She had a smile that hit my eyes the way the first drink hits your stomach. It feels good, but you've been here before. You know how it ends. You know how it ends, and you do it anyway.
NYPD Station, Manhattan, 1948: Detective Danny Rubin: Alright kid, if you're gonna want to fight crime like in the movies, you gotta learn how to shoot. *Hands Officer Hazle Lewis a M1911* Officer Hazle Lewis: So, what's the big news going on about Viktor? Danny: That guy, Viktor Petroni is New York's most ruthless mob boss, he set up the Jazz Bar and Nightclub down the street from here as a front for the Oksana's operations. He's been runin' the Oksana for 20 years, people say that he was in the raid on the Alexander Palace in 1917 and killed the Romanovs then fled to the US. Hazle: Scary. By the way, I heard from Klaus that you were a Sargent in World War 2. Danny: He's right, I was in the 1st Marine Division, I witnessed the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor, the Battle of Midway, the victory at Iwo Jima, and the Battle of Okinawa. I was gifted a Walther P38 for my 35th birthday by my friend, William Bates, glad that Will made a full recovery after Viktor had him pumped full of lead.
June 1946, Chicago: I was in my office, enjoying a smoke and some whiskey, when I got the call: Joey Sanchez was dead. My closest friend from the army, served together from Africa to the entire Italian campaign. Shot at by Germans and Italians, survived explosions from mortars, been through hell and back, and what finally got him in the end was a driveby shooting. Ain't that just a case of rotten luck
I’ve got eight slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drink packs a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye. The dame walked in and said she had a case for me. She sounded like a case herself.
Listened to this on my way to town the other day... I ordered a coffee, black as the night and bitter as my divorce. The dame behind the counter had the look of exhaustion about herself... an honest days work, but after the crooks in government took their cut, far from an honest days pay. I headed out to the street, lighting my cigarette, delving deeper into the belly of the beast. From femme fatales and crooked cops, I was sure to come down with a bad case of lead poisoning... but I had to keep pushing on... because I needed to buy some new socks.
Socks... Eso si que es. It was old Jimmy Valdez... In disguise.. I knew it, the hair, the strut... Even disguising himself as a dame wouldn't work... I recognize that ass anywhere.
I love that this draws some of the older folks in, you can tell because they put two spaces after a period. No judgement, call it a bit of detective work.
@@nomadpi1 it used to be, mainly to accommodate typewriters being mono space, to help make it clear where a new sentence starts, but it's no longer necessary on computers. It's definitely outdated and a habit that is hard to break. My business college in the mid 2000s taught me it was no longer expected in business and I find that to be true over the last 20 years.
It was raining. Hard. The streets were slick. The city's inhabitants were running to and fro, ruining their shoes and their newspapers, trying to escape the storm. I was sitting in my office trying to coax one more memory from my gin and tonic. The phone hadn't rang in days. The office smelled of old paper. Old air. Old cologne. My chair creaked in annoyance as I eased back...with no further plan than to dull some more brain cells. I lit a cigarette. I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in... She was a tall drink of bourbon to a Sunday priest. My gin didn't mean anything anymore. I looked up to drink her in. She was built like an aero plane. Long. Trim…With curves in all the right places. As I forced my gaze above her chin, I couldn't help but notice -she had lips as red as sunburn...and just as hot. Skin like smooth jazz. She gazed at me with eyes so deep you couldn't see the bottom. I noticed something. She'd been crying... Maybe a swindler took her inheritance. Maybe an ex-lover jilted her at the altar. Maybe she even murdered the poor devil. Who knows? All I know is the sound of that door opening meant greenbacks in my palm and my next hot meal. I'm a Private Eye.
I was reading your comment while the first tune was playing. When I came to the "I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in..." part, the first music ended and the second music started. The slow tango piece. Perfect transition! Talk about one heck of a coincidence.
The best Noir line I ever heard was from Calvin and Hobbes. “yeah, that’s me. Tracer Bullet. I got 8 slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drinks pack a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye.”
Another line from C&H Tracer Bullet was "I've got a dear friend that lives close to my heart. Down and to the left to be specific." It was something like that.
Here's my hardboiled detective film noir opening. It’s my world, a world where the night is never just night, and every shadow tells a story. The city never sleeps, and neither do the secrets that slither through its shadowy alleys. It was a night thick with fog, the kind that clings to your coat like a desperate dame. I was holed up in my office, a glass of bourbon keeping company with the stack of unpaid bills. The neon sign outside flashed a sordid dance of blues and reds across the room, painting the scene like a Picasso in his blue period. They call me Jack Sullivan, private eye. I've seen things that would make a preacher swear and a convict pray. The door creaked open, and she walked in, legs first, a silhouette cut from midnight velvet. Her eyes held the promise of trouble, the kind I knew all too well, the kind that paid the bills but never came cheap. "Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice was a melody that could turn saints into sinners. I tipped my hat, "The one and only. What's got you wandering through the devil's playground at this hour?" She took a breath, and the story began. Another chapter in this city's endless book of heartache and crime. And me? I'm just the sap who writes it down. She perched on the edge of the chair across my desk, a black dress hugging her like a lover's whisper. "It's my husband," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "He's missing, and the cops... they ain't doing squat. I need someone with your... particular set of skills, Mr. Sullivan." I leaned back, the chair groaning under the weight of the world. "Missing, huh? People don't just vanish into thin air, not in this town. They leave trails, like breadcrumbs for the hungry." She pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of happier times. "He was last seen at the Sapphire Lounge, the jazz joint down on 5th and Vine. He plays the piano, or he used to, before..." "Before what?" I prodded, sensing the plot thickening like blood in cold water. "Before he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Gamblers, thugs, the kind of people who'd sell their own mother for a slice of the pie." I took the photo, our fingers brushing-a jolt of electricity in the gloom. "I'll take the case," I said, already feeling the familiar itch of intrigue and danger. "But I gotta warn you, what I find might not play the tune you wanna hear." She nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek. "Just find him, Mr. Sullivan. Please." The door closed behind her, leaving nothing but the scent of jasmine and a mystery to unravel. I grabbed my coat and hat, ready to dive headfirst into the belly of the beast. The Sapphire Lounge was calling my name, and I had a feeling this case was going to be a doozy. The Sapphire Lounge was a joint where the drinks were stiff and the jazz was smooth. I pushed through the door, the sound of a saxophone wailing like a siren's call. The air was thick with smoke and secrets, and every shadow seemed to whisper a different lie. I made my way to the bar, the bartender giving me the once-over. "What'll it be?" he grunted, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. "Information," I said, sliding a crisp bill across the mahogany. "I'm looking for a piano man, goes by the name of Eddie. Ring any bells?" He pocketed the bill, his eyes narrowing. "Might do. Eddie's been tickling the ivories here for years. But he ain't been around for the last couple of nights. Word is, he's in deep with Big Tony's crew." Big Tony. The name was like a bad penny-always turning up. I thanked the bartender and turned to leave, but a voice stopped me cold. "You're Sullivan, ain't ya? The detective." I turned to see a dame with a face that could launch a thousand ships and a body that could sink 'em. "I might be. Who's asking?" "The name's Vivian. I'm a singer here. And I know where you can find Eddie." She led me to a table in the back, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. "Eddie's got himself a gambling problem," she whispered, leaning in close. "He owes Big Tony more dough than he can ever pay back. Last I heard, he was trying to skip town." I felt the puzzle pieces clicking into place. "And where would a desperate man go to disappear?" She scribbled an address on a napkin and slid it over. "The docks, at midnight. But be careful, Sullivan. Big Tony doesn't like snoops." I pocketed the napkin and nodded. "Thanks, doll. You've been a real peach." As I stepped out into the night, the fog seemed to close in around me, a shroud for the city's sins. The docks at midnight-it was a setup, it had to be. But it was the only lead I had. I'd have to be ready for anything. Because in this town, anything could happen-and usually did. The docks at midnight were a maze of rusted shipping containers and forgotten dreams. The air tasted of salt and regret as I followed Vivian’s lead. The moon hung low, a pale witness to the sins that played out in its shadow. I found Eddie huddled near the water’s edge, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the piano case. His eyes were hollow, the light gone out like a busted streetlamp. “Sullivan,” he croaked, his voice a rusty hinge. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I leaned against a stack of crates, my fedora pulled low. “Eddie, you’ve been dancing with the devil. Big Tony’s got a long memory, and his goons have a short fuse.” He wiped sweat from his brow, the lines etched deep like canyon walls. “I had a system, Jack. A way to beat the odds. But the cards turned cold, and now I’m in too deep.” I glanced around, shadows shifting like ghosts. “What’s the play, Eddie? You gonna run? Disappear into the night like smoke?” His fingers traced the piano keys, a melancholy melody rising from the darkness. “Nah, Sullivan. I’m gonna face the music. Tell Big Tony I’ll pay what I owe. But I need time. One last gig, one last chance.” I knew the stakes. Eddie was a pawn in a high-stakes game, and the odds were stacked against him. But maybe, just maybe, I could tip the scales. “Alright, kid,” I said, my voice gravel and regret. “I’ll make a deal with the devil. You play that piano like your life depends on it. And I’ll dance with the wolves.” As the clock struck midnight, the Sapphire Lounge came alive. The crowd swayed, lost in the rhythm, while Eddie’s fingers danced across the keys. The notes were a confession, a plea for redemption. And somewhere in the shadows, Big Tony’s enforcers waited, hungry for blood. I stepped outside, the night air biting like a betrayed lover. Vivian was there, her eyes wide with worry. “You’re a fool, Sullivan,” she whispered. “But you’ve got a kind heart.” I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a question mark. “Kind hearts don’t last long in this city, doll. But sometimes, they catch a break.” And so, I waited. The docks held their breath, the moon a silent witness. When the final note echoed across the water, I knew the game was afoot. Eddie had played his hand, and now it was my turn. Big Tony’s goons stepped out of the shadows, knuckles wrapped in brass. But I had a secret weapon-the truth. I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the night like a switchblade. “Big Tony,” I said, “your boy Eddie’s got a debt to pay. But he’s got something you want more than money. He’s got a soul.” The enforcers hesitated, eyes flickering between me and Eddie. Big Tony emerged, a mountain of menace in a tailored suit. “Speak your piece, Sullivan.” I leaned in, my breath hot with defiance. “Eddie’s gonna play one last tune. And if it don’t move you, if it don’t touch that black heart of yours, then you can have him. But if it does… well, then maybe we all get a second chance.” Eddie sat at the piano, his fingers trembling. The keys whispered a prayer, a melody that hung in the air like a fragile promise. And as the notes soared, I saw it-the flicker of humanity in Big Tony’s eyes. The city held its breath. The scales trembled. And for a moment, just a moment, redemption hung in the balance. And that, my friend, is where the story ends. Because sometimes, even in the darkest alleys, there’s a glimmer of hope. And sometimes, just sometimes, a private eye can change the tune of fate.
@@nadiacorimayo3157 Nadia ! Unfinished stories are like an invitation, an invitation to enjoy yet another kiss from a lover that’s been distant like a shadow in the fog. That unfinished story is waiting for you to embrace it, to hold it once again, let it unfold like a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Having a partner to bounce off of is overlooked and underappreciated, much like a hunch that comes without knowing why, yet it just is. Let’s test it out together, I’d be happy if you sent me a paragraph or two of one of your unfinished stories and allow me to give it a whirl like a fedora caught in a gust of wind.
