hepburn/Cary Grant screwball comedy. Then, to top it all off, throw in a cameo by one of E.T.’s relatives. Then you would have something somewhat akin to Christopher Moore’s madcap attempt to poke fun at the great noir novels and movies of the 1940s. Good friends have commented in their reviews that the story’s silliness is just a bit over the top to which I politely respond, “Well duh. Didn’t you notice that the Author was Christopher Moore, whose Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove and Island of the Sequined Love Nun pretty much set the tone for an entire career?”Bottom line: I really enjoyed it, even if the publisher never did send me the advanced review copy that they promised. I was able to get a copy of the audio version read excellently by Johnny Heller. FYI: On a 5-point scale I assign stars based on my assessment of what the book needs in the way of improvements:*5 Stars – Nothing at all. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.*4 Stars – It could stand for a few tweaks here and there but it’s pretty good as it is.*3 Stars – A solid C grade. Some serious rewriting would be needed in order for this book to be considered great or memorable.*2 Stars – This book needs a lot of work. A good start would be to change the plot, the character development, the writing style and the ending. *1 Star – The only thing that would improve this book is a good bonfire.
    • 3/5
      Following the Second World War, San Francisco bartender Sammy Tiffin falls for a beautiful blonde named Stilton [like the cheese]. But any thought of romance must wait since Air Force General Remy is desperate for help.When Stilton disappears, Sammy is worried, and then things quickly spiral out of control . . . .Zany, irreverent, and satirical, filled with quirky characters and situations, this parody of detective fiction captures the mood of noir without being dark. Think madcap screwball comedy filled with never-ending laugh-out-loud moments. Readers will find a strong sense of place and time gives the narrative an authentic feel . . . but expect aliens, poisonous snakes, and Men in Black to be among the crazy characters popping up at unexpected moments.
    • 4/5
      Joy's review: A fun send-up of detective noir from just after WWII set in San Francisco. Moore is one of my favorite authors. And this is now one of my favorite of his books, partly because I've always been a fan of detective noir fiction. For me, this had the perfect blend of ridiculous realism. Just kick back and enjoy the crazy ride.
    • 4/5
      A remarkably well researched hat-tip to the noir novels of the past laced throughout with Moore's trademark quirky, filthy, ridiculous humor. Fair warning, in capturing the voice of the 1940s, he captures it all including some language and attitudes about race and gender that no longer fly. All of it is clearly made out to be as ridiculous as it is, but the presence could be stressful for some readers.
    • 4/5
      Enjoyed this and I’m a big fan of Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, just know going in that while sometimes it feels like them it’s really really not.

      The fog lay spread across the city like a drowned whore—damp, cold, smelling of salt and diesel—a sea-sodden streetwalker who’d just bonked a tugboat . . .

      As the first line to a chapter in a noir book how could you not want to read on.

      See, Chinatown is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a wonton, and fried. Which is to say, I never even knew any of these alleys existed until Moo led me down them.

      This is not Nicholson’s Chinatown, this place is all Moore with his quirky characters, outrageous plot and just plain fun. Even the author tells us

      What I ended up with is essentially “Perky Noir,” a lot closer to Damon Runyon meets Bugs Bunny than Raymond Chandler meets Jim Thompson . . .

      The problem is where to shelve this SF, Mystery, Historical Fiction?
    • 4/5
      This had some great characters, was laugh-out-loud funny many times, and a little slow sometimes. I would suggest it on audio (if you're into audio), because the accents are great and really help to set the mood. If you're in the middle of it and wondering about the strange point of view changes, they become explained later.This is probably my 6th or 7th book from Moore and while it didn't blow me away, it's definitely worth a read, some brilliant touches and it's not that long so even if you're not that enthralled, you'll be done before you know it.3.5 Stars
    • 5/5
      I am truly hoping there will be another book to this one. I look forward to reading more. If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star, just submit your story to hardy@novelstar.top or joye@novelstar.top
    • 5/5
      Author’s way of storytelling is so good; I suggest you join Novel Star’s writing competition on April.
    • 3/5
      Noir, by Christopher Moore 3.5/5

      Noir is a book that aspires to be something it’s not. It’s not a noir exactly. It’s not a comedy like his other novels are, although it is funny in places. It’s not an alien adventure story either. It tries to be these things, but ultimately fails. I liked it. It was slow all the way through and that made it a tough slog. I stalled in the middle because I thought I was busy with other things, but in retrospect, it was because the book wasn’t great.

