Fried Fiction

A young doctor is suspected when an escaped maniac who abducts him ends up murdered. On the run, he kidnaps a pretty sketch artist who he eventually convinces he’s on the level. The more he discovers about the maniac’s story, the more he’s convinced they’re onto something big. A few phony doctors, crooked cops, Freudian analysts, fake weddings and nuclear scientists later, they’ve got it all figured out.

Pickup On South Street (Fuller 1953)

Fresh from the pen, Skip McCoy picks the pocket of a young woman on the train. Nothing to write home about in New York City, but Candy’s billfold held important slides being delivered to prominent communists. Realizing she lost the goods, she checks in with Joey, a desperate coward who uses his ex-girlfriend as a human shield. He’s not exactly thrilled. The cops are also perturbed, as they were tailing Candy at the time and hoped she’d lead them to the reds. With the help of a Moe, a colorful informant hoping to save up enough dough for a fancy funeral, the cops link the robbery to McCoy, a “three-time loser.” Everyone must surrender to the greater good. Captain Tiger has to put aside his goal to put McCoy away for keeps, eventually working with him to bust the commies. Crooks like Candy and McCoy are forced with the choice to cooperate with the cops for the red, white and blue. Ultimately, they prove that nobody believes in capitalism more than crooks. The commies don’t stand a chance against this neo-liberal crook-cop consensus.

Human Desire (Lang 1954)

Carl Buckley loses job with railroad and asks his sultry younger wife Vicki to talk to a big man she knows about helping him get it back. They do more than talk, so Buckley has Vicki write the big man a letter asking him to meet her on the train where he stabs the big man to death right in front of her. She’s shocked but trapped. While scouting outside the cabin, she’s spotted by Jeff Warren, an off-duty conductor and former co-worker of Buckley’s. They fall for one another. He falls so hard he’s blind to Ellen, the daughter of his friend and co-conductor Alec, a gorgeous young innocent head over heels for him, so hard he neglects to mention he saw Vicki that night when questioned at the inquest. The whole town seems to know about their fling. The whole town but Buckley, who gets drunk(er) and (more) beligerent, but keeps Vicki in check by lording the letter over her head. He’ll pin the killing on her if she scrams or squeals. While he bullies her into staying by his side, she bullies Jeff into doing her bidding with sex. sadness and sympathy. Meanwhile, Jeff is immune to Alec’s lectures about decency and propriety. Eventually, Vicki convinces Jeff to kill Buckley. After all, he killed people in the war, she reasons. The spell is broken, though, and he can’t go through with it. She says he’s not the man she thought he was. He walks away. Alec notices a change in his friend, and as Jeff stares at the dance ticket Ellen gave to him, it’s clear he’s ready for something new.

John Forbes is a bored suburban husband attacking his predictable morning ritual with snarky one-liners. Mac, a freelance detective who does jobs for insurance exec Forbes, uncovers the girlfriend of a jailed heister whose place is loaded with goodies paid for with stolen cash. Mac wants another crack at Mona Stevens, who he describes as quite a looker, but Forbes takes the case. Forbes checks out a company car and heads over to Mona’s place. She’s an intoxicating department store model with a sad sack demeanor doing her best to get by–she’d prefer to do right and makes honest assessments of her situation. As Forbes dispassionately catalogues her belongings, she makes an honest assessment of his situation, describing him as a bored desk-jockey, a briefcase swinger going through the motions. It hits too close to home. Mona’s prized possession is a boat, hardly a yacht, but it brings her great joy. They bond while out on the water, and Forbes softens enough to keep the boat off his report. Mac, who takes to stalking his new fixation, knows about the boat and starts to suspect something is up. Forbes and Mona begin a brief fling, and Mac begins an all-out blackmail campaign, threatening to expose Forbes to his wife and kid. Forbes, unwilling to abandon his family, breaks things off, leaving Mona the martyr to bear the whole burden, fending off Mac’s advances yet refusing to sell Forbes out.

Mac, with the persistent desperation of a sagacious dog, is convinced he can make Mona like him. With her boyfriend Smiley soon to be sprung from the pen, Mac visits him, planting ideas about Mona and Forbes. Upon Smiley’s release, Mac sets him up with a loaded gun, a bottle of whiskey and Forbes’ address. Smiley pays Mona a visit first, so she’s able to tip Forbes off. Forbes shoots Smiley on his property and easily convinces the cop that it’s the self-defense killing of an intruder. With his plan in action, Mac goads Mona on by bragging about his victory, packing her case and making their future plans, claiming her as a prize. She shoots him.