@@hastymemer Listen up Hasty, I ain’t no two-bit gumshoe scribbling for a quick buck. Nah, I pen my tales ‘cause it’s like sippin’ bourbon on a rainy night-smooth, dark, and damn satisfying. You see, my ma, bless her heart, she raised me on those flicks from the golden age. The ones where dames with legs that went on forever slinked through shadowy alleyways, and the air reeked of secrets and gunpowder. And my old man? Well, he was a real piece of work. Used to talk like he stepped right outta a Raymond Chandler novel. “Kid,” he’d say, “life’s a maze, and the dames are the twisty turns. You gotta navigate 'em, even when they’re sharper than a switchblade.” So here I am, typewriter clacking away, weaving tales of smoky jazz clubs, dames with eyes like loaded revolvers, and crooked coppers who’d sell their own mothers for a nickel. But there’s a hitch, Hasty. A real twist in the plot. See, there’s this dame-the one who’s got me by the lapels, squeezin’ tight. She don’t take kindly to the other dames I conjure up. Jealous, she is. Thinks I’m moonlighting with ink-stained vixens while she’s waitin’ by the fire, wearin’ that collar she snapped on me. So, Hasty, my fedora-wearin’ friend : I write for the thrill, not the dames or the dough. And if any Joe wants to know why my stories drip with noir, they can blame it on Ma’s late-night movie marathons and Pa’s whiskey-soaked wisdom. But that dame? She’s the real mystery-one I can’t solve with a typewriter or a slug of rye. Maybe one day, I’ll spin her into a tale, too. Until then, the shadows beckon, and the keys keep clackin’. 🕵♂🚬📝
I tried not to touch anything. The glue holding the place together came from a think layer of tobacco tar coating every surface. Without it, the walls, ceiling, bar, tables, and chairs would crumble faster than the lives of their regular customers. Even the glasses on the bar stuck in place if left too long, mostly empty and ignored. Looking around the room, it appeared the same thing happened to the patrons. A neglected bar for neglected, and negligent, people. Except one. She was there. Trying to hide in the darkest corner. Obvious, she looked out of place, but somehow she belonged. When they call me for help, things went from bad to worse ... and fast.
Decided to comment because I've watched / listened to this video hundreds of times in the last six months. My daughter was born earlier this year and sleepless nights soon followed. We were in Eastern Europe at that time and I discovered this "Noir Detective Music" on RUclips. I found that the music calmed her down and helped her sleep. Now we're in the US and this video is saved to my main playlist. We still listen to it together several times each day. It reminds me (and, I like to think, somehow reminds her) of her first couple months in the world.
_12;45. Pauline’s Saloon. Second Booth from door on right._ That was all the letter said. I studied the scrawl, smelled the paper, and checked for any signs of where it came from. Nothing. I checked my watch, 12;28. Pauline’s was about ten minutes from my office, but I was never one to be late. I took my .38 from the top drawer, slid it into my shoulder holster, and closed up shop. Business had been bad lately and this looked like the first thing all week that might put some dough in my pocket. It was 12;40 when I got to Pauline’s. I slid into the booth, ordered a gin tonic, and sat back to wait. Several people entered for the next few minutes, but none so much as looked my way. Then _she_ came in. Looked like she stepped right off one of them fashion magazine covers. She carried an air of confidence on her and her big brown eyes looked as deadly as the poorly concealed derringer in her purse. “Mr. Maunders?” She asked. Her tone was as thick as honey. I nodded, pulling a cigarette from my case. I offered her one and she took it with a pair of slim gloved fingers. Leaning across the table I lit it and then my own, then waited to hear what she’d say. A couple of puffs and then she stared me in the eyes. “A friend told me you knew Sammy during the war.” A pretty vague statement. I shrugged, “Knew a lot of guys named Sammy before, during, and after.” However, there was one Sammy that came to mind specifically. Sammy “Diamond” Brooks. He and I had been stuck in a basement for almost a week while the Jerry’s kept base above. He told me a lot during those days. His life, his family, how he got his nickname and a lot of other stuff. “Oh you’d remember this Sammy,” she smiled and reached into her purse. I subtly reached for my gun in case she tried anything. She pulled out a small velvet bag and threw it in front of me. I opened it and found myself staring at four diamonds. Even in the dim interior they gleamed and sparkled. She locked her fingers and rested her chin on them, “Now, Mr. Maunders, just what did Sammy say to you.” I cinched the bag closed and threw it back at her. “Nothing worth this lady, now just what are you really after?” She grinned, “Truly, I just want to know what he told you.” She leaned over and slid the bag into my coat pocket, her hand lingering on my chest for a moment. “Surely, with these, you can at least spare the time to tell me that.” Before I could even reply, a car came screeching down the street. Bullets, glass, and screams were all I knew for the next minute and then the bullets stopped. Habit had saved me, I’d ducked, but not for my mysterious companion. She lay face down on the table, a pool of crimson dribbling off the corner. Who really was this Sammy Brooks? What had he told me those three years ago that had suddenly become worth killing for? I slipped out through the back during the confusion and hoofed it back to my office. I looked at the time as I sat back at my desk - 1;01. The night had ended but my work was just beginning. I lit a cigarette, leaned back, and slowly began going over those days three years ago.
It looked like rain, so I got up to close the window. That guy on the sidewalk was still playing his sax. He was good, but I had heard enough for one day. When I turned back to my desk, she was already standing in front of it. "Can I help you?", I said. "No, Mr. Starker, I'm here to help you.", she whispered. "You placed a Want Ad for a secretary in today's paper. I'd like to apply for the position." "Cookie, you can have any position you want." I replied, "You're hired as of now. And from now on, call me Mick." "Oh, thank you Mr, uh, Mick." she squealed, "You don't know how happy this makes me." "Sit down, sugar, pour yourself a drink. We've got all night to get to know each other. And you don't know how happy this'll make me!", I said as I removed my tie. That's when the phone rang. That's when it all started to go sideways. Who could've figured that she'd wind up dead, and I'd be sitting in a jail cell talking to you?
I cracked the door open and shook off my coat. It had been raining again. It was always raining lately. I hung my now ruined hat on the hook by the door and stepped inside. A small movement in the kitchen caught my eye and I shut the door. It was my unwitting house guest. Mittens let out a pathetic noise and I knew. "Hungry too? Figures." I went to open a small can of tuna, my last one. Darn cat ate better than I did. My pay as a gumshoe was terrible, my pay as a P.I. had been worse. Giving up on my notion of a sandwich I got to work. The perp thought he'd gotten away, but he'd been cocky. I knew what I'd seen had to be a clue. I was close, I could feel it. "Looks like you an I are in this together now, eh mittens?" The little furball was my only partner now. I had inherited her from a grateful client before they had passed. Turns out a lonely cat and a washed up detective make a good pair. Both keep late hours and both of us needed someone to trust. And I.. I had to make enough leads to equal a sandwich.
@@katashley1031 I was actually wondering if anyone would catch that little bread crumb. It's meant as an internal joke. It's just his humour is a little dry. The character in the story actually does have a job at a larger sort of privatised agency, but he was put on a sort of leave. He's not fired, not suspended, but not really expected to show back up for awhile. So he is doing something on the side with his own private office. He's trying to make ends meet and chase something personal while between regular work. Hence the line you caught. ;) It was my way of saying "the pay was even worse on my own" while hinting all is not as it appears. I very nearly put "my pay as a detective had been bad" because I thought it might be confusing. But I wanted to stay true to my story and I thought, "hmm, let's actually say this then and see if anyone asks."
Since so many people liked my first little story, figured I'll post something more for those who bother to read comments. --- "Mick! Hey! What're are you doing here?" The well intentioned man addressed me from a few feet away, a cup of joe placed in his hand. "Coffee maker at the house broke. Usual diner is closed. Best I could do." I looked down at the coffee in my own cup. Coffee was as dark as a sinners soul. But the real sin was that taste. "The coffee here is cheap, but it gets the job done. And also, the name isn't Mick, my name's Mike. I've told you that before." Jayce crossed over the floor towards my direction, a wry smile on his face. "I know, but it gets you talking." He took a sip from his mug, his face souring. "Urgh.. I don't know how you can drink this. It's worse than last time. I swear the coffee gets cheaper every time I try it." He hovered his hand over the trash can, pausing a moment as if considered throwing the whole thing, mug included, inside. Instead he tipped it over, letting the coffee drain out and put the mug down. "I dunno Jayce. It beats a broken coffee machine. Even this junk is better than nothing. And, it's free." "For a reason." Jayce retorted. "Tastes like it fell off the back of a truck.. and hit a curb on the way down." "Seriously. I think the boss must get it for free too. Only reason to keep it around here. Wouldn't surprise me if no one else wanted it." Jayce looked me directly in the eye then and I took stock of him. His blonde locks were slightly out place, his tie hung loose. It was then that I knew. Some folks handle long shifts with grace. This man, did not. He got through the labors of a day by talking about them. And if he was still up, that meant something was keeping him up. "Look Mikey.. I know you just got back to Central and your report's not due for a few more days but Chelz has been asking for you."
On morning eve, the calm before storm, Laid back on my seat, drunk without form. Then sudden the beat, tap tapping of my door, Was a figure in red, luminous and galore She waltz before me, eyes with furious light, And solemn these words that give me a fright. There mind alight, I nod what might seem To the person in question the Lady of Dreams.
The soft hum of my computer was the only sound in the room, but through my headphones, a slow, smoky jazz noir tune played like a sultry whisper in the dead of night. Each note was a sigh, a confession, setting the mood while I stared at lines of code that twisted and coiled like cigarette smoke. The saxophone wailed low, filling the empty spaces between my thoughts, and for a moment, the keys on my keyboard felt more like the click of a revolver’s hammer than the mundane tools of a programmer. But that’s the thing about jazz-about this life-it makes everything feel a little more dangerous, like one wrong keystroke could blow the whole thing wide open.
I always come back to this music video to read the amazing stories below. Keep up the great work story writers! Maybe I'll add a detective story of my own later!
I would suggest The Easy Rawlins series by Walter Mosely. Set in Los Angeles in the 1940s. Easy is an African American detective after returning from WWII.
Starting my day to this music: The dimly lit bathroom mirrored my weary soul. I gazed into the reflection, the froth of toothpaste mixed with the bitter taste of regret, washing away the sins of indulgence. I spat out the remnants, the minty residue of defeat, a token of my unwavering commitment to oral justice in an unjust world. With a final glance in the mirror, I saw not just a clean mouth, but a sliver of hope, for the first time in a long time, and in doing so, I stepped out of the bathroom, armed with minty freshness and a renewed spirit unyielding.
Another Monday morning. Forcing myself through the litany of downers from the night before to get ready for the gig. I had a long drive ahead. The job seemed simple enough, but in my line of work, your gut is as vital as your brain, or your gun. And as I walked out the door that morning, my gut was telling me to stay home. I locked the door behind me before I left.