      The characters were well rounded, especially the main character. The love interest wasn’t developed as well and most of the secondary characters were flat. It was plotted fine. There were a couple of flashbacks that developed things.

      The setting was the most important character in the novel. It was obviously well researched and well presented. The idioms and dialog popped. This was the best element of the novel.

      The conflict was slow coming and anticlimactic, especially considering Moore’s other works. It should have been madcap scenes and rising action, but that was in short supply. I did like the resolution and felt it added to the story and ended things well.

      Every author is allowed a dud now and then and this was one of Christopher Moore’s. I’m not sure if this is the first in a series, but let’s hope it improves.
    • 5/5
      This was one of the most enjoyable and fun books I have read in quite some time. Listening to it as an audiobook added an extra level of pleasure with the accents used by Mr. Heller in his narration. At several points in this book, I was literally laughing out loud and found myself replaying certain portions in my mind as I grasped at the visions in my mind's eye. It's hard to classify this one but I would have to say it's a little mystery, a little Dick Tracy, a little sci-fi all wrapped up and presented with a ton of humor. Several of the interactions in the story (in particular, the visit to Lone Jones' mother) had me in absolute stitches. All I can say about this one is MORE, MORE!
    • 3/5
      Set after WW2 in San Francisco while tending bar Sammy meets a lovely lady with the name of Stilton and falls hard. Sammy doesn’t have much but he hustles and is working on a scheme with a snake and then his boss taps him for a job of getting some fresh faced girls for a general to bring to a secret society function. The two business ventures cross in a way that only can happen in one of Christopher Moore’s books. Fast moves and lots of driving around the San Francisco area will get all of the problems fixed and maybe even end in a happy future for the couple.


      Digital review copy provided by the publisher through Edelweiss
    • 3/5
      Somewhat choppy, yet delightfully funny romp into post-WWII era San Francisco. When Sammy Two-toes meets the Cheese, things get complicated, especially when she goes missing. Soon there are men-in-black, a snake and a cast of delightful characters like Thelonious "Lone" Jones and Eddie "Moo shoes" Shu, and Milo, the non-driving cab driver to contend with. Rather wacky, and occasionally cringe-worthy, the novel is written with a disclaimer that "This story is set in 1947 America. The language and attitudes of the narrators and characters regarding race, culture, and gender are contemporary to that time and may be disturbing to some."
    • 4/5
      Noir was my first experience with the writing of humorist Christopher Moore, and I was not disappointed. In fact, it’s been a few days since I finished reading the book, and every now and then I still catch myself chuckling at the memory of some of the wild and whacky things that happened in it. Although I’m unable to comment on the way this novel compares with the author’s other work (I’ve come across some reviews from longtime fans that mention that it feels different), l can nonetheless understand why many readers find his stories entertaining.The book opens in San Francisco, 1947. Protagonist Sammy “Two Toes” Tiffin is working as a bartender at Sal’s Saloon, when a beautiful blonde named Stilton (like “the Cheese”, which is henceforth how she will be known to Sammy) breezes in through the door and captures his heart. However, the romance will have to wait, because soon afterwards, Sammy’s boss puts him in contact with an Air Force general who desperately needs his help. Certain “goods and services” are required at an upcoming function being held at the Bohemian Club, and Sammy, with his street smarts and connections, is in the perfect position to make it all happen.But then, the Cheese disappears, and Sammy grows worried. More troubles also begin mounting as some of his other harebrained schemes proceed to spiral out of control, resulting in poisonous vipers, dead bodies, and the arrival of black-suited government men bedecked in dark sunglasses. Subsequently, when Sammy sets out on his search for the Cheese, he inadvertently stumbles into a loony conspiracy involving a mysterious flying object spotted over Mount Rainer, topped off by an unexplained plane crash in the desert near a town called Roswell, New Mexico.Part satire and part homage, this novel feels like a zany, breathless love letter to the noir genre. Its influence can be seen everything, from the cover to the dialogue, attitudes, and mannerisms of the characters. It’s a bit like being transported straight into a 1950s classic noir film, with the tone and style of the writing giving the story’s post-war San Francisco an authentic flavor. Moore also provides fascinating commentary on the inspiration for his setting, as well as some of his experiences and the research he did into the culture, history, and environment of the city’s vibrant Chinatown.That being said, Noir also has the feel of a tongue-in-cheek satire, which apparently is something of a specialty for the author. Certain elements are done in an over-the-top way to emphasize or poke fun at some of the genre’s more distinctive features, including larger-than-life heroes and coquettish femme fatales. As a result, rather than dark and tense, the atmosphere has been replaced by an eccentric, madcap energy that pervades the whole book, so that you have whacky things like chapters written from the perspective of an all-knowing snake, space aliens being smuggled away in rumble seats in the dead of night, and sexy beautiful women with nicknames like “the Cheese”. Noir is not really “noir” as such, in that it doesn’t really fit the style or the tone of the genre, and yet, the overall mood is still very much there, featuring a strong undercurrent of conflict and despondency in spite of some of the sillier themes.At the end of the day, I suppose what really matters is that I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it a lot. Humor being such a subjective beast, I wasn’t sure if my tastes would mesh well with Christopher Moore’s style, but it appears I no longer have to be concerned on that front. If it means getting more of the same laughs and cleverness I found in Noir, I’m definitely on board to read more of the author’s work.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 1/5
      Not a book for me. It was kind of amusing, but the time period it's set in allows for too much that I can't deal with. Plus, it was kind of slow. So... on to the next book.
    • 2/5
      Couldn't really get into this book. Seemed like Moore was trying too hard to be Chandler with colorful similes sprinkled on every page and knock out dames, and hard boiled protagonist.
    • 3/5
      Falling into a kind of weird "meh"-ness between the madcap antics of most of Moore's San Francisco novels and the smart hilarity of Lamb and Fool, this just never quite gelled for me as a reader. It got considerably more engaging in the second half, but that was just too late for me to fall in love with it. I liked it, but it's not going to be a full-blown, long-term love affair.