Mona is arrested but still refuses to implicate Forbes, who finally feels compelled to admit his part in the drama. He receives a stern lecture from a cop about calling the police rather than taking matters into his own hands but Smiley’s shooting was still self-defense whether he knew he was coming or not and Mona’s was manslaughter (and maybe murder) whether or not the target deserved it. The cop displays sympathy for Mona, wishing the roles were reversed, but admits there isn’t much he can do about it.

Forbes confesses to his wife, a pearls and all Sunnyland mother with an unusually sharp tongue, who vows to fight for their family. When he’s game to stick it out, she concludes that they’ll make a try of it.

Larceny (Sherman 1948)
Larceny profiles a gang of con men specializing in the long con, usually some phony property development scheme. They milk a mark for the fund-raising and make off with the dough. At the helm of this operation is Silky Randall, a slick-threaded sweet-talker whose authority is undermined by his affinity for a zany and disloyal girlfriend, a manic moll named Tori. Rick Mason is his go-to guy, a tall dark and handsome con with all the right moves. He’s irresistible to women, especially Tori. Silky’s suspicions have been taking their toll on the outfit’s operations.

They target a young California war widow heavily invested in a charitable boy’s club that was incredibly important to her late husband Jim, a “perfect” war hero who lived for “the kids.” Rick talks his way into the club’s trust with a phony yarn about being in Jim’s platoon right before he died. Rick is unflappable in the face of scrutiny. Whenever a curious eye is raised at one of his tales, he adeptly talks his way out of the jam. Nothing is sacred. He’s asked to give a talk on honesty to the boys and is met with a standing ovation, which is where the widowed Deb first encounters him. He uses concern for her husband’s legacy to gain the confidence of the lovely yet all bottled up widow and eventually makes his pitch–a boy’s club/war memorial to honor Jim. Of course, nothing but the best for Jim’s boys–it has to be the most expensive chunk of land in town.

Rick is an effortless hommes fatale, balancing several women’s interest, a waitress, a saucy bank secretary, Deb, and to his consternation, Tori, who follows him to California despite being shipped off for a siesta in Cuba. Rick doesn’t hesitate to play off their interest if it helps the game.

As things progress with Deb, she begins to let her defenses down, to open her heart. Rick seems to soften. It might be love. But Silky and the gang are in town, and they want results. Rick tries to wiggle his way out of the deal at the last minute and almost succeeds until Tori intervenes. A showdown in the cabin Tori had been staying results in her shooting–she pulls a gun on Rick who turns it on her before it goes off in the struggle. When the gang arrive, they try to pin it on Deb, who had been knocked unconscious. They rather easily convince Deb that she shot Tori and even have her father ready to pay them off when the police arrive because Rick had called them in advance. As the cops haul the gang away, Rick gives himself up.

like Deported: trying to scam good girl (Fallen Angel) softening in many ways, but apparently on board with heist until very late in the game

Deported (Siodmak 1950)
Vittorio Sparducci is an Italian-born American deported back to his homeland after a five year stretch for a 100k heist. He is forced to spend 30 days in the small town of his birth upon his return. With the money never accounted for, the man now known as “Vic Smith” is watched with keen interest by both his former partner and an Italian copper who are convinced that despite talk of a clean life, Vic will make a play for his dough.

Vic gets in good with The Contessa, a philanthropist widow determined to feed the village’s hungry. As in Larceny, the tall, dark and handsome con talks the lovely but prim and reserved widow into living a little while she chisels away at his rough, guarded exterior. Vic promises to deliver $100k worth of food supplies from the US, but begs the Contessa to keep his name out of it. As the community celebrates the arrival of enough aid to feed all in town, she can’t help revealing the identity of the generous man among them, which triggers the suspicion of the police detective who had just recently abandoned his hunch about Vic and the money.

Despite signs that Vic has fallen for Christine, the Contessa, he seems down with the set up until day of the delivery. At the last minute, he tries to back out of the plan to rob and liquidate the food into cash. His partner and the various minions driving the trucks aren’t so crazy about his change of heart. He helps hault the proceedings and then comes clean to both the coppers and the Contessa.

Stopping to rest after a long walk, Stransom discovers an old church with an altar “a blaze of candles.” He becomes fascinated by the image of a silent female mourner and begins regular pilgrimages to the temple and eventually becomes de facto caretaker of the altar of the dead.