Her perfume walked into the room before she did, out of all the joints in this town she had to walk into my office. I slowly looked over the rim of my glass of whiskey and laid down my cigar ‼️
September 1, 1948: It was a rainy Saturday in Detroit and my small office was filled with the usual heady aroma of cigar smoke. I was reclining in my chair watching the rain patter on the glass when a a manila envelope slid under the door and I heard the sound of footsteps speeding away. Cautiously, I sat up and walked to the door. The envelope was pressed with a big'ol red seal bearing the name: Carter. I knew it was rigged from the start when I read that name but I was still caught off guard when two things fell out of the envelope: The necklace of an old flame of mine, and a timer; I had 5 minutes to get the heck out of there and assuredly enough, the door was locked from the outside.
October 2287, Boston: I was on a case for a runaway daughter. The family were good people but their daughter was quite the rebellious spirit. Tracked her down to an old vault ran by an old acquaintance of mine named Skinny Malone. Seemed like it just became a case of kidnapping. I guess they were expecting me, cause the next thing I knew, I was apprehended and locked inside the overseer's office much deeper down. Only then did I find out that the runaway daughter wasn't kidnapped but rather she became Skinny's new girl. The oil that makes the flame shine brighter. Hope someone comes by soon so I can get out of here.
These creative short stories remind me of some classic radio shows before the creation of TV. I think some of these scripts would make great movie shorts. Kudos to you all! You really capture the art of painting a picture in the mind. I’m not just watching this. I’m there in the same room!👏👏👏
"You've got a lot of nerve leaving me in the wind like that," she said before I even finished entering the darkened room. The tiny flame of the match rose to the tip of a cigarette, tobacco burning almost as fiery as the eyes it illuminated. With a flick she turn on the desk lamp. Her body captured the light in all the right ways. Wavy black hair over alabaster skin and lips in a tight smirk promised violence you might enjoy. An evening dress of violet silk and heels swore a night of the tango, in one form or another. The tight leather gloves didn't exactly ruin the moment either. The gun pointed at my gut however was a bit distracting. "Well, doll, what did you expect?" I said, tossing my hat onto the coat rack in the corner. "That I'd chase your tail after you plugged my boat full of holes and left me for dead?" "I never doubted you would make it out alright," she said, gun unwavering. "But you didn't have to lie." I grinned, shrugging out of my overcoat. "I'm a dishonest man. Honest." Cigarette smoke drifted from her lips. "We really shouldn't keep meeting like this. People might start talking." I crossed the room to her, the gun barrel pressing firmly against my stomach. "Well, toots, I ain't afraid of a little bad word of mouth." The heat in her eyes and the slant of her lips agreed.
Another late night of reports. The hazy street lights of Kansas City's east side was punctuated by the wafting of sad, jazzy vocals and sax from Vine Street a few blocks down. Meloncholic ... rhymes with alcoholic. How apropos, condersidering matters. Click. I looked up to see a dark man in fedora and trench enter the office. From here, I could smell Money from the scent of Stoli and Cuban cigars around him. "I heard Detective Michael Gabriel got cacked by Boss Tom's men. My condolences." I regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Thank you. I'm his widow and partner: Angel Gabriel. And you?" He removed his hat, and I was staring into my dead husband's face, only younger and no scars. He also had a neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache. "I'm Mike's brother Raphael. I just returned from Paris and I'm taking over the agency for him." I laughed. "You don't know what you're getting into here, brother."
@Eclectic Lofi Congrats about thy outstanding Noir Detective Music, dat one I need for my noir and detective stories :) "It was a foggy October night, one of those damned ones so foggy October nights that you need a butcher's knife to cut off all the myst between you and the unknown... After that my Buick kicked me up, was now walking between Chalkboard Street and Bodoni Memorial Avenue, when a heavenly vision appeared to me under that public lamp. Was so surprised that my cigar fell off from my lips. Her scent smells of a chorus of angels and saints... and enough troubles as a magnet actracts the metal objects..."
Your story deserves a finish...here goes'----The fog hung low, thick as molasses, swallowing the streetlights whole. I adjusted my fedora, the brim casting a shadow over my eyes. The Buick’s engine grumbled like a hungry tomcat, and I leaned against its hood, waiting for something to happen. It always did on nights like these. That’s when she stepped out of the mist-a dame with legs that went all the way up to her troubles. Her silhouette danced in the lamplight, and I swear the fog parted just for her. She had the kind of beauty that could make a priest break his vows or a detective spill his secrets. “Detective,” she said, her voice a velvet whisper. “You’re the one they call the Midnight Marlowe, aren’t you?” I nodded, my eyes tracing the curves of her figure. “That’s what they say. What’s your game, sweetheart?” She stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of her perfume-violets and danger. “I need your help,” she said. “My husband’s gone missing. He was last seen at the Bodoni Club, but the police won’t lift a finger. They say he’s just another drunk who stumbled into the fog.” I took a drag from my cigar, the smoke curling around her like a lover’s embrace. “Why come to me?” “Because you’re not afraid of the dark,” she replied. “And neither am I.” I followed her through the labyrinth of alleys, the fog clinging to my coat like regret. The Bodoni Club loomed ahead, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Inside, the air smelled of whiskey and desperation. The dame led me to a corner booth, where a man sat nursing a glass of bourbon. “Meet my husband,” she said, her eyes pleading. He looked up, hollow cheeks framed by a five o’clock shadow. “Marlowe,” he rasped. “I’ve seen things, terrible things. The fog-it’s alive, swallowing souls. I stumbled upon a secret, and now they’re after me.” “Who’s after you?” I asked, my gut tightening. He leaned in, his breath sour. “The Syndicate. They control everything-the cops, the politicians. They’re the real mist in this city.” I glanced at the dame. “And what’s your angle in all this?” She lowered her gaze. “I married him for love, but now it’s survival. The Syndicate wants something he found-a ledger, names, dates. If they get it, we’re both dead.” I stubbed out my cigar, the embers fading like hope. “I’ll find your ledger, but it won’t be pretty. The fog doesn’t give up its secrets willingly.” As I stepped back into the night, the mist closed in, swallowing me whole. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a mind sharp enough to cut through the darkness. And if the Syndicate wanted a fight, they’d get one. Because in this city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the shadows whispered. The fog clung to my coat like a guilty conscience as I stepped out of the Bodoni Club. The dame’s husband had spilled secrets, and now the Syndicate was on his tail. I needed answers, and the streets held them like a deck of marked cards. I followed the trail of smoke and neon signs, winding through the city’s underbelly. Chalkboard Street led me to a pawnshop-the kind where dreams were traded for desperation. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and the old man behind the counter squinted at me through thick glasses. “What can I do for you, detective?” His voice crackled like a gramophone needle. I leaned on the glass display case, scanning the trinkets-a tarnished pocket watch, a faded photograph, a silver cigarette case. “I’m looking for a ledger. Names, dates-the kind that could make a man disappear.” His eyes darted to the back room, and he wiped his hands on his apron. “I might know something. But it’ll cost you.” I slid a few bills across the counter. “Talk.” He leaned in, his breath sour with regret. “There’s a place-the Whispering Gallery. It’s where secrets echo like ghosts. Ask for the Oracle. She’ll guide you.” I nodded, pocketing the information. The Whispering Gallery-a dive bar hidden beneath the city’s skin. The kind of joint where the jukebox played heartache and the bartender poured regret. I stepped back into the fog, my footsteps swallowed by the night. The gallery was tucked away in an alley, its entrance marked by a flickering neon sign. Inside, the air smelled of spilled whiskey and broken promises. The Oracle sat at the end of the bar, a woman with eyes like forgotten wishes. Her fingers danced over tarot cards, revealing truths and half-truths. “Marlowe,” she said, her voice a velvet shroud. “You seek answers.” I took a seat, the wood creaking under my weight. “I need to find a ledger. The Syndicate’s after it.” She shuffled the cards, the edges worn from countless readings. “The fog hides more than secrets. It guards the truth like a jealous lover.” “What do you know?” She laid down the Death card, its skeletal figure grinning up at me. “The ledger is a map-a path to power. But it leads to darkness. Beware the shadows, detective.” I left the gallery, the Oracle’s warning echoing in my mind. The fog thickened, wrapping around me like a shroud. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a resolve to cut through the mist and expose the Syndicate’s web. As I walked back to my Buick, I noticed a figure leaning against the lamppost-a silhouette in a fedora. “Marlowe,” he said, his voice like gravel. “You’re digging in the wrong graveyard.” I tightened my grip on the knife hidden in my coat. “Maybe. But I’ve got a date with destiny, and the fog won’t stop me.” He chuckled, disappearing into the mist. “Destiny’s a fickle dame, detective. Sometimes she dances with the devil.” I climbed into the Buick, the engine roaring to life. The fog swirled, revealing glimpses of truth and treachery. The Syndicate had their secrets, but so did I. And when the fog lifted, one of us would be left standing-bruised, bloodied, but never broken. The Buick’s headlights cut through the mist as I drove toward the heart of the city. The Syndicate’s secrets were buried deep, and I was about to unearth them. The Whispering Gallery had closed its doors, but the Oracle’s warning echoed in my mind. I needed answers, and the only way to find them was to follow the trail of smoke and betrayal. The streets whispered their secrets-the crooked cop, the politician on the take, the dancer with a knife hidden in her garter. I parked outside the Bodoni Club, the neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. The dame was waiting, her eyes haunted. “Did you find it?” she asked. I nodded, pulling the ledger from my coat. Names, dates-a roadmap to power and treachery. “Your husband stumbled upon something big,” I said. “The Syndicate’s web reaches farther than we thought.” She took the ledger, her fingers tracing the inked lines. “What now?” I leaned in, my breath warm against her ear. “We expose them. Every dirty deal, every backroom handshake. We’ll bring the fog down on their heads.” She kissed me-a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted like danger. “Marlowe,” she whispered, “you’re a fool.” Maybe I was. But the fog had lifted, revealing the truth-the Syndicate’s grip on the city, the corruption that seeped into every brick and cobblestone. I lit a fresh cigar, the smoke curling like a promise. As I walked away, the Buick’s engine growled. The streets were still damp with mist, but the mist had cleared. The dame watched me go, her eyes filled with equal parts fear and longing. I drove into the night, the city’s pulse beating in time with my own. Destiny danced with the devil, and I was the one leading the waltz. The fog would return, but this time, I’d be ready-with a butcher’s knife and a hunger for justice. And so, the tale of the Midnight Marlowe continued, weaving through the shadows, unraveling secrets, and leaving behind a trail of smoke and echoes. Because in this damned city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the unknown beckoned.
@jaydouglas5847 congrats, my was just a canvas for a "To be ended" detective/noir story set on a fictional New England town near Maine or Quebec. But thy amazing original writings ideas and concepts have beaten even a quite good semiprofessional novelist like me. VOTE: 10 P.s. am an almost amatorial in noir and detective stories, am specialized in horror, heroic fantasy, cyberpunk and articles
It was a while before i've gotten a good case like this. June 17th, 1941 Manhattan. I knew from the moment she walked in something was wrong. A shook expression on her mug and eyes that would make any man cry. Her name was Mandy Jacobs. I had a long day of paperwork from my last case but this was enough to make me dump that entirely. She informed the local authorities of the recent murder of her ex husband's brother. Off the bat I suspected Mandy's husband to be the dirty killer just because of the fact it was Mandy's ex husband's brother she had reported. I suggested it to her and she started to yell at me for trying to ruin his reputation which in her logic was ruining hers. She stormed out of my office and I wasn't just gonna ignore it. No matter how gruesome the case seemed I couldn't help but smile at the fact I got an interesting case again.