    Book preview

    Noir - Christopher Moore

    title page

    Dedication

    This book is for Jeff Mong, my friend.

    Contents

    Cover

    Title Page

    Dedication

    Contents

    Author’s Note

    Prologue

    1: Sammy and the Cheese

    2: Tall House of Happy Snake and Noodle

    3: The Kid

    4: Dinner in North Beach

    5: Dames, They Come and Go

    6: A Sweet Disaster

    7: The Tenderloin Ain’t Just a Piece of Meat

    8: A Receipt for Pookie

    9: Laff in the Dark

    10: Surprise

    11: How to Ice a Guy

    12: Paying Mao

    13: Rats

    14: Jukin’ to Jimmy’s

    15: Let’s Say, Tax Guys

    16: This and That, Now and Then, Here and There

    17: The Road to Lone’s

    18: Dark Town

    19: Sampling Social Clubs of San Francisco

    20: The Name of the Snake

    21: The Moonman

    22: Nonplussed

    23: The Cheese Holds Sway

    24: Two P-Phooms

    25: There Will Be Donuts

    26: The Nob

    27: Sometimes

    Afterword

    An Excerpt from RAZZMATAZZ

    Author’s Note

    Prologue: A Dragon in Big Town

    1: Mother Superior and the Big Black Dong

    About the Author

    Also by Christopher Moore

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Author’s Note

    This story is set in 1947 America. The language and attitudes of the narrators and characters regarding race, culture, and gender are contemporary to that time and may be disturbing to some. Characters and events are fictional.

    Prologue

    I did not scream when I came in the back door of Sal’s Saloon, where I work, to find Sal himself lying there on the floor of the stockroom, the color of blue ruin, fluids leaking from his various holes and puddling on the ground, including a little spot of blood by his head. Now, I am the younger brother of an older brother who often measured the worth of a guy by his ability to not scream under pressure, and insisted, in fact, that if any screamlike sounds ever reached Ma and/or Pa, this younger brother, me, would receive a pasting such as I had never known, including severe and painful Indian burns to the bone—a threat my older brother, Judges, may he rest in peace, backed up with great enthusiasm through most of my boyhood.

    So, first I closed the back door, made sure it was solidly latched, then I glanced through the doorway into the front of the bar, which was still dark, and only then did I scream. Not the scream of a startled little girl, mind you, but a manly scream: the scream of a fellow who has caught his enormous dong in a revolving door while charging in to save a baby that was on fire or something.

    So when I was finished screaming, I looked around and spotted the big wooden crate in the middle of the stockroom with big black letters stenciled upon it reading DANGER! LIVE REPTILE!

    The crate was open, some kind of straw that had been in it scattered around, and then I saw the torn envelope and the letter lying by Sal’s dead hand. It was from Bokker, the South African merchant marine, to me, and I realized what the crate had held. I gave Sal’s stiff a quick once-over, and yeah, there were two puncture wounds on his neck, swollen like boils, marks of smaller teeth in a crescent shape below that.