His fixation on the unnamed woman, a regular mourner, blossoms, but he is hesitant to directly engage her. It turns out that the first rule of dead spouse club is that nobody talks about dead spouse club . . . not even to the only other member. Even when they eventually speak, much is left unsaid. While Stransom lights candles for all his dead, his lost love Mary chief among them, his new friend lights a candle for only one. It is only when, many, many months later, that Stransom and his friend finally engage in more casual social relations, that he learns that her one and only honored dead is in fact his “frenemy” Anton Hague, who she admits also did her great injury. The details of these injustices are never shared with one another, as the woman is reluctant to reveal the particulars.

Hague inspires a rift between the two, who while also not publically acknowledged, have become the primary living relation in the others’ life. Stransom will not budge–no candle for Hague. Echoing Meatlof, Stransom is clear–I would do anything for love . .. but I won’t do that.

The story’s narrator’s erudtition inspires an air of objectivity, but gossipy tendencies betray the prim and proper pretensions. The hyper-omniscient narrator doesn’t just relate what the characters know and think, but even reveals what they do not know they know and think, the secrets of their hearts and the lies they tell to themselves. Even inanimate objects are granted subjectivity, such as ritzy jewels behind a glass window that know they’re better than the riff-raff viewing them with envy.

The story resembles James Joyce’s, “A Painful Case,” in its depiction of a slow, awkwardly unfolding relationship between older parties living in similarly grey suburban circumstances and also Joyce’s “The Dead” in that sexy dead guy serves as the disruptive 3rd party in a relationship.

Only once during the entire course of the fall term was the instructor visited by an actual student during his formal office hour, when an assertive freshman quick to point out she was a former professional basketball dancer/cheerleader, specifically an Indiana Pacermate, lobbied unsuccessfully for a grade change on a rather unorganized essay arguing for the legalization of marijuana. Stu noted that pro-pot essays were often scattered and disorganized. The lack of office hour activity was not an altogether fortunate turn, however, as it left the instructor free to stew, incapable of getting much accomplished yet equally incapable of relaxing or enjoying himself. Seeking a situation more conducive to productivity, Stu drifted to the IAA staff lounge, which hosted faculty and staff mailboxes, a few tables, a microwave, a fridge and a sink, only to find it a bustling bevy of fashionable young full-time staffers carrying on about their drinking stamina and dating success. The constant barrage of dicey details proved too tantalizing, the pace too exhausting.

Stu’s next settled-for spot was the Merchandise Mart food court, a spacious seating atrium surrounded by an assortment of fast food joints. While a few awkward encounters with current and former students proved somewhat daunting—even the pro-pot Pacermate, one eager to ask of his time in other settings, would snub him here—ultimately, the crowded food court was a bit too hectic. Tables were hard to come by at certain hours, and amongst such a crush of flesh, the many conversations to which he suddenly had access, be they involving businessmen, office workers, Chicago Transit Authority staff, building crew or college students, proved too tempting for someone who took particular pleasure in eavesdropping. There were so many different voices in his head that he couldn’t keep track of the one that mattered.

Running out of options, the former collegiate library circulation clerk finally decided upon the mostly quiet and virtually unoccupied IAA library. Like a bud that failed to blossom, the library seemed somehow incomplete, altogether too small, even for its humble operations, even smaller than a modest neighborhood branch of the Chicago Public Library. Located on the end opposite the entrance, blocking the library’s only exterior window, a mere six shelves comprised the stacks, and they were placed so near the library’s only two tables that they seemed to cast a pall over the room the way massive skyscrapers create shadows in the regions directly below them. There were no secrets within such cramped quarters, and what is a library without its nooks and crannies, places to escape? If a student was searching for a book, everyone present knew it. If a conversation was occurring, everyone present was privy to it. In addition to its impractical and undistinguished design, IAA’s was a university library possessing no official name, having never been dedicated to any particular titular honoree memorialized via classy bronze plaque. Some faculty would joke that the library went undedicated since nobody who would desire to be forever linked with the lackluster library. Stu, however, felt immidiately comfortable within its quiet confines. While it was difficult to quantify, there was a certain type of imperfection that made a place appealing to him, that put him at ease, which is why he had for years been one of the few loyal denizens of an odd little neighborhood café run by Grimy Gary, who managed to juggle a full-time job as a mechanic with early morning and late evening shifts at his coffee house, even if it meant occassionally wearing dirty overalls behind the counter. While Stu could never pinpoint just what made somewhere like Gary’s or the IAA Library satisfactory, it was usually the flaw that made Stu’s eccentric Edens least appealing to everyone else.