Where her soft almost secretarial voice once greeted me with a thin mentholated chill, her eyes betrayed a cold calculation that would make a snowman shiver. She knew something. Worse still, she knew that I knew. “One more time… where are the god damned anchovies?”
Rain, it always seems to be raining when the world slips sideways into a different shape than you thought it was. Today was no different. She had finished her tale of woe. A typical one. One he’d heard refrains of before. Blue-gray smoke curled lazily around the brunette on the other side of my desk, distorting her features, and tracing faux-arcane symbols in the air. Leaning forward you spotted the dark circles under her eyes, even with the face powder. Dark enough to suggest late nights and early mornings. The drawn look of worry marking her forehead. He sighed, He was a sucker for that sexy broken look. “My starting fee” he begins and a fragile look of hope breaks across her face…
The thin cold light illuminated the doorway and the outline of a big, big man. The sheer bulk of the figure made me glad I had my Marley.38 in my shoulder holster where it felt nice and warm. Crossing my arms casually would bring it into my hand. I charge $100 a day plus expenses. What can I do for you? Nuthin' said the big man. I'm here to fix the toilet and I charge $200 an hour for night work. Need an apprentice,I asked?
@Eclectic Lofi I suddenly felt guilty, though I knew I was in another part of town at that exact moment, nowhere near the undeniably sinister yet somehow reassuringly noir-like scene of the crime... I'd always thought every minute of my life was being scrutinized, like when a dame walks into my local snakepit (actually named "The Snakepit", but not for the reason you'd think - see, the bartender's name was "Pit" but he thought he'd change it to something edgier; most of us regulars agreed "Pitbull" would've been more apt, but not for the reason you'd think - see... Well, that's for another time). Anyway, back to that dame, the way she glided into the place with the cool confidence of process server holding a briefcase bursting with subpoenas for every last guilty scumbag in the joint, yet her cautious eyes scanning every dark corner with the alert timidity of a cottontail on a railroad track...(?!?!) Well, anyway, that's how I felt the minute that shutterclick broke the twilight hour's chilly silence like a bladder-testing crack of thunder accompanying the surprising quarterflash of the camera's bulb, capturing my look of shock, bewilderment, and confusion as to how the hell that dizzyingly sharp young photog - herself with confident, alert, raven's eyes - caught me standing there... ...'cause remember, I knew I was in another part of town at that exact moment, officer. Swear to the Big Guy Upstairs, I was.
The name's Henry Dorsett Case. My office is in Chiba City, Ninsei district. I like a mug or two of Kirin and a few Yeheyuans to get me started each day. My quarry calls himself Neuromancer. Been tracking him down in Cyberspace. Careful fellow. A little old-fashioned. You'd think he came from somewhere south of the border. Likes Carnivale. Speaks fluent Portuguese. Likes girls with Gibson Girl hairstyles. Guess I'm headed out-of-town for the BARM (Buenos-Aires-Rio-Multiplex) and see what clues I can come up with.
Hi Matt, thanks for stopping by! Glad you were able to come across my video, if you are looking for some more, there is a part two in the description of the video. Have a great day!
Was looking for new music to download, and somehow discovered I had already watched this video fully, I do not recall doing this, but I do not mind rediscovering it
So many of these are listed wrong or out of order. Cold mind enigma is actually a song called City Walk by John Patitucci. where you have Covert Affair listed is actually Comfortable Mystery, pt 1 by Kevin MacLeod. where you have Hard Boiled is actually Doublecrossed by Scott Dugdale. where you have Just As Soon is actually Hard Boiled by Kevin MacLeod. where you have Night At The Docks is really Just As Soon by Kevin Macleod. I couldn't find it anywhere by searching the name you had listed.
I'm writing my fantasy/sci-fi fic that involves scenes with the Men in Black, journalism and other magical sci-fi things lol I needed mysterious "suspenseful" music but not the "scary thriller" kind. This playlist is perfect for the type of mood I was looking for!
In the dimly lit streets of Noir City, Detective Jack Malone leaned against the lamppost, cigarette smoke curling around him like a ghostly shroud. He was waiting for his informant, Mickey, a small-time crook with a knack for digging up dirt. As the clock struck midnight, Mickey emerged from the shadows, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. "Got something for ya, Jack," he whispered, slipping an envelope into Jack's trench coat pocket. Jack nodded, his eyes narrowing. "What's the word on the street, Mickey?" Mickey glanced around nervously before speaking. "There's trouble brewing at the Nightshade Club. Rumor has it, the boss, Mr. Black, is in over his head with the wrong crowd." Jack's interest piqued. The Nightshade Club was a cesspool of vice and corruption, and Mr. Black was at the center of it all. Jack knew he had to tread carefully if he wanted to get to the bottom of this. With Mickey's information in hand, Jack made his way to the Nightshade Club. The air was thick with smoke and the sound of jazz music filled the room as Jack slipped through the crowd, unnoticed. He found Mr. Black holed up in his office, surrounded by his goons. "What do you want, Malone?" Mr. Black growled, his voice dripping with menace. "I want answers, Black. I know you're in bed with the wrong crowd, and I aim to bring them down," Jack replied, his voice cold and determined. But before Mr. Black could respond, the door burst open and chaos erupted as shots rang out. In the confusion, Jack managed to slip away, his mind racing with questions. Back at his office, Jack poured himself a drink and lit another cigarette. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but he knew he was running out of time. He needed to act fast if he wanted to crack the case and bring justice to Noir City. With a steely glint in his eye, Jack set out into the night, ready to confront the darkness that lurked in the shadows.
It's a late night, I'm beaten down from the driving rain after a long day and only one tavern is open. An old fashioned is my only trophy after reuniting Dhalia with her parents. Sure, I had solved the crime, sent a real dirtbag back to processing for unspeakable acts he had done to this poor girl. I expected some sort of recognition, but to my surprise, I'm welcomed by the smile of my partner Sam in the same tavern, sharing a drink we call loneliness. Yeah, it ain't so bad being a lone wolf I suppose. It feels less uninviting here among another who relates to the despair we sometimes encounter. Even a moment such as this gives me impetus to forge ahead, do what's right, even if it's only your best friend congratulating you.
This music and these comments are very interesting and it is reminding me of L.A Noire, the game from Rockstar, the stories of the the comments, it's like a DLC in my head for or from this game
The cold harsh light of the neon sign flickered incessantly from the Greasy Spoon across the street. ‘All you can eat for just £4.50’ I pushed the fiver around on battered desk top and contemplated. Finally the decision made, I flipped off the top off the third bottle of beer. As I tilted the bottle I saw the entrance door ease open. In she walked with the grace of a cat stalking something to play with. As she approached the desk I noticed how dark her eyes were and how they reflected the light of the flickering neon sign. Just what made her choose my office to enter was hard to fathom, It must have started to rain as her coat was flecked with droplets. She sidled round the edge of the desk her eyes never leaving mine. It was hypnotic. With no embarrassment she sat on my lap and let her head rest on my shoulder. I cautiously let my hand move down her back. So kitty kat, you’ve decided to come in out of the weather. She just purred and settled in on my lap.
This is the kind of comfy, mellow, deep-thinking, scientific jazz music I love hearing through the ears 😌 I get the sudden feeling of wanting to lay on a therapist's lounge sofa and give him or her the details of how insignificant my life can be, although not necessarily.
I pooped my pants while reading the newspaper, not my proudest moment but when you're a moron, these things come naturally. This hot dame came through the door, grimaced in a seductive way and said "are you Detective PoopyPants?" I let out a little extra lunch burrito gas to let her know I mean business and she died, the end
Reading everyone's detective narration in the Noir Film transatlantic accent is the highlight of my day
Dya live every other day of the week with similar highlights ?
Whyyy is the accent in all of our heads?! One too many Late Night Movies as kids, I guess! 😂
She had a smile that hit my eyes the way the first drink hits your stomach. It feels good, but you've been here before. You know how it ends. You know how it ends, and you do it anyway.
I'm in..
Count me in also 🤚
I would still try, we all would, just to get hurt again and again. People judge a man by how much they can provide amd I have nothing left to give.
Awesome film noir style inner monologue. Could also be a description of addiction behavior.
NYPD Station, Manhattan, 1948:
Detective Danny Rubin: Alright kid, if you're gonna want to fight crime like in the movies, you gotta learn how to shoot. *Hands Officer Hazle Lewis a M1911*
Officer Hazle Lewis: So, what's the big news going on about Viktor?
Danny: That guy, Viktor Petroni is New York's most ruthless mob boss, he set up the Jazz Bar and Nightclub down the street from here as a front for the Oksana's operations. He's been runin' the Oksana for 20 years, people say that he was in the raid on the Alexander Palace in 1917 and killed the Romanovs then fled to the US.
Hazle: Scary. By the way, I heard from Klaus that you were a Sargent in World War 2.
Danny: He's right, I was in the 1st Marine Division, I witnessed the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor, the Battle of Midway, the victory at Iwo Jima, and the Battle of Okinawa. I was gifted a Walther P38 for my 35th birthday by my friend, William Bates, glad that Will made a full recovery after Viktor had him pumped full of lead.
June 1946, Chicago: I was in my office, enjoying a smoke and some whiskey, when I got the call: Joey Sanchez was dead. My closest friend from the army, served together from Africa to the entire Italian campaign. Shot at by Germans and Italians, survived explosions from mortars, been through hell and back, and what finally got him in the end was a driveby shooting. Ain't that just a case of rotten luck
These are great stories!
Captivating storytellin' there. I like it 👍🏾
And also, that was the time my grandmother was born.
I love it!❤
And that's when she walked.
I’ve got eight slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drink packs a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye. The dame walked in and said she had a case for me. She sounded like a case herself.
Shoutout to all the commenters who’ve posted short noir snippets. Lot of fun to read them all.
I love RUclips
Oh yeah definitely! I made one myself today.
Listened to this on my way to town the other day... I ordered a coffee, black as the night and bitter as my divorce. The dame behind the counter had the look of exhaustion about herself... an honest days work, but after the crooks in government took their cut, far from an honest days pay. I headed out to the street, lighting my cigarette, delving deeper into the belly of the beast. From femme fatales and crooked cops, I was sure to come down with a bad case of lead poisoning... but I had to keep pushing on... because I needed to buy some new socks.
Bravo :-)
Socks, man. Gotta have them. 👏👏👏
Your dark comedic virtuosity brightens my cloudy morning. I tip my fedora to you.
Socks... Eso si que es.
It was old Jimmy Valdez... In disguise.. I knew it, the hair, the strut... Even disguising himself as a dame wouldn't work... I recognize that ass anywhere.
@@RealBradMiller 🤣
I'm loving these comments as much as the music itself. 💯
that means the playlist is truly inspiring detectivesque thoughts 😂
I made the mistake of starting to read the comments! lol They are as GREAT and the music. Love this!!
I don't advise believing the comments. I won't even believe your $100 until it's in my pocket.
I love that this draws some of the older folks in, you can tell because they put two spaces after a period. No judgement, call it a bit of detective work.
It's a protocol of business letter writing. BTW, the reverse holds true to identify the MLA bunch from the Turabian educated....
@@nomadpi1 it used to be, mainly to accommodate typewriters being mono space, to help make it clear where a new sentence starts, but it's no longer necessary on computers.
It's definitely outdated and a habit that is hard to break. My business college in the mid 2000s taught me it was no longer expected in business and I find that to be true over the last 20 years.