    Full-blown electric jitters ran up my spine and I froze, holding the letter like I just got a telegram informing me I had just been violently croaked. Stop. I didn’t know, exactly, what a black mamba looked like, but from what the South African had told me, they were large and dark and very fast, so I was pretty sure there was not one between me and the two feet to the back door, but there definitely might have been one still in the saloon somewhere.

    I should have called someone. I needed to call someone. Not the police, I thought, since they might be looking for me regarding kidnapping one of their own, and also, since Sal took the big nap by way of a snake I bought and paid for, and as I had miles of motive, there might be some suspicion. So, no. I could have called my folks, I supposed, even though I hadn’t called them since I left Boise. Oh, hi, Ma, I know you haven’t heard from me in years, but I got a little problem— Nah.

    So I thought, hey, the phone is all the way inside the saloon, on the wall behind the bar—the bar—where a giant, deadly snake could be napping, and then I thought, perhaps a pay phone. Perhaps, I thought, I should go see my business partner, Eddie Moo Shoes, and discuss the dilemma in which I found myself, and while at it, inform him that he was my business partner in a venture that seemed to have gone somewhat pear-shaped.

    I took a deep breath and held it while I dug into Sal’s pocket for his keys, found them, then stepped politely over him and out the back door, scooting his leg away a little as I went, so it would be easier to get back in. Once outside in the alley, I locked the door, and sighed as if I’d stepped safely off a minefield. But when I turned around there were two tall, thin guys in black suits, hats, and sunglasses, standing there behind me—and I mean right there. It’s like they’d been waiting for me. They were trying to act unflappable, but they were flapped more than somewhat by my second manly scream of the day.

    There are times in a guy’s life when he finds himself floating facedown in a sea of troubles, and as hope bubbles away, he thinks, How the hell did I get here?

    I mean, I didn’t know then what the two mugs in black suits knew, which was that across the vastness of space, we were being studied by intellects far superior to man’s, by beings that regarded us with envious eyes and, slowly and surely, were drawing their plans to come to our world and motorboat the bazooms of our dames.

    Yeah, a dame, that’s how it starts . . .

    1

    Sammy and the Cheese

    She had the kind of legs that kept her butt from resting on her shoes—a size-eight dame in a size-six dress and every mug in the joint was rooting for the two sizes to make a break for it as they watched her wiggle in the door and shimmy onto a barstool with her back to the door. I raised an eyebrow at the South African merchant marine who’d been spinning out tales of his weird cargo at the other end of the bar while I polished a shot glass.

    That there’s a tasty bit of trouble, said the sailor.

    Yep, I said, snapping my bar towel and draping it over my arm as fancy as you please. You know what they say, though, Cap’n, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. So I moved down the bar toward the dame, beaming a smile like a lighthouse full of charm, but trying to keep my limp on the Q.T. to discourage curiosity.

    I don’t think that’s what they were talking about, Sammy boy, said the sailor, but steam on. Which is the kind of cheering a guy will give you when figuring it’s no skin off his nose if you get shot down.

    What can I get you, Toots? I said to the dame. She was a blonde, the dirty kind, and her hair was pinned up on her head so it kind of shot up dark, then fountained out yellow every which way in curls at the top—which made her look a little surprised. Her lips reminded me of a valentine, shiny red and plump, but a little lopsided, like maybe she’d taken a shot to the kisser in an earlier round, or the valentine heart had acute angina. Crooked but inviting.

    Then the dame fidgeted on the barstool, as if to get a better fit on her bottom, causing a gasp to go through the room that momentarily cleared the smoke, as if a truck-size dragon had sucked it out through the back door. It’s not that a lone dame never came into Sal’s; it’s just that one never came in this early, while it was still light out and the haze of hooch hadn’t settled on everyone to smooth over a doll’s rougher edges. (Light being the natural enemy of the bar broad.)

    The name’s not Toots, said the blonde. And give me something cheap, that goes down easy.

    There then commenced a lot of coughing as all the guys in the joint were suddenly paying attention to draining drinks, lighting cigarettes, adjusting the angles of their hats and whatnot, as if the dame’s remark had not just floated like a welcome sign over a room full of hustlers, gamblers, day drunks, stevedores, sailors, ne’er-do-wells, and neighborhood wiseguys, each and every one a hound at heart. So I looked over the shotgun bar, trying to catch every eye as I was reaching down, as if I was going for my walking stick—which is my version of the indoor baseball bat most bartenders keep, and even though my cane was ten feet out of reach, they got the message. I am not a big guy, and I am known to have a slow boil, but I have quick hands and I put in an hour on a heavy bag every day—a habit I picked up due to my inability to know when to keep my trap shut, so it is known that I can handle myself. Most of those mugs had seen more than one guy poured into the gutter out front after thinking my sunny disposition and bum foot made me a pushover, so they kept it polite. Then again, I also controlled the flow of booze. Coulda been that.