From 9:30 am through 6pm, save a thirty minute lunch break spent uncomfortably at the staff lounge, which she derisively dubbed “Da Club,” librarian Penny McBride staffed the reference desk, a glorified office cubicle, only double the size and turned to greet the public. As a result, Penny felt as if she were on permanent display. The library’s only other full-time employee was her boss Kathy, a matronly IAA veteran, a fixture since the library, alas, the school had opened its doors, as if they had built the library around her while she sat at her desk. The physical barriers between Kathy and Penny seemed an obstacle to whatever kinship might have otherwise existed between the them. Kathy remained insulated in her private office a few dozen feet behind of the circulation desk, which was located to the left of the front entrance, just inside the security gates that beeped piercingly when materials that were not checked out passed between its invisible sensors. Both Michelle, her part-timer helper, and the student workers who attended to the circulation desk provided another line of defense between Kathy and the patrons. Penny, meanwhile, enjoyed no such buffer.

Penny fielded a few actual research questions per day, often assisting fashion design students she found particularly annoying, but she spent most of her shift distributing the log-in password for printing service in the little computer lab located in a small room just past her desk. Thinking back to the stringest old shusher she so despised back in junior high, the quintessential prudish librarian, Penny fretted over having to be such a grumpy Gladys at an early age. Unfortunately, socializing was not uncommon at the two long tables that sat just before her desk, and space was tight enough that any conversation at normal volume could easily be heard throughout the library. By late afternoon, she found herself so hypersensitive to the library’s bio-rhythms, that even the most faint noise, such as a hiss, a scratch, or a sigh, could easily preoccupy her attention, prompting the urge to shush to well within in her bosom, pushing so hard upon it, she might just blurt out an obscenity-laced reprimand at the next student who dare take a deep breath.

Armed with his usual arsenal of bags and with his trusty trenchcoat draped over his left arm, Stu tromped through the library’s unadorned entrance at 4:03pm, first checking the wall clock above the door. He made a point of nodding in Penny’s general direction, smiling sheepishly as he made his way to an empty seat near the end of the one of the two long tables. Penny’s bright red hair and equally colorful homemade blouse drew his gaze, as would a bright orange tiger lilly growing in an urban alleyway, a surprising and refreshing burst of zest amidst a dreary landscape. Stu struggled to concentrate as he scanned the notes he had prepared for his upcoming lecture on logical fallacies in argument, even failing to remember a well-established laugh line corresponding with a fun everyday example of equivocation. He remained unaware of the cause of his faltering focus until he caught himself bopping about his chair, fidgety beyond his normally frantic standards, drawing dirty looks as he drummed on one of his bags with a pen, leading to the realization that he was thoroughly over-caffeinated. Desperately drowsy after a morning course at ISUC and an early afternoon spent conducting an online course for Ashland College, Stu found he required an emergency pick up. Unfortunately, options were few at the Mart; a sugary soda from one of the fast food joints or coffee from a national café chain franchise in the basement level appeared his only alternatives. While this particular corporate powerhouse had a store in Stu’s neighborhood, Albany Park, as regular at Grimy Gary’s funky little café down the street, he had never sampled their wares. Upon his entrance into the store, Stu was quickly overwhelmed by the rush of stimuli, the robust aromas, the many signs advertising specials, and neatly-arranged displays featuring coffee-related paraphernalia, not to mention the generally overwhelming hustle and bustle of the place: the store had more customers at the time of Stu’s arrival than Grimy Gary would be lucky to serve all day. He froze as he neared the front of the lengthy line and ordered “the biggest coffee you have.” The barista, a woman in her twenties, displayed patience with his awkwardness and unfamiliarity with the ways of the franchise, a gentle gesture Stu greatly appreciated; the same could not be said for the impatient pack in line behind him, who did not hesitate to groan in disapproval.