It was raining. Hard. The streets were slick. The city's inhabitants were running to and fro, ruining their shoes and their newspapers, trying to escape the storm.
I was sitting in my office trying to coax one more memory from my gin and tonic. The phone hadn't rang in days. The office smelled of old paper. Old air. Old cologne. My chair creaked in annoyance as I eased back...with no further plan than to dull some more brain cells. I lit a cigarette.
I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in...
She was a tall drink of bourbon to a Sunday priest. My gin didn't mean anything anymore. I looked up to drink her in. She was built like an aero plane. Long. Trim…With curves in all the right places.
As I forced my gaze above her chin, I couldn't help but notice -she had lips as red as sunburn...and just as hot. Skin like smooth jazz. She gazed at me with eyes so deep you couldn't see the bottom. I noticed something.
She'd been crying...
Maybe a swindler took her inheritance. Maybe an ex-lover jilted her at the altar. Maybe she even murdered the poor devil. Who knows?
All I know is the sound of that door opening meant greenbacks in my palm and my next hot meal.
I'm a Private Eye.
I was reading your comment while the first tune was playing. When I came to the "I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in..." part, the first music ended and the second music started. The slow tango piece. Perfect transition! Talk about one heck of a coincidence.
@@freeurmind5790 Thank you! I'm a PI in real life. My partner and I would often create these monologues during slow times on the job.
@@MGAC1701 Must be an interesting work environment.
This! Such images conjured with the writing. Brilliant!
@@devinflowtherapyjames5808 Thank you!
The best Noir line I ever heard was from Calvin and Hobbes. “yeah, that’s me. Tracer Bullet. I got 8 slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drinks pack a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye.”
It was rather excellent.
Another line from C&H Tracer Bullet was "I've got a dear friend that lives close to my heart. Down and to the left to be specific."
It was something like that.
YES.
"The click of a hammer being cocked behind my head focused my thoughts like only a loaded .38 can."
Yes! I remember that strip! ✨️💖
Here's my hardboiled detective film noir opening.
It’s my world, a world where the night is never just night, and every shadow tells a story. The city never sleeps, and neither do the secrets that slither through its shadowy alleys. It was a night thick with fog, the kind that clings to your coat like a desperate dame. I was holed up in my office, a glass of bourbon keeping company with the stack of unpaid bills. The neon sign outside flashed a sordid dance of blues and reds across the room, painting the scene like a Picasso in his blue period.
They call me Jack Sullivan, private eye. I've seen things that would make a preacher swear and a convict pray. The door creaked open, and she walked in, legs first, a silhouette cut from midnight velvet. Her eyes held the promise of trouble, the kind I knew all too well, the kind that paid the bills but never came cheap.
"Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice was a melody that could turn saints into sinners.
I tipped my hat, "The one and only. What's got you wandering through the devil's playground at this hour?"
She took a breath, and the story began. Another chapter in this city's endless book of heartache and crime. And me? I'm just the sap who writes it down.
She perched on the edge of the chair across my desk, a black dress hugging her like a lover's whisper. "It's my husband," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "He's missing, and the cops... they ain't doing squat. I need someone with your... particular set of skills, Mr. Sullivan."
I leaned back, the chair groaning under the weight of the world. "Missing, huh? People don't just vanish into thin air, not in this town. They leave trails, like breadcrumbs for the hungry."
She pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of happier times. "He was last seen at the Sapphire Lounge, the jazz joint down on 5th and Vine. He plays the piano, or he used to, before..."
"Before what?" I prodded, sensing the plot thickening like blood in cold water.
"Before he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Gamblers, thugs, the kind of people who'd sell their own mother for a slice of the pie."
I took the photo, our fingers brushing-a jolt of electricity in the gloom. "I'll take the case," I said, already feeling the familiar itch of intrigue and danger. "But I gotta warn you, what I find might not play the tune you wanna hear."
She nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek. "Just find him, Mr. Sullivan. Please."
The door closed behind her, leaving nothing but the scent of jasmine and a mystery to unravel. I grabbed my coat and hat, ready to dive headfirst into the belly of the beast. The Sapphire Lounge was calling my name, and I had a feeling this case was going to be a doozy.
The Sapphire Lounge was a joint where the drinks were stiff and the jazz was smooth. I pushed through the door, the sound of a saxophone wailing like a siren's call. The air was thick with smoke and secrets, and every shadow seemed to whisper a different lie.
I made my way to the bar, the bartender giving me the once-over. "What'll it be?" he grunted, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days.
"Information," I said, sliding a crisp bill across the mahogany. "I'm looking for a piano man, goes by the name of Eddie. Ring any bells?"
He pocketed the bill, his eyes narrowing. "Might do. Eddie's been tickling the ivories here for years. But he ain't been around for the last couple of nights. Word is, he's in deep with Big Tony's crew."
Big Tony. The name was like a bad penny-always turning up. I thanked the bartender and turned to leave, but a voice stopped me cold.
"You're Sullivan, ain't ya? The detective."
I turned to see a dame with a face that could launch a thousand ships and a body that could sink 'em. "I might be. Who's asking?"
"The name's Vivian. I'm a singer here. And I know where you can find Eddie."
She led me to a table in the back, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. "Eddie's got himself a gambling problem," she whispered, leaning in close. "He owes Big Tony more dough than he can ever pay back. Last I heard, he was trying to skip town."
I felt the puzzle pieces clicking into place. "And where would a desperate man go to disappear?"
She scribbled an address on a napkin and slid it over. "The docks, at midnight. But be careful, Sullivan. Big Tony doesn't like snoops."
I pocketed the napkin and nodded. "Thanks, doll. You've been a real peach."
As I stepped out into the night, the fog seemed to close in around me, a shroud for the city's sins. The docks at midnight-it was a setup, it had to be. But it was the only lead I had. I'd have to be ready for anything. Because in this town, anything could happen-and usually did.
The docks at midnight were a maze of rusted shipping containers and forgotten dreams. The air tasted of salt and regret as I followed Vivian’s lead. The moon hung low, a pale witness to the sins that played out in its shadow.
I found Eddie huddled near the water’s edge, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the piano case. His eyes were hollow, the light gone out like a busted streetlamp. “Sullivan,” he croaked, his voice a rusty hinge. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
I leaned against a stack of crates, my fedora pulled low. “Eddie, you’ve been dancing with the devil. Big Tony’s got a long memory, and his goons have a short fuse.”
He wiped sweat from his brow, the lines etched deep like canyon walls. “I had a system, Jack. A way to beat the odds. But the cards turned cold, and now I’m in too deep.”
I glanced around, shadows shifting like ghosts. “What’s the play, Eddie? You gonna run? Disappear into the night like smoke?”
His fingers traced the piano keys, a melancholy melody rising from the darkness. “Nah, Sullivan. I’m gonna face the music. Tell Big Tony I’ll pay what I owe. But I need time. One last gig, one last chance.”
I knew the stakes. Eddie was a pawn in a high-stakes game, and the odds were stacked against him. But maybe, just maybe, I could tip the scales. “Alright, kid,” I said, my voice gravel and regret. “I’ll make a deal with the devil. You play that piano like your life depends on it. And I’ll dance with the wolves.”
As the clock struck midnight, the Sapphire Lounge came alive. The crowd swayed, lost in the rhythm, while Eddie’s fingers danced across the keys. The notes were a confession, a plea for redemption. And somewhere in the shadows, Big Tony’s enforcers waited, hungry for blood.
I stepped outside, the night air biting like a betrayed lover. Vivian was there, her eyes wide with worry. “You’re a fool, Sullivan,” she whispered. “But you’ve got a kind heart.”
I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a question mark. “Kind hearts don’t last long in this city, doll. But sometimes, they catch a break.”
And so, I waited. The docks held their breath, the moon a silent witness. When the final note echoed across the water, I knew the game was afoot. Eddie had played his hand, and now it was my turn.
Big Tony’s goons stepped out of the shadows, knuckles wrapped in brass. But I had a secret weapon-the truth. I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the night like a switchblade.
“Big Tony,” I said, “your boy Eddie’s got a debt to pay. But he’s got something you want more than money. He’s got a soul.”
The enforcers hesitated, eyes flickering between me and Eddie. Big Tony emerged, a mountain of menace in a tailored suit. “Speak your piece, Sullivan.”
I leaned in, my breath hot with defiance. “Eddie’s gonna play one last tune. And if it don’t move you, if it don’t touch that black heart of yours, then you can have him. But if it does… well, then maybe we all get a second chance.”
Eddie sat at the piano, his fingers trembling. The keys whispered a prayer, a melody that hung in the air like a fragile promise. And as the notes soared, I saw it-the flicker of humanity in Big Tony’s eyes.
The city held its breath. The scales trembled. And for a moment, just a moment, redemption hung in the balance.
And that, my friend, is where the story ends. Because sometimes, even in the darkest alleys, there’s a glimmer of hope. And sometimes, just sometimes, a private eye can change the tune of fate.
👏👏👏
Wow, it has been delightful to read this. You have inspired me to continue writting my unfinished stories. Thank you.
@@nadiacorimayo3157 Nadia ! Unfinished stories are like an invitation, an invitation to enjoy yet another kiss from a lover that’s been distant like a shadow in the fog. That unfinished story is waiting for you to embrace it, to hold it once again, let it unfold like a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Having a partner to bounce off of is overlooked and underappreciated, much like a hunch that comes without knowing why, yet it just is. Let’s test it out together, I’d be happy if you sent me a paragraph or two of one of your unfinished stories and allow me to give it a whirl like a fedora caught in a gust of wind.
I love your story! You should do more!!
@@hastymemer Listen up Hasty, I ain’t no two-bit gumshoe scribbling for a quick buck. Nah, I pen my tales ‘cause it’s like sippin’ bourbon on a rainy night-smooth, dark, and damn satisfying. You see, my ma, bless her heart, she raised me on those flicks from the golden age. The ones where dames with legs that went on forever slinked through shadowy alleyways, and the air reeked of secrets and gunpowder.
And my old man? Well, he was a real piece of work. Used to talk like he stepped right outta a Raymond Chandler novel. “Kid,” he’d say, “life’s a maze, and the dames are the twisty turns. You gotta navigate 'em, even when they’re sharper than a switchblade.”
So here I am, typewriter clacking away, weaving tales of smoky jazz clubs, dames with eyes like loaded revolvers, and crooked coppers who’d sell their own mothers for a nickel. But there’s a hitch, Hasty. A real twist in the plot. See, there’s this dame-the one who’s got me by the lapels, squeezin’ tight. She don’t take kindly to the other dames I conjure up. Jealous, she is. Thinks I’m moonlighting with ink-stained vixens while she’s waitin’ by the fire, wearin’ that collar she snapped on me.
So, Hasty, my fedora-wearin’ friend : I write for the thrill, not the dames or the dough. And if any Joe wants to know why my stories drip with noir, they can blame it on Ma’s late-night movie marathons and Pa’s whiskey-soaked wisdom. But that dame? She’s the real mystery-one I can’t solve with a typewriter or a slug of rye. Maybe one day, I’ll spin her into a tale, too. Until then, the shadows beckon, and the keys keep clackin’. 🕵♂🚬📝
my favorite thing about Jazz is everyone doing the "detective narration" in the comments
best comment
I love the music and the commentary!