    What do I call you, then, miss? I asked the blonde, locking my baby blues on her cow browns, careful not to ogle her wares, as dames often do not care for that, even when it is evident that they have spent no little time and effort preparing their wares for ogling.

    It’s missus, she said.

    Will the mister be joining you, then?

    Not unless you want to wait while I go home and grab the folded flag they gave me instead of sending him back to me. She didn’t look away when she said it, or smile. She didn’t look down to hide her grief or pretend she was pushing back a tear, just looked at me dead-on, a tough cookie.

    First I thought she might be busting my chops for calling her Toots, but whether she was or wasn’t, I was thinking the best way to dodge the hit was to act like I just took a shot to the body.

    Aw, jeeze, ma’am, I’m sorry. The war? Had to be the war. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or -four, just a few years younger than me, I guessed.

    She nodded, then started fussing with the latch on her pocketbook.

    Put that away, it’s on the house, I said. Let’s start over. I’m Sammy, I said, offering my hand to shake.

    She took it. Sammy? That’s a kid’s name.

    Yeah, well, the neighborhood is run by a bunch of old Italian guys who think anyone under sixty is a kid, so it’s on them.

    Then she laughed, and I felt like I just hit a home run. Hi, Sammy, she said. I’m Stilton.

    Pardon? Mrs. Stilton?

    First name Stilton. Like the cheese.

    Like what cheese?

    Stilton? You’ve never heard of it? It’s an English cheese.

    Okay, I said, relatively sure this daffy broad was making up cheeses.

    So she pulled her hand back and fidgeted on the stool again, like she was building up steam, and all the mugs in the place stopped talking to watch. I just stood there, lifting one eyebrow like I do.

    My father was a soldier in the Great War. American. My mother is English—war bride. They had their first real date after the war in the village of Stilton. So, a few years later, when I was born, that’s what Pop named me. Stilton. I was supposed to be a boy.

    Well, they totally screwed the pooch on that one, I said, and I gave her a quick once-over, out of respect for her nonboyness. If you don’t mind me sayin’. Suddenly I wished I was wearing a hat so I could tip it, but then I realized that she and I were probably the only people in all of San Francisco not currently wearing hats. It was like we were naked together. So I grabbed a fedora off a mug two stools down and in a smooth motion put it on and gave it a tip. Ma’am! I said with a bow.

    So she laughed again and said, How about you fix me an old-fashioned before you get in any deeper, smart guy?

    Anything for you, Toots, I said. So I flipped the hat back to the hatless mook down the bar, thanked him, then stepped to the well and started putting together her drink.

    Don’t call me Toots.

    C’mon, it’s better than ‘the Cheese.’

    But ‘the Cheese’ is my name.

    So it is, I said, setting the drink down in front of her and giving it a swizzle with the straw. To the Cheese. Cheers.

    Then I wanted to ask her what brought her into my saloon, where she was from, and did she live around the neighborhood, but there’s a fine line between being curious and being a creep, so I left her with the drink and made my way back down the bar, refilling drinks and pulling empties until I got back to the South African merchant marine.

    Looks like you charmed her, all right, said the sailor. What’s she doing here, by herself, in the middle of the afternoon? Hooker?

    Don’t think so. Widow. Lost her old man in the war.

    Damn shame. Lot of those about. Thought I was going to leave my wife a widow a hundred times during the war. Worked a Liberty ship running supplies across the Atlantic for most of it. I still get nightmares about German U-boats— The sailor stopped himself in the middle of the tale and shot a glance at my cane, leaning on the back bar by the register. But I guess I was luckier than most.

    So after feeling top of the world over making the blonde laugh, I felt like a four-star phony all of a sudden, which happens like that, but I shook it off and gave the sailor a punch in the shoulder, letting him off the hook. Doesn’t sound that lucky, I said, considering your cargo.

    Like Noah’s bloody ark, he said. That’s what it is. You haven’t sailed until you’ve sailed through a storm with a seasick elephant on board. Had a stall built for him in the hold. Poor bloke that has to muck it out will be at it for days. We offloaded the animal in San Diego last week, but the stink still lingers.

