Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Romance And Detectives

I can't help cringing when this happens.

A detective is waiting in his office, drinking the hair of the dog. A tall blonde/brunette/redhead walks in. She's tough, but vulnerable.

Legs you could climb like a mountain. A figure to use as a benchmark for fractal geometry. A nose you could pinch without feeling silly. Genitalia that's built for ...

He takes the case, she pays in small, unmarked bills. There's chemistry between her and the detective, but he keeps his distance. Later on, after some heavy, dramatic conflict, they take comfort in each others arms and legs. Ashtrays and bottles are knocked over in the frenzy on the bed. Or maybe the couch in the office.

If she's real tough, on the concrete in the back alley.

In the end, it turns out that she was playing everyone all along, especially P.I. Dick Randomski. She goes to gaol, but he still gives her one last kiss.

Get my drift?

When Bogey and Bacall did it, it was classy. When Chandler wrote about it, the same. Now it's expected and overdone. Time to move on.

My preference (after very little research) is a detective novel that doesn't have romance in it. It always feels tacky and cliched. Sheesh. It's even cliched to call it that.

Have I just revealed a clue? Yes, probably. You never know.