And I'm over here entertaining myself by reading them in a cheesy, Noir inspired narration. Gotta entertain myself somehow lol
"It had all come to this, here I was, walking into a dark bar that looked to be made entirely of wood, marble, jade, and danger."
I tried not to touch anything. The glue holding the place together came from a think layer of tobacco tar coating every surface. Without it, the walls, ceiling, bar, tables, and chairs would crumble faster than the lives of their regular customers. Even the glasses on the bar stuck in place if left too long, mostly empty and ignored. Looking around the room, it appeared the same thing happened to the patrons. A neglected bar for neglected, and negligent, people. Except one.
She was there. Trying to hide in the darkest corner. Obvious, she looked out of place, but somehow she belonged. When they call me for help, things went from bad to worse ... and fast.
Decided to comment because I've watched / listened to this video hundreds of times in the last six months.
My daughter was born earlier this year and sleepless nights soon followed. We were in Eastern Europe at that time and I discovered this "Noir Detective Music" on RUclips. I found that the music calmed her down and helped her sleep.
Now we're in the US and this video is saved to my main playlist. We still listen to it together several times each day. It reminds me (and, I like to think, somehow reminds her) of her first couple months in the world.
I’m about to do some sneaky mischief listening to that opening track
You know they say that in life you should eat what you're served. Problem was, most of the time, I was served soup with a fork.
😆
Classic comment, brilliant. Can we start our own "me too" movement? 😂
I can relate ..
_12;45. Pauline’s Saloon. Second Booth from door on right._
That was all the letter said. I studied the scrawl, smelled the paper, and checked for any signs of where it came from. Nothing. I checked my watch, 12;28. Pauline’s was about ten minutes from my office, but I was never one to be late. I took my .38 from the top drawer, slid it into my shoulder holster, and closed up shop. Business had been bad lately and this looked like the first thing all week that might put some dough in my pocket.
It was 12;40 when I got to Pauline’s. I slid into the booth, ordered a gin tonic, and sat back to wait. Several people entered for the next few minutes, but none so much as looked my way. Then _she_ came in. Looked like she stepped right off one of them fashion magazine covers. She carried an air of confidence on her and her big brown eyes looked as deadly as the poorly concealed derringer in her purse.
“Mr. Maunders?” She asked. Her tone was as thick as honey.
I nodded, pulling a cigarette from my case. I offered her one and she took it with a pair of slim gloved fingers. Leaning across the table I lit it and then my own, then waited to hear what she’d say. A couple of puffs and then she stared me in the eyes.
“A friend told me you knew Sammy during the war.”
A pretty vague statement. I shrugged, “Knew a lot of guys named Sammy before, during, and after.” However, there was one Sammy that came to mind specifically. Sammy “Diamond” Brooks. He and I had been stuck in a basement for almost a week while the Jerry’s kept base above. He told me a lot during those days. His life, his family, how he got his nickname and a lot of other stuff.
“Oh you’d remember this Sammy,” she smiled and reached into her purse.
I subtly reached for my gun in case she tried anything.
She pulled out a small velvet bag and threw it in front of me. I opened it and found myself staring at four diamonds. Even in the dim interior they gleamed and sparkled.
She locked her fingers and rested her chin on them, “Now, Mr. Maunders, just what did Sammy say to you.”
I cinched the bag closed and threw it back at her. “Nothing worth this lady, now just what are you really after?”
She grinned, “Truly, I just want to know what he told you.” She leaned over and slid the bag into my coat pocket, her hand lingering on my chest for a moment. “Surely, with these, you can at least spare the time to tell me that.”
Before I could even reply, a car came screeching down the street. Bullets, glass, and screams were all I knew for the next minute and then the bullets stopped. Habit had saved me, I’d ducked, but not for my mysterious companion. She lay face down on the table, a pool of crimson dribbling off the corner.
Who really was this Sammy Brooks? What had he told me those three years ago that had suddenly become worth killing for? I slipped out through the back during the confusion and hoofed it back to my office. I looked at the time as I sat back at my desk - 1;01. The night had ended but my work was just beginning. I lit a cigarette, leaned back, and slowly began going over those days three years ago.
This music brings back all the hours I spent listening to Dragnet on the radio
Twin Peaks vibes too ☕🥧
exactly what i was thinking!
I'm here for it.
@@MelancholyMoondancer that show was one of a kind!
It looked like rain, so I got up to close the window. That guy on the sidewalk was still playing his sax. He was good, but I had heard enough for one day.
When I turned back to my desk, she was already standing in front of it.
"Can I help you?", I said.
"No, Mr. Starker, I'm here to help you.", she whispered. "You placed a Want Ad for a secretary in today's paper. I'd like to apply for the position."
"Cookie, you can have any position you want." I replied, "You're hired as of now. And from now on, call me Mick."
"Oh, thank you Mr, uh, Mick." she squealed, "You don't know how happy this makes me."
"Sit down, sugar, pour yourself a drink. We've got all night to get to know each other. And you don't know how happy this'll make me!", I said as I removed my tie.
That's when the phone rang. That's when it all started to go sideways.
Who could've figured that she'd wind up dead, and I'd be sitting in a jail cell talking to you?
Love it!
Ain't no sax. Vibes, bass & drums. No need for anything else.
@@antechinus100 So sorry my fiction doesn't fulfill your limited requirements.
@@jtcbrt hahha
@@antechinus100 Au contraire, @32:00
I cracked the door open and shook off my coat. It had been raining again. It was always raining lately. I hung my now ruined hat on the hook by the door and stepped inside.
A small movement in the kitchen caught my eye and I shut the door. It was my unwitting house guest.
Mittens let out a pathetic noise and I knew. "Hungry too? Figures." I went to open a small can of tuna, my last one. Darn cat ate better than I did.
My pay as a gumshoe was terrible, my pay as a P.I. had been worse. Giving up on my notion of a sandwich I got to work.
The perp thought he'd gotten away, but he'd been cocky. I knew what I'd seen had to be a clue. I was close, I could feel it.
"Looks like you an I are in this together now, eh mittens?" The little furball was my only partner now. I had inherited her from a grateful client before they had passed.
Turns out a lonely cat and a washed up detective make a good pair. Both keep late hours and both of us needed someone to trust.
And I.. I had to make enough leads to equal a sandwich.
Love this, but a gumshoe is a PI.
@@katashley1031
I was actually wondering if anyone would catch that little bread crumb. It's meant as an internal joke. It's just his humour is a little dry.
The character in the story actually does have a job at a larger sort of privatised agency, but he was put on a sort of leave. He's not fired, not suspended, but not really expected to show back up for awhile.
So he is doing something on the side with his own private office. He's trying to make ends meet and chase something personal while between regular work.
Hence the line you caught. ;) It was my way of saying "the pay was even worse on my own" while hinting all is not as it appears.
I very nearly put "my pay as a detective had been bad" because I thought it might be confusing. But I wanted to stay true to my story and I thought, "hmm, let's actually say this then and see if anyone asks."
Since so many people liked my first little story, figured I'll post something more for those who bother to read comments.
---
"Mick! Hey! What're are you doing here?"
The well intentioned man addressed me from a few feet away, a cup of joe placed in his hand.
"Coffee maker at the house broke. Usual diner is closed. Best I could do."
I looked down at the coffee in my own cup. Coffee was as dark as a sinners soul. But the real sin was that taste.
"The coffee here is cheap, but it gets the job done. And also, the name isn't Mick, my name's Mike. I've told you that before."
Jayce crossed over the floor towards my direction, a wry smile on his face.
"I know, but it gets you talking."
He took a sip from his mug, his face souring.
"Urgh.. I don't know how you can drink this. It's worse than last time. I swear the coffee gets cheaper every time I try it."
He hovered his hand over the trash can, pausing a moment as if considered throwing the whole thing, mug included, inside.
Instead he tipped it over, letting the coffee drain out and put the mug down.
"I dunno Jayce. It beats a broken coffee machine. Even this junk is better than nothing. And, it's free."
"For a reason." Jayce retorted. "Tastes like it fell off the back of a truck.. and hit a curb on the way down."
"Seriously. I think the boss must get it for free too. Only reason to keep it around here. Wouldn't surprise me if no one else wanted it."
Jayce looked me directly in the eye then and I took stock of him. His blonde locks were slightly out place, his tie hung loose. It was then that I knew.
Some folks handle long shifts with grace. This man, did not. He got through the labors of a day by talking about them.
And if he was still up, that meant something was keeping him up.
"Look Mikey.. I know you just got back to Central and your report's not due for a few more days but Chelz has been asking for you."
❤
I can just imagine Capt. Picard on the Holodeck as P.I. "Dix" on ST:TNG or ST : First Contact.
Guinan - "Tell him it's - Gloria, from Cleveland."
That episode was "Clues", but Dixon Hill was where my mind went too.
On morning eve, the calm before storm,
Laid back on my seat, drunk without form.
Then sudden the beat, tap tapping of my door,
Was a figure in red, luminous and galore
She waltz before me, eyes with furious light,
And solemn these words that give me a fright.
There mind alight, I nod what might seem
To the person in question the Lady of Dreams.
The soft hum of my computer was the only sound in the room, but through my headphones, a slow, smoky jazz noir tune played like a sultry whisper in the dead of night. Each note was a sigh, a confession, setting the mood while I stared at lines of code that twisted and coiled like cigarette smoke. The saxophone wailed low, filling the empty spaces between my thoughts, and for a moment, the keys on my keyboard felt more like the click of a revolver’s hammer than the mundane tools of a programmer. But that’s the thing about jazz-about this life-it makes everything feel a little more dangerous, like one wrong keystroke could blow the whole thing wide open.
Really loving all the detective stories in the comments that people are making.
I always come back to this music video to read the amazing stories below. Keep up the great work story writers! Maybe I'll add a detective story of my own later!
This great music! It makes me want to grab a glass of bourbon and a good mystery book!
Fireball whiskey and a Shell Scott book right now.
I read all the comments while listening to this! Now I'm so intrigued to get into noir books 🙈 any recommendations for a beginner like me??
I would suggest The Easy Rawlins series by Walter Mosely. Set in Los Angeles in the 1940s. Easy is an African American detective after returning from WWII.
For a one-off, Death is a Lonely Business by Ray Bradbury fits the bill as well.
Now curious to read Easy Rawlins though, thank you.
Dashell Hammet
Thank you for the recommendations! I will look into that🩷
Starting my day to this music: The dimly lit bathroom mirrored my weary soul. I gazed into the reflection, the froth of toothpaste mixed with the bitter taste of regret, washing away the sins of indulgence. I spat out the remnants, the minty residue of defeat, a token of my unwavering commitment to oral justice in an unjust world. With a final glance in the mirror, I saw not just a clean mouth, but a sliver of hope, for the first time in a long time, and in doing so, I stepped out of the bathroom, armed with minty freshness and a renewed spirit unyielding.
Another Monday morning. Forcing myself through the litany of downers from the night before to get ready for the gig. I had a long drive ahead. The job seemed simple enough, but in my line of work, your gut is as vital as your brain, or your gun. And as I walked out the door that morning, my gut was telling me to stay home. I locked the door behind me before I left.