    Any tigers? I asked.

    Just African animals. Tigers are from Asia.

    I knew that, I said. I probably should have known that. Never seen a tiger.

    "The big cats don’t bother me much. They’re in iron cages and you can see what you got, stay away from them. Push a bit of meat into the cage every few days with a long stick. A very long stick. It’s the bloody snakes that give me the jitters. Next week our sister ship is bringing in a cargo of every deadly bloody viper on the Dark Continent, going to a lab at Stanford. Snakes don’t need to eat, so they’re just in wooden crates. You can’t even see them. But if one of them was to get loose, you’d never know until it bit you."

    Like a U-boat?

    Exactly. There’ll be a dozen black mambas on board. Those buggers grow ten, fifteen feet long. Saw one of them go after a bloke once when I was a kid. Mambas don’t run away like a proper snake. They stand up and charge after you—faster than you can run. Poor bastard was dead in minutes. Foaming at the mouth and twitching in the dirt.

    Sounds rough, I said. That settles it. I am never, ever going to Africa.

    It’s not all bad. You should come over to the dock in Oakland in the morning and see the rest of the menagerie before we offload. I’ll give you the grand tour. Ever seen an aardvark? Goofy bloody creatures. Will try to burrow through the steel hull. We got two aardvarks.

    Aardvarks are delicious, said Eddie Shu, because that’s the kind of thing he says, trying to shock people, because it is a well-known fact that Chinese guys eat some crazy shit. Eddie is a thin Chinese guy wearing a very shiny suit and black-and-white wingtips. His hair was curled up and lacquered back to look like Frank Sinatra’s. I didn’t see him come in because I was trying to keep an eye on the blonde, so I figure he snuck in the back door, which no one is supposed to do, but Eddie is a friend, so what are you gonna do?

    Pay no attention to this mope, I said to the sailor. He lies like an Oriental rug.

    Fine, said Eddie. But as the Buddha says, ‘A man who has not tasted five-spice aardvark has never tasted joy.’

    Uh-huh, I said. The Buddha says that, huh?

    Far as you know.

    Eddie Moo Shoes, this is Captain . . . And here I paused to let the sailor fill in the details.

    Bokker, said the South African. "Not a captain, though. First mate on the Beltane, freighter out of Cape Town."

    So Moo Shoes and the mate exchanged nods, and I said, Eddie works at Club Shanghai down the street.

    Who’s the tomato? Eddie asked, tossing his fake-Sinatra forelock toward the blonde. I found I was somewhat defensive that he called her a tomato, despite the fact that she was that plus some.

    Just came in, I said. Name’s Stilton.

    Stilton?

    Like the cheese, I explained.

    Eddie looked at me, then at the sailor, then at me. The cheese?

    That’s what she said.

    Have you seen her naked? asked Moo Shoes.

    Now, in the meantime I had been watching various patrons circle and dive on the blonde, and each of them limping away, trailing smoke, shot down with a regretful but coquettish smile. And meanwhile, she kept looking up at me, like she was saying, Are you gonna let this go on? Felt like that’s what she was saying, anyway. Maybe every guy in the place felt that way. This Stilton broad had something . . .

    Oh yeah, I said, answering Moo Shoes. "She walked in naked, but I had to ask her to put on some clothes so as not to distress the upstanding citizens who frequent this fine establishment on their way back and forth to Mass."

    I’d like to see her naked, said Moo Shoes. You know, make sure she’s good enough for you.

    Not for you, then? the sailor asked Moo.

    And Moo Shoes nearly went weepy on us, hung his head until his Sinatra forelock drooped on the sad. Lois Fong, he said.

    Dancer at the club, I explained.

    That dame wouldn’t so much as punch me in the throat if it made me cough up gold coins.

    It’s a Chinatown thing, I explained further. They have customs and whatnot.

    We are a mysterious and ancient people, Eddie said to the sailor.

    "But you have seen her naked," I said, clapping Moo on the shoulder, a ray of fucking sunshine on his dark despair.

    On the job, Eddie said. So has everyone else at the club. Don’t think that makes it any easier.

    Then I noticed that the blonde’s drink was low and it was time I paid her a visit, so I held up a finger to mark the place in Moo Shoes’s sulk. Be right back.

    Another old-fashioned, cupcake? I said with a grin, daring her to get sore at me.

    My name’s not— And she caught herself. You buying, wiseass?

    Me? There’s a dozen guys in here already offered to buy you a drink.