His delicate system proved unprepared for the abundant level of caffeine in even their average beverage, yet alone the wallop packed by a ‘Vente.’ Less than a half hour after consuming only two-thirds of his beverage, staring blankly at his page of notes, he realized the folly of his decision. In this frazzled state, he was acutely aware of his surroundings and the potential distraction of countless social cues, from interaction with Penny to the heavy-breathing student sitting two chairs away. Stu’s antennae wriggled about until fixed upon an increasingly heated conversation at the library’s circulation desk. As both the volume and animosity of the disagreement amplified, he finally admitted defeat and raised his eyes from the sheet of paper. A tall and thin male student with slightly shaggy but carefully sculpted black hair disputed a fine. Behind the counter, a tall and slightly husky female with strong shoulders befitting an athlete wore a thick, rugged gray sweatshirt with the words ‘Warren Central High School Girls’ Track and Field” in green letters across the chest. The sweatshirt looked like it had more than a few miles on it. She kept her long brownish-blond hair wrapped in a tight ponytail, like she might before a big meet. Her eyes possessed the smoldering intensity of a competitor, even during quiet moments. A pair of student workers sat at a table ten feet behind the front desk, pretending to be doing homework while listening intently to every word of the discussion, periodically looking up from their books to make eye contact with one another, barely able to hold back outbursts of laughter as the argument escalated. The first worker, Rex, a chubby brown-haired male with a plump, bearded face, wore a blue sweater and sat facing the front. The second, named Emily, a shorter and more typically feminine blond wearing a fashionable red hooded sweatshirt and black sweatpants with the word “SPICY” across the posterior, faced away from the counter and hid her head under a baseball cap bearing the logo of a clothing company. Emily’s face was soft, framed by wide, high cheeks, but her eyes were large and swollen, portraying a hint of helplessness.

“I can only follow what the records say,” explained Tracy, the athletic student clerk, pointing to the computer terminal atop the counter. “And it says the book is three months overdue.”

Sloan, the student owing the fine, dressed in name-brand casual clothing—designer jeans and a white long-sleeve shirt decorated with an intricate screen print pattern dominated by irregular swirls and dramatic jags. It is said that clothes make the man, but in Sloan’s case it is perhaps better said that they typified him, someone who worked quite hard to look so casual. “I told you that I returned it at the end of the last quarter,” he reiterated.

“And I told you that we’ve checked the stacks and the book isn’t there.”

“Can’t you make an exception?”

“Do I look like I run this place?” Tiring of his protests, Tracy ceased to engage him in eye contact, directing her attention back to the terminal.

“No, but I like your eyes,” he commented, gently leaning his right elbow on the counter to project comfort and intimacy.

“My what?” she scoffed, raising her head away from the screen and taking a step away from the counter. He certainly regained her attention.

Sloan flashed his deep brown eyes, which were unique to the point of strange, if not actually buggy, but provided the illusion of a deep, piercing glance even when such a look was not his intent. This odd phenomenon was consistent with a theme; Sloan was one of a small class of people whose strangest characteristics somehow made them oddly more appealing. If Sloan were a library, Stu would most certainly spend his time there. “Your eyes,” Sloan finessed the clerk. “Has anyone told you you have lovely blue eyes?”

“They’re really more green than blue,” Tracy debunked. Laughter broke out from table behind her.

“OK, is there anyone I can speak to,” Sloan asked, removing his elbow from the counter, “a manager or something?”

“The head librarian left at 4. You just missed her. She’s the only one with the authority to clear fines. She’ll be back tomorrow morning when we open at 8.”

“How much would it cost me to clear things up?”

Tracy diddled with the keyboard, then replied, “$72. You have to pay to replace the book and take care of the fine.”

“I tell you what,” Sloan said, reaching into his back pants pocket for his billfold, “Here’s a crisp $20 bill to make this all go away.” he pulled on its ends, snapping it twice for emphasis.

“You’re bribing me? What is this?”

“Oh, come on? Can’t you take a joke?”

The clerked rolled her eyes and sighed, struggling mightily to maintain her composure. Taking a deep breath and another step away from the counter, she looked back to the table, hoping her co-workers would offer some sort of assistance or even the most minute amount of moral support that a sympathetic glance imparts, but both were determined to avoid her gaze and remain out of the fray. Not that either dared look up to witness, but the dismayed Tracy angrily stared them down. “Where is she?” she huffed. Shaking her head in frustration towards all who contributed to her misery, it suddenly dawned on her that the reference librarian was still available. While fines were not in her domain, Penny, a professional with an advanced degree offered the appearance of credibility a fellow student could not match.