Her perfume walked into the room before she did, out of all the joints in this town she had to walk into my office. I slowly looked over the rim of my glass of whiskey and laid down my cigar ‼️
September 1, 1948: It was a rainy Saturday in Detroit and my small office was filled with the usual heady aroma of cigar smoke. I was reclining in my chair watching the rain patter on the glass when a a manila envelope slid under the door and I heard the sound of footsteps speeding away. Cautiously, I sat up and walked to the door. The envelope was pressed with a big'ol red seal bearing the name: Carter. I knew it was rigged from the start when I read that name but I was still caught off guard when two things fell out of the envelope: The necklace of an old flame of mine, and a timer; I had 5 minutes to get the heck out of there and assuredly enough, the door was locked from the outside.
October 2287, Boston: I was on a case for a runaway daughter. The family were good people but their daughter was quite the rebellious spirit. Tracked her down to an old vault ran by an old acquaintance of mine named Skinny Malone. Seemed like it just became a case of kidnapping.
I guess they were expecting me, cause the next thing I knew, I was apprehended and locked inside the overseer's office much deeper down.
Only then did I find out that the runaway daughter wasn't kidnapped but rather she became Skinny's new girl. The oil that makes the flame shine brighter. Hope someone comes by soon so I can get out of here.
I've been reading every comment in Nick's voice but then I found your comment. That was perfect 🤣
The cases don't solve themselves.
Nice Nick Valentine reference!
These creative short stories remind me of some classic radio shows before the creation of TV. I think some of these scripts would make great movie shorts. Kudos to you all! You really capture the art of painting a picture in the mind. I’m not just watching this. I’m there in the same room!👏👏👏
LA Noire vibes ✨️
Moody and dark. Makes me want to read Sam Spade or Mike Hammer.
"You've got a lot of nerve leaving me in the wind like that," she said before I even finished entering the darkened room.
The tiny flame of the match rose to the tip of a cigarette, tobacco burning almost as fiery as the eyes it illuminated.
With a flick she turn on the desk lamp. Her body captured the light in all the right ways. Wavy black hair over alabaster skin and lips in a tight smirk promised violence you might enjoy. An evening dress of violet silk and heels swore a night of the tango, in one form or another. The tight leather gloves didn't exactly ruin the moment either.
The gun pointed at my gut however was a bit distracting.
"Well, doll, what did you expect?" I said, tossing my hat onto the coat rack in the corner. "That I'd chase your tail after you plugged my boat full of holes and left me for dead?"
"I never doubted you would make it out alright," she said, gun unwavering. "But you didn't have to lie."
I grinned, shrugging out of my overcoat. "I'm a dishonest man. Honest."
Cigarette smoke drifted from her lips. "We really shouldn't keep meeting like this. People might start talking."
I crossed the room to her, the gun barrel pressing firmly against my stomach. "Well, toots, I ain't afraid of a little bad word of mouth."
The heat in her eyes and the slant of her lips agreed.
omg, i absolutely adore music like this! reminds me of one of my classic favorites, Roger Rabbit! man, i need more of this in my life!
THANK YOU!!!!
The sun was going down, ,,,I could tell because it was getting dark,,,,then she walked in, ❤
Sam: I bought that VCR at the supermarket.
Max: So you know it’s a good one.
Sam: Still smells like asparagus, though.
FREELANCE POLICE!!! BRILLIANT!!!
Another late night of reports. The hazy street lights of Kansas City's east side was punctuated by the wafting of sad, jazzy vocals and sax from Vine Street a few blocks down. Meloncholic ... rhymes with alcoholic. How apropos, condersidering matters.
Click.
I looked up to see a dark man in fedora and trench enter the office. From here, I could smell Money from the scent of Stoli and Cuban cigars around him.
"I heard Detective Michael Gabriel got cacked by Boss Tom's men. My condolences."
I regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Thank you. I'm his widow and partner: Angel Gabriel. And you?"
He removed his hat, and I was staring into my dead husband's face, only younger and no scars. He also had a neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache. "I'm Mike's brother Raphael. I just returned from Paris and I'm taking over the agency for him."
I laughed. "You don't know what you're getting into here, brother."
Smooth 😎
Love the twist
You've got the makings of a hard boiled writer here....
@Eclectic Lofi
Congrats about thy outstanding Noir Detective Music, dat one I need for my noir and detective stories :)
"It was a foggy October night, one of those damned ones so foggy October nights that you need a butcher's knife to cut off all the myst between you and the unknown... After that my Buick kicked me up, was now walking between Chalkboard Street and Bodoni Memorial Avenue, when a heavenly vision appeared to me under that public lamp. Was so surprised that my cigar fell off from my lips. Her scent smells of a chorus of angels and saints... and enough troubles as a magnet actracts the metal objects..."
Your story deserves a finish...here goes'----The fog hung low, thick as molasses, swallowing the streetlights whole. I adjusted my fedora, the brim casting a shadow over my eyes. The Buick’s engine grumbled like a hungry tomcat, and I leaned against its hood, waiting for something to happen. It always did on nights like these.
That’s when she stepped out of the mist-a dame with legs that went all the way up to her troubles. Her silhouette danced in the lamplight, and I swear the fog parted just for her. She had the kind of beauty that could make a priest break his vows or a detective spill his secrets.
“Detective,” she said, her voice a velvet whisper. “You’re the one they call the Midnight Marlowe, aren’t you?”
I nodded, my eyes tracing the curves of her figure. “That’s what they say. What’s your game, sweetheart?”
She stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of her perfume-violets and danger. “I need your help,” she said. “My husband’s gone missing. He was last seen at the Bodoni Club, but the police won’t lift a finger. They say he’s just another drunk who stumbled into the fog.”
I took a drag from my cigar, the smoke curling around her like a lover’s embrace. “Why come to me?”
“Because you’re not afraid of the dark,” she replied. “And neither am I.”
I followed her through the labyrinth of alleys, the fog clinging to my coat like regret. The Bodoni Club loomed ahead, its neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. Inside, the air smelled of whiskey and desperation. The dame led me to a corner booth, where a man sat nursing a glass of bourbon.
“Meet my husband,” she said, her eyes pleading.
He looked up, hollow cheeks framed by a five o’clock shadow. “Marlowe,” he rasped. “I’ve seen things, terrible things. The fog-it’s alive, swallowing souls. I stumbled upon a secret, and now they’re after me.”
“Who’s after you?” I asked, my gut tightening.
He leaned in, his breath sour. “The Syndicate. They control everything-the cops, the politicians. They’re the real mist in this city.”
I glanced at the dame. “And what’s your angle in all this?”
She lowered her gaze. “I married him for love, but now it’s survival. The Syndicate wants something he found-a ledger, names, dates. If they get it, we’re both dead.”
I stubbed out my cigar, the embers fading like hope. “I’ll find your ledger, but it won’t be pretty. The fog doesn’t give up its secrets willingly.”
As I stepped back into the night, the mist closed in, swallowing me whole. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a mind sharp enough to cut through the darkness. And if the Syndicate wanted a fight, they’d get one. Because in this city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the shadows whispered.
The fog clung to my coat like a guilty conscience as I stepped out of the Bodoni Club. The dame’s husband had spilled secrets, and now the Syndicate was on his tail. I needed answers, and the streets held them like a deck of marked cards.
I followed the trail of smoke and neon signs, winding through the city’s underbelly. Chalkboard Street led me to a pawnshop-the kind where dreams were traded for desperation. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and the old man behind the counter squinted at me through thick glasses.
“What can I do for you, detective?” His voice crackled like a gramophone needle.
I leaned on the glass display case, scanning the trinkets-a tarnished pocket watch, a faded photograph, a silver cigarette case. “I’m looking for a ledger. Names, dates-the kind that could make a man disappear.”
His eyes darted to the back room, and he wiped his hands on his apron. “I might know something. But it’ll cost you.”
I slid a few bills across the counter. “Talk.”
He leaned in, his breath sour with regret. “There’s a place-the Whispering Gallery. It’s where secrets echo like ghosts. Ask for the Oracle. She’ll guide you.”
I nodded, pocketing the information. The Whispering Gallery-a dive bar hidden beneath the city’s skin. The kind of joint where the jukebox played heartache and the bartender poured regret. I stepped back into the fog, my footsteps swallowed by the night.
The gallery was tucked away in an alley, its entrance marked by a flickering neon sign. Inside, the air smelled of spilled whiskey and broken promises. The Oracle sat at the end of the bar, a woman with eyes like forgotten wishes. Her fingers danced over tarot cards, revealing truths and half-truths.
“Marlowe,” she said, her voice a velvet shroud. “You seek answers.”
I took a seat, the wood creaking under my weight. “I need to find a ledger. The Syndicate’s after it.”
She shuffled the cards, the edges worn from countless readings. “The fog hides more than secrets. It guards the truth like a jealous lover.”
“What do you know?”
She laid down the Death card, its skeletal figure grinning up at me. “The ledger is a map-a path to power. But it leads to darkness. Beware the shadows, detective.”
I left the gallery, the Oracle’s warning echoing in my mind. The fog thickened, wrapping around me like a shroud. But I had a butcher’s knife of my own-a resolve to cut through the mist and expose the Syndicate’s web.
As I walked back to my Buick, I noticed a figure leaning against the lamppost-a silhouette in a fedora. “Marlowe,” he said, his voice like gravel. “You’re digging in the wrong graveyard.”
I tightened my grip on the knife hidden in my coat. “Maybe. But I’ve got a date with destiny, and the fog won’t stop me.”
He chuckled, disappearing into the mist. “Destiny’s a fickle dame, detective. Sometimes she dances with the devil.”
I climbed into the Buick, the engine roaring to life. The fog swirled, revealing glimpses of truth and treachery. The Syndicate had their secrets, but so did I. And when the fog lifted, one of us would be left standing-bruised, bloodied, but never broken.
The Buick’s headlights cut through the mist as I drove toward the heart of the city. The Syndicate’s secrets were buried deep, and I was about to unearth them.
The Whispering Gallery had closed its doors, but the Oracle’s warning echoed in my mind. I needed answers, and the only way to find them was to follow the trail of smoke and betrayal. The streets whispered their secrets-the crooked cop, the politician on the take, the dancer with a knife hidden in her garter.
I parked outside the Bodoni Club, the neon sign flickering like a dying heartbeat. The dame was waiting, her eyes haunted. “Did you find it?” she asked.
I nodded, pulling the ledger from my coat. Names, dates-a roadmap to power and treachery. “Your husband stumbled upon something big,” I said. “The Syndicate’s web reaches farther than we thought.”
She took the ledger, her fingers tracing the inked lines. “What now?”
I leaned in, my breath warm against her ear. “We expose them. Every dirty deal, every backroom handshake. We’ll bring the fog down on their heads.”
She kissed me-a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted like danger. “Marlowe,” she whispered, “you’re a fool.”
Maybe I was. But the fog had lifted, revealing the truth-the Syndicate’s grip on the city, the corruption that seeped into every brick and cobblestone. I lit a fresh cigar, the smoke curling like a promise.
As I walked away, the Buick’s engine growled. The streets were still damp with mist, but the mist had cleared. The dame watched me go, her eyes filled with equal parts fear and longing.
I drove into the night, the city’s pulse beating in time with my own. Destiny danced with the devil, and I was the one leading the waltz. The fog would return, but this time, I’d be ready-with a butcher’s knife and a hunger for justice.
And so, the tale of the Midnight Marlowe continued, weaving through the shadows, unraveling secrets, and leaving behind a trail of smoke and echoes. Because in this damned city, even angels had their demons, and I was the one they called when the fog thickened and the unknown beckoned.