    Maybe I was waiting for a better offer, she said—rolled her eyes, batted her eyelashes, then sighed wistfully—well, fake wistfully—which made me laugh.

    "You know it doesn’t cost me anything if I buy you a drink, like it would one of these mooks."

    Which means you won’t think I owe you anything in return, like one of these mooks, right?

    No, no, no, I said. Perish the thought. Then I leaned in, hoping to perpetrate a little conspiracy. Although I have told my friend Eddie back there that I have seen you naked, so if he comes over, cover my bet, would you?

    I have a birthmark on my right hip. She winked.

    That’s the spirit!

    Shaped like Winston Churchill.

    That must be a sight to behold, I said.

    How about that drink, Gunga Din?

    I like a dame who knows her Kipling, or any poetry, for that matter, as I am a sensitive and poetic soul. My dear ma was an English teacher, and from the time I squeaked out my first word she steeped me deeply in metaphor, simile, symbolism, alcoholism, and all the various iambs of the poetic tradition, all of which have served me greatly over the years in pouring drinks, welding ships, bird-dogging broads, and waxing poetical on both this and that.

    So I was about to say the same about the Kipling to the Cheese, when the door flew open behind her and in walked Sally Gab, aka Sal Gabelli, my boss, followed closely by an air force general with so many campaign medals on his uniform that it looked like someone was losing a game of mah-jongg on his chest.

    The bar was called Sal’s, after the aforementioned Sal, although there is no sign that says so, and over the years the joint has been known as Flossie’s, Danny’s, The Good Time, Grant Avenue Saloon, The Motherlode, Barbary Belle’s, and a half-dozen other monikers going back to 1853, when the place first opened on the same spot. I am told that the long oak bar and beveled-mirror back bar came around the Horn on a clipper ship with sailors who dreamed of striking gold in the California hills. Currently the sign read only Saloon, Sal being too cheap or too smart to put his name over the door. Sal was well known in the neighborhood, but also well known to be such a douche bag that no one would have been surprised to see a long red rubber hose and nozzle trailing out his pant leg. The joint might have survived the great quake of 1906, but Sal knew that having his name on it just might be enough to bring it down.

    General, said Sal, a rangy fifty-year-old who was in perpetual need of a shave, wore suspenders and an ill-fitting suit, and held a cigar in his jaw at all times, this is Sammy Two-Toes, my guy with his ear to the ground in the neighborhood. He’ll be able to help you out with your little problem.

    I cringed a little at the nickname, which only Sal used, and I gave the general the once-over. He was a tall fellow, pushing sixty, with a pencil-thin mustache. When he took his hat off, he revealed a jailhouse window of dark strands of hair combed over a bald pate. Sammy, he said, as if he wished he had a rank rather than a name to call me by. It would be a low rank, I guessed from his tone, and he just nodded, not offering his hand to shake, as I was clearly beneath his consideration.

    Two-Toes knows all the hustlers in town, don’t you, Sammy? said Sal, who suddenly realized he was talking over the shoulder of a dame and stepped back from Stilton to give her a gander. Hey, sweetheart—

    Hold that drink, Sammy, Stilton said, standing up and putting her finger in Sal’s face to shut him up, a red-lacquered nail a half inch from poking him in the eye. I gotta scram.

    Before I could say anything or make a move, she kept her one finger in Sal’s mug while she threaded her other hand through the strap of her pocketbook and held it up to put the halt on me, which I did. "I’ll see you later, handsome," she said, and in a single move she dropped both arms, pirouetted, and slid out the door while her skirt was still twirling, leaving me, Sal, and the general not a little dumbfounded, and me feeling like luck took a powder on me. Lost, is what I’m saying.

    Extraordinary, said the general, still looking at the spot Stilton just vacated. Now that’s exactly the type of young woman—

    The gimp is your guy, then, said Sal, cutting him off.

    Just then Eddie Moo Shoes came sliding behind the general along with a couple of other guys. The evening crowd tended to clear out when Sal was around, as many found him revolting, going back to the war, when he gouged military guys for the privilege of buying watered-down hooch past off-limits hours.

    Catch you after work for a bite, Moo Shoes said.

    Sure, I said. Meet you at the club.

    Eddie waved and was gone. Sal said, I told you no fucking Japs.

    He’s Chinese, I said.

    Same difference, said Sal.