Penny found it hard to rebuff Tracy’s request given that she wasn’t exactly properly occupied; she had three windows open on her computer screen when the student approached: her e-mail, a solitary game and craigslist job listings. More compellingly, the exasperated student was needy, at her wits end. Intensely aware of the strain a difficult patron can inflict upon the psyche of one trapped behind the desk, Penny relented, “I’m happy to help, but there’s nothing I can do about fines.”

“I know that, and I’ve told him the same thing, but coming from you . . . maybe he’ll listen.”

“OK, then,” Penny acquiesced, flipping the small folded sheet of paper fashioned into a “BE RIGHT BACK” sign into its readable position. Tracy escorted her through the swinging waist-high gate that opened into the area behind the circulation desk. “Hello,” Penny started, smiling pleasantly, hoping to quell tension with the calm approach of an accommodating hotel clerk.

Sloan caught her off guard by not opening with another plea for the fine’s clearance, rather starting off with flattery. “Hey, that’s an interesting top. Quite unique. I bet you got that at some funky store up on Belmont.”

“Actually, I made it,” she quickly replied. His carefully cultivated advertising major instincts were dead on; he had cleverly hit her soft spot. She was no school girl, though, and the compliment wasn’t about to soften her approach; it was, however, successful in throwing her out of her comfort zone. “What can I do for you?”

“I really need you to take care of this fine,” Sloan pressed with the same intensity as before.

“I’m sorry, but none of us have any authority to do that. You should take it up with Kathy, the head librarian, when she returns in the morning. I can leave a note for her to contact you first thing.” Penny clutched a pen, hovering it over a slip of paper as if to promote the viability of her offer.

“But I need to deal with this now.” As he completed the phrase, his neck twitched in swift, jerky manner, a tick that, though wholly unintentional, looked like an affectation meant to present a certain self-assured image.

Penny took note and quickly reacted by turning the screws on Sloan, “You could always pay the fine. Is that an option? If the book turns up, you’ll be refunded for the replacement charge.”

This suggestion was greeted with a seriously unhappy look accompanied by silence, as if he were disappointed in Penny. Sloan turned his back to her, resting his hips against the counter. Penny swallowed hard but maintained her smile. As Tracy did before her, she turned to seek the comfort of her cohorts. Lacking answers, Penny and Tracy shrugged their shoulders in unison.

Stu couldn’t help himself. As a former circulation clerk, he felt he had some insight into the inner workings of the mind of the fined, and he wasn’t about to get any work done with the Sloan saga unfolding a dozen feet away. “Young man,” he called, approaching the circulation desk. Glancing over his shoulder at the oncoming academic, Sloan greeted Stu with a dubious smirk. “Hi, I’m an instructor here at IAA. I have a few questions that might help clarify matters, if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever,” Sloan sighed. While he was bothered by the instructor’s intrusion and more generally by all the interest the matter was generating, he was quite aware of the importance of appearances and of which appearance he was selling. Above all else, Sloan wished to present a cool, calm and collected front in the face of scrutiny.

“Why is this such a pressing issue?”

Sloan was momentarily taken aback by the wide-eyed and wired, caffiene-fueled intensity of Stu’s impromptu interrogation. He took a deep breath before responding tactfully, “I need to clear the hold on my account.”

“For what purpose?” Stu’s questions were rapid blasts that fired off the instant Sloan uttered his reply.

“Well, I have a big paper due and I can’t check out any books with a hold on my account. Even if I did the work, I’m not allowed print from IAA computers until things are cleared up.”

“Have you considered the public library? Harold Washington, the crown jewel of the Chicago Public Library, is just a short hop around the Loop away and endowed with many, and I might add, more bountiful stacks than the library here?”

“No,” Sloan dismissed, “that hadn’t really dawned on me.”

“Alright, then,” Stu sighed, sensing quickly that Sloan would be no convert to the cause. Stu, perhaps observing Sloan from a unique perspective, noted the strange look about Sloan’s eyes and the brisk jerk of his neck for what they were, odd, potentially nervous ticks. Alas, Sloan was not a library. “How did you return the book?”

“What do you mean how?”

“Literally speaking, where did you place it?”

“Right here,” he explained bluntly, if not sarcastically, losing his cool long enough to bristle at what he considered a pointless question, gesturing at the book return chute a matter of inches from where he was standing. “Where else?”

“Would you please tell us some more about the paper you are working on?”

“It’s about psychographic profiles. It’s a demographic thing.“ Before Sloan could elaborate, a minor ruckus broke out at the table behind the circulation desk. Emily clutched the phone receiver in her right hand, placing her left over the microphone and exchanging forced whispers with Rex.