@jaydouglas5847 congrats, my was just a canvas for a "To be ended" detective/noir story set on a fictional New England town near Maine or Quebec. But thy amazing original writings ideas and concepts have beaten even a quite good semiprofessional novelist like me. VOTE: 10 P.s. am an almost amatorial in noir and detective stories, am specialized in horror, heroic fantasy, cyberpunk and articles
Great music! And, thank you for sharing and letting the Podcast “ L.A. Not So Confidential” use the first song pre and post show as their tag music.
It was a while before i've gotten a good case like this. June 17th, 1941 Manhattan. I knew from the moment she walked in something was wrong. A shook expression on her mug and eyes that would make any man cry. Her name was Mandy Jacobs. I had a long day of paperwork from my last case but this was enough to make me dump that entirely. She informed the local authorities of the recent murder of her ex husband's brother. Off the bat I suspected Mandy's husband to be the dirty killer just because of the fact it was Mandy's ex husband's brother she had reported. I suggested it to her and she started to yell at me for trying to ruin his reputation which in her logic was ruining hers. She stormed out of my office and I wasn't just gonna ignore it. No matter how gruesome the case seemed I couldn't help but smile at the fact I got an interesting case again.
y’all so creative 😂 i’m loving it
Where her soft almost secretarial voice once greeted me with a thin mentholated chill, her eyes betrayed a cold calculation that would make a snowman shiver. She knew something. Worse still, she knew that I knew. “One more time… where are the god damned anchovies?”
Nicely done! Think I just might go out and do some late night investigating starting at the bar!
Rain, it always seems to be raining when the world slips sideways into a different shape than you thought it was.
Today was no different.
She had finished her tale of woe. A typical one. One he’d heard refrains of before.
Blue-gray smoke curled lazily around the brunette on the other side of my desk, distorting her features, and tracing faux-arcane symbols in the air.
Leaning forward you spotted the dark circles under her eyes, even with the face powder. Dark enough to suggest late nights and early mornings. The drawn look of worry marking her forehead.
He sighed, He was a sucker for that sexy broken look.
“My starting fee” he begins and a fragile look of hope breaks across her face…
Amazing. Been looking for some good noir jazz playlists for a while. Definitely saving this one.
This has got to be my favorite jazz song.
some really nice use of instrument personality. thinking bass to begin with.
The thin cold light illuminated the doorway and the outline of a big, big man. The sheer bulk of the figure made me glad I had my Marley.38 in my shoulder holster where it felt nice and warm. Crossing my arms casually would bring it into my hand. I charge $100 a day plus expenses. What can I do for you? Nuthin' said the big man. I'm here to fix the toilet and I charge $200 an hour for night work. Need an apprentice,I asked?
Best for getting in the mood when research, detective work, or other info hunting must be done, love it, and the comments too.
These comments are fantastic!
It hits different when sped up just a little bit. ❤
It doth.
@Eclectic Lofi
I suddenly felt guilty, though I knew I was in another part of town at that exact moment, nowhere near the undeniably sinister yet somehow reassuringly noir-like scene of the crime...
I'd always thought every minute of my life was being scrutinized, like when a dame walks into my local snakepit (actually named "The Snakepit", but not for the reason you'd think - see, the bartender's name was "Pit" but he thought he'd change it to something edgier; most of us regulars agreed "Pitbull" would've been more apt, but not for the reason you'd think - see... Well, that's for another time).
Anyway, back to that dame, the way she glided into the place with the cool confidence of process server holding a briefcase bursting with subpoenas for every last guilty scumbag in the joint, yet her cautious eyes scanning every dark corner with the alert timidity of a cottontail on a railroad track...(?!?!)
Well, anyway, that's how I felt the minute that shutterclick broke the twilight hour's chilly silence like a bladder-testing crack of thunder accompanying the surprising quarterflash of the camera's bulb, capturing my look of shock, bewilderment, and confusion as to how the hell that dizzyingly sharp young photog - herself with confident, alert, raven's eyes - caught me standing there...
...'cause remember, I knew I was in another part of town at that exact moment, officer. Swear to the Big Guy Upstairs, I was.
I can't stop listening....the best I have found on yt up to now!
Feels like im in Twin Peaks right now!
Twin peaks has a hold on this music for me
Excellent noir private eye vibes here
Love from France ♥️
I'm reminded of Golden Eye
The name's Henry Dorsett Case. My office is in Chiba City, Ninsei district. I like a mug or two of Kirin and a few Yeheyuans to get me started each day. My quarry calls himself Neuromancer. Been tracking him down in Cyberspace. Careful fellow. A little old-fashioned. You'd think he came from somewhere south of the border. Likes Carnivale. Speaks fluent Portuguese. Likes girls with Gibson Girl hairstyles. Guess I'm headed out-of-town for the BARM (Buenos-Aires-Rio-Multiplex) and see what clues I can come up with.
This. This is exactly what I was looking for...idk why but I needed to hear it.
Hi Matt, thanks for stopping by! Glad you were able to come across my video, if you are looking for some more, there is a part two in the description of the video. Have a great day!
Just like reading the best of the worst Hemingway, where people write their best imitation of Hemingway. Some of this pastiche is pretty good.
Was looking for new music to download, and somehow discovered I had already watched this video fully, I do not recall doing this, but I do not mind rediscovering it
Super gorgeous and rich vibes 🥰
So many of these are listed wrong or out of order.
Cold mind enigma is actually a song called City Walk by John Patitucci.
where you have Covert Affair listed is actually Comfortable Mystery, pt 1 by Kevin MacLeod.
where you have Hard Boiled is actually Doublecrossed by Scott Dugdale.
where you have Just As Soon is actually Hard Boiled by Kevin MacLeod.
where you have Night At The Docks is really Just As Soon by Kevin Macleod.
I couldn't find it anywhere by searching the name you had listed.
I'm writing my fantasy/sci-fi fic that involves scenes with the Men in Black, journalism and other magical sci-fi things lol I needed mysterious "suspenseful" music but not the "scary thriller" kind. This playlist is perfect for the type of mood I was looking for!
Nice, thank you, more off this please.
Thank you for the comment. I will keep this in mind!
I saw the note pushed under my door and immediately knew it meant... that I should have installed a letterbox.
Bass Walker is used by Penn & Teller in on of their performances. Love it!
detective noir movies need to make a comeback
"Silence fell like a wet blanket over the city, muffling its cries. Time to rest, I thought. Time to drink." - Everyone's favourite rockerboy
She reminded me of my mother all right. No doubt about it.
Frank, snap out of it. You're looking at her like she was your mother, for Christ's sake.
@@onlynameMrBlank 🤣😂👍
The only music to get clued into🎶🎵🎶
In the dimly lit streets of Noir City, Detective Jack Malone leaned against the lamppost, cigarette smoke curling around him like a ghostly shroud. He was waiting for his informant, Mickey, a small-time crook with a knack for digging up dirt.
As the clock struck midnight, Mickey emerged from the shadows, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. "Got something for ya, Jack," he whispered, slipping an envelope into Jack's trench coat pocket.
Jack nodded, his eyes narrowing. "What's the word on the street, Mickey?"
Mickey glanced around nervously before speaking. "There's trouble brewing at the Nightshade Club. Rumor has it, the boss, Mr. Black, is in over his head with the wrong crowd."
Jack's interest piqued. The Nightshade Club was a cesspool of vice and corruption, and Mr. Black was at the center of it all. Jack knew he had to tread carefully if he wanted to get to the bottom of this.
With Mickey's information in hand, Jack made his way to the Nightshade Club. The air was thick with smoke and the sound of jazz music filled the room as Jack slipped through the crowd, unnoticed.
He found Mr. Black holed up in his office, surrounded by his goons. "What do you want, Malone?" Mr. Black growled, his voice dripping with menace.
"I want answers, Black. I know you're in bed with the wrong crowd, and I aim to bring them down," Jack replied, his voice cold and determined.
But before Mr. Black could respond, the door burst open and chaos erupted as shots rang out. In the confusion, Jack managed to slip away, his mind racing with questions.
Back at his office, Jack poured himself a drink and lit another cigarette. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but he knew he was running out of time. He needed to act fast if he wanted to crack the case and bring justice to Noir City.
With a steely glint in his eye, Jack set out into the night, ready to confront the darkness that lurked in the shadows.
It's a late night, I'm beaten down from the driving rain after a long day and only one tavern is open. An old fashioned is my only trophy after reuniting Dhalia with her parents. Sure, I had solved the crime, sent a real dirtbag back to processing for unspeakable acts he had done to this poor girl. I expected some sort of recognition, but to my surprise, I'm welcomed by the smile of my partner Sam in the same tavern, sharing a drink we call loneliness. Yeah, it ain't so bad being a lone wolf I suppose. It feels less uninviting here among another who relates to the despair we sometimes encounter. Even a moment such as this gives me impetus to forge ahead, do what's right, even if it's only your best friend congratulating you.
COOL PLAYLIST
This music and these comments are very interesting and it is reminding me of L.A Noire, the game from Rockstar, the stories of the the comments, it's like a DLC in my head for or from this game
That was a great game!
Agreed
Thanks 🙂🙏
Great playlist
It's late night... Anyone has a case?
This is good when I read Blacksad :)
The cold harsh light of the neon sign flickered incessantly from the Greasy Spoon across the street. ‘All you can eat for just £4.50’ I pushed the fiver around on battered desk top and contemplated. Finally the decision made, I flipped off the top off the third bottle of beer. As I tilted the bottle I saw the entrance door ease open. In she walked with the grace of a cat stalking something to play with. As she approached the desk I noticed how dark her eyes were and how they reflected the light of the flickering neon sign. Just what made her choose my office to enter was hard to fathom, It must have started to rain as her coat was flecked with droplets. She sidled round the edge of the desk her eyes never leaving mine. It was hypnotic. With no embarrassment she sat on my lap and let her head rest on my shoulder. I cautiously let my hand move down her back.
So kitty kat, you’ve decided to come in out of the weather. She just purred and settled in on my lap.
Thank you I have been looking for EXACTLY this stuff
I need this right now
Thanks for the upload !!
The second song reminds me SO much of Steve’s doodling song from Blue’s Clues… I’m undoubtedly the only person who thinks that…
I can hear it 😊
@@eclecticlofi what's the name of the 2nd song pls ?
Twin Peaks vibes, i LOVE it.
This is the kind of comfy, mellow, deep-thinking, scientific jazz music I love hearing through the ears 😌 I get the sudden feeling of wanting to lay on a therapist's lounge sofa and give him or her the details of how insignificant my life can be, although not necessarily.
...I had to admit...this dame sure did have a great set of pins...
Best comment section ever!
Hotel Dusk vibes. Most underrated video game of all time.
Loving the private eye comments. Will attempt my own, when I feel brave enough.
I APROVE THIS PLAYLIST
🙏🏼
you crack me up little buddy
Saving this for next time I pick up house of leaves
I pooped my pants while reading the newspaper, not my proudest moment but when you're a moron, these things come naturally.
This hot dame came through the door, grimaced in a seductive way and said "are you Detective PoopyPants?" I let out a little extra lunch burrito gas to let her know I mean business and she died, the end
😮this is it! this is the one!!
Takes me back to Hotel Dusk.