    Now, Sal knew his place was only a block out of Chinatown, and that the Chinese were in San Francisco long before the Italians, and that his Italian fisherman ancestors had been selling fish to Moo Shoes’s Chinese forefathers for five generations, but he chose to ignore that in favor of showing his patriotism to the general with indiscriminate discrimination. But the douche bag is my boss, and he gave me a job after the war, when jobs were not easy to come by, and under somewhat phonus bolognus circumstances that I would rather not have revealed to the general public and law enforcement in particular, so I let it pass.

    What can I get you, General? I said, looking past Sal.

    Scotch, neat. Single malt if you have it. He looked around the joint and assessed it as the kind of place that wouldn’t have a single malt. Most bars these days don’t. The Scots had to suspend distilling it during the war and it’s not a quick process, but I remembered seeing something . . .

    I’ll see what I can find.

    As I rummaged around under the bar, Sal said, General Remy’s just in town for a few days, meeting with some mucky-mucks, but he’s coming back next week.

    I’m hoping to make some arrangements for some—some—social company upon my return. For a military guy, the general seemed a little uncomfortable being in a bar. Maybe it was just Sal’s bar, and how those two ended up together was a mystery to me as well.

    Sal said, The general is commander of a base back east.

    Oh really? I said, my head still down with the spiders and the dust, looking for Scotch. Where is that?

    Roswell, New Mexico, said the general.

    There it is. I popped up from under the bar with a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich. Never heard of it.

    No reason you would, said the general. Nothing ever happens there.

    Right, I said, uncorking the bottle. Double?

    Please, said the general.

    So I poured, thinking not at all about New Mexico, but about the Cheese, and how she walked out without my getting her number, or even finding out if she lived in the neighborhood, and wondering if she’d just jitterbugged out into the great beyond, never to be seen again. But then I thought, No, she stood up, and stood up to Sal on my behalf. And even though I didn’t know where she came from, where she went to, or how to find her, it felt like I was going to see her again, and when I did, something was going to happen—something big and strange and hopeful, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it.

    2

    Tall House of Happy Snake and Noodle

    The fog lay spread across the city like a drowned whore—damp, cold, smelling of salt and diesel—a sea-sodden streetwalker who’d just bonked a tugboat . . .

    Fog’s a little slutty tonight, said the cabbie, leaning against his hack at the curb outside Sal’s.

    A foghorn moaned out on the bay.

    Sammy flipped his coat collar up until it met the brim of his hat. A little tart, he agreed.

    Take you somewhere?

    Nah, I’m just heading down a few blocks. Sammy pointed across Broadway, which was the border between North Beach, the Italian neighborhood, and Chinatown. Thanks.

    The cabbie tipped his leather cap. Cookie’s later?

    Maybe, Sammy said. He made his way across the deserted boulevard. The streetlights floated above in their vaporous auras like lost spirits, never reaching the pavement. The shops on Grant Avenue—groceries, souvenir stands, restaurants, butchers—were dark except for the odd stripe of neon cutting the night here and there: closed; massage; a coca-cola sign; a happy glowing dragon holding a bowl of chop suey.

    It was only seven blocks from Sal’s to Club Shanghai, where Eddie worked, not even half a mile, but after three blocks the damp and cold made Sammy’s foot ache and he’d wished he’d taken the cabbie up on his offer. June gloom in the city, or as Mark Twain had put it, Summer in Frisco makes a guy want to snatch a flounder up by the lapels and slap the damp off of him. (One of Twain’s lesser-known quotes.)

    As he paced his path out with his walking stick, Sammy thought about the Stilton dame, the Cheese. Something about her. Not that she wasn’t easy on the eyes, she was, although not a knockout—but kind of sweet-looking, the type of broad you could take home to Mom then ravage in the spare room under urgent whispers while Mom harrumphed her disapproval to Dad about just what manner of floozie would allow herself to be named after a stinky English cheese. In short, he liked her, and by getting up and putting the chill on Sal and General Remy when she did, she’d showed him a kindness, although a sneaky and crooked kindness, which he also liked. He wanted to see her again and he was a little sad he didn’t know how to make that happen other than by showing up for work and hoping she came in.

    When he stepped into the deep carpet and red velvet elegance of Club Shanghai, Sammy saw Eddie Moo Shoes standing at the host’s station next to a younger guy in a tux who was working the book. It was two thirty in the morning, and while the band was on break, a Glenn Miller record was playing. Smoke and the sound of conversation were streaming out of the club’s big main room.

    Hey, Sammy, Eddie called. You met Lou?

    Low, the kid corrected.

    He’s learning, Eddie said with a grin. None of the employees at Club Shanghai used his Chinese name, the

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