Penny finally addressed them directly. “What is it?”

“Kathy on line two,” Emily reluctantly explained. Sloan’s eyes widened as he finally got a look at the the female under the baseball cap who kept her back to him throughout the controversy. She quickly averted her gaze.

Penny picked up the extension and caught Kathy up on the facts. As Penny’s voice grew still, she listened intently to Kathy’s response, offering confirmations, such as “uh huh” and “yes.” “OK,” she said as she hung up the phone. Exhaling before continuing, she explained, “Kathy says she’s spoken with you a few times in the past, Sloan.”

“What the hell?” Tracy complained.

“Sure, I’ve talked to her,” Sloan admitted, squirming a bit but hanging in there.

“Just go ahead and pay the fine already,” Tracy commented.

Not yet convinced, Stu persisted, “About that paper. Could you explain the concept of psychographic profiling?”

“It deals with charting the pleasure and pain impulses of demographic groups in certain situations.”

“Why are you wasting your time on this guy?” Tracy wondered, as she paced about the space behind the counter.

Stu noticed Penny’s attention had been drawn back to the workers’ table. Once again, Emily seemed preoccupied, this time frantically if not somewhat surreptitiously text messaging beneath the table, her thumbs displaying expert dexterity. Noticing the buzz Emily had attracted, Rex tried to tip her off by bumping the table, but by the time she caught on, Penny stood over her shoulder. Contemplating intervention, Penny felt like a narc, a no good shusher, but Emily and Rex had sat on juicy information before. “Any news?” she asked quietly and somewhat diplomatically.

“What?” Emily asked, surprised and somewhat confused. Emily struggled for a more certain answer, only to be rescued when Sloan smugly but directly addressed her. “Hello, Emily.” Given that Sloan had approached the other females with such calculated smoothness, this less flirtatious greeting struck Stu as notable.

“Um, hi, Sloan.”

“How are you?” he inquired, looking away before she had the chance to answer. Penny, also noting the curious dynamic between the two students, crinkled her nose.

“I’m fine,” Emily returned, barely perceptibly.

“Em, can I have a word?” Sloan’s tone was stern, as if it were more a demand than a request.

Emily approached the desk slowly, leaving her phone behind, continuing to stare Sloan down with big, wet eyes. They spoke in intense whispers, with each standing on either side of the counter. Tracy and Rex started to exchange notions over at the table. Tracy had no qualms insisting Sloan was guilty. Rex, though mostly in agreement, was unable to get a word in amidst Tracy’s adamant damnation. Meanwhile, on the far end of the circulation counter, Penny called Stu over and they began their own quiet consultation. Penny suspected that Emily had something to hide. “Guys like Sloan,” she theorized, “just love to get under your skin.”

Stu nodded “True, it’s reality show 101, or so I’ve learned from some of my students explanatory essays that offer dating tips. But the fascinating detail I’ve observed is that he has a different strategy for different women. With Tracy and even with you, he used finesse and charm, at least at first, but with Emily, he’s brutal, right off the bat, almost giving orders.”

Penny confirmed, “It’s all part of the game.”

“But what game?” Stu’s eyes lit up. “Psychographics! He’s using the approach he feels best fits his demographic taget!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Penny, pausing to wonder what precisely put her in whatever demographic Sloan had apparently placed her.

The hushed hub-bubs eventually broke free from their restraints as tempers flared between Sloan and Emily. The other conversations halted when the typically soft-spoken Emily was heard to complain, “Then why didn’t you call? Not once over break . . .” Aware of the attention her comments inspired, Emily’s cheeks reddened to hues nearly matching her sweatshirt. She threw her arms into the air and retreated to the table, her hands trembling as she clutched the empty chair and attempted to regain her seat. Feigning indifference, Sloan once again turned his back to the circulation desk.

Penny gently took a seat at the table next to Emily and addressed her somberly. “Do you know anything about this?”

Possessing the somber yet defiant resolve of a martyr, Emily remained silent.

“What are you insinuating?” defended an increasingly angry Tracy, who hovered above the table. Penny was momentarily distracted by Tracy’s intimidating presence before returning her focus to Emily, staring sympathetically but intently into her eyes.

“I don’t know what to say,” was all Emily could muster.

Sloan faced the fray yet again. “Is that the best you can do?” Sloan’s needling of Emily confirmed Stu’s suspicion that he was antagonizing her as a tactic, but he was uncertain what end Sloan pursued.

Tracy’s frustrations finally exploded on Sloan. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you take responsibility and pay your fine?” Penny stood, stepping away from the rage-filled student, whose long arms flailed about as Tracy continued, “People like you always give us grief, and it always turns out that you’re full of it!”

A short, thin raven-haired student dressed in a long navy blue pea coat entered the library with the brisk gait of one navigating familiar terrain. She appeared initially oblivious to the drama unfolding at the circulation desk. Head down, her eyes attentively scanned the screen of her telephone device. When she looked up to see Sloan and several others gathered around him, she abruptly pivoted, turning as if to exit.

“Mad-i-son,” Sloan called, employing a slow, sing-song tone one might use when teasing another. His greeting effectively halted her escape.

“Hi, Madison. You’re late,” Tracy complained, offering an even chillier reception.

“Sorry, I know,” Madison offered Tracy, ignoring Sloan while whisking her way behind the counter. Madison removed her coat to reveal a long gray skirt and sleek black blouse with strangely-cut collars, both items designed and assembled by the wearer. Her clothing couldn’t have been more different than Penny’s homemade threads, a fact Penny certainly realized. Having overheard many a conversation between Madison and Emily about fashion design, Penny knew they were theoretical opponents, to say the least. The younger designers were intent on following contemporary trends, were Penny was determined to please her own tastes and whims.

Emily’s shift had technically ended at 4pm, when Madison, her oft-late friend, was to relieve her. Madison gave the signal, and Emily automatically raised from her seat to switch places. The two friends performed the ritual with silent precision, as if executing a practiced routine. Once seated, Madison gave Emily a cold, dead stare, her sharp green eyes opened wide. She whispering, “Why didn’t you text me?”

“I tried,” Emily mouthed without speaking audibly. “I tried.”

“How’s fashion design?” Sloan inquired of Madison.

“How’s advertising?” she snapped. “Oh, that’s right, not well since you can’t check out a book.”

Recognizing the tension between Sloan and Madison, Penny turned to subtly ask Rex, “What’s the story there?”

Reluctantly, he admitted, “They used to date.”

“Madison and Sloan?” a puzzled Penny asked.

Stu, who had been charting Sloan’s words and actions to see how they might fit into his psychographic scheme, seized the opportunity to once again engage him in interview. “Who was working when you returned the book?”

“Let’s see. Madison, for sure,” he paused. “Emily was there too, and so was Rex. I stopped by the library to return the book and ask Madison out.” He gazed tauntingly at Madison, mocking her with a broad grin.

“And you went out?”

“A few times. Before I went back to Michigan for the holidays.” The comment incited audible groans from behind the counter.

“And after that?”

“Nah,” Sloan grinned. With this quip, the groans grew into more pronounced denouncements. Penny and Tracy once again made eye contract, this time shaking their heads in tandem.

“During my stint as a college library circulation clerk,” Stu continued, addressing the entire group in the voice he used when conducting a class. “I noticed that my co-workers would not hesitate to manipulate patrons’ records, be it to their advantage or merely to the disadvantage of those they may wish to harm. With computer technology, this damage can be inflicted with the mere click of a mouse.” He took a deep breath and turned his attention to Madison, who sat with her back to him. “Madison, you were not happy with Sloan, which frankly, is pretty easy to imagine, and you seized the opportunity to take a measure of revenge.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You saw Sloan return his book and purposely failed to clear it.”

“That’s not true!”

“It’s not? He certainly provided you with plenty of motivation.”

Another whisper fit erupted between Madison and Emily, this one more severe than the others. As the conflict ceased, it was Madison with her head held high and firm, while Emily drooped her head submissively.

“You probably asked Emily to do it for you,” Penny advanced, speaking the moment the thought struck her. “Emily, is that true?” All eyes set, yet again, on Emily and Madison, jumping from one to the other to see who would react first. Madison’s bold green eyes instructed Emily to act, but she was too overwhelmed and confused to follow through.

“Rex?” Penny probed.

“Leave me out of this,” he urged, standing up and slowly backing away from the table.

Madison sighed and admitted, “I asked her to do it, OK. I saw him drop off the book. It was my idea to not scan and return it. He had it coming.”

“Is that true, Emily?” Penny asked. Emily, helpless and utterly dejected, placed her hands before her mouth and simply nodded. A slow but steady stream of tears flowed from her eyes.

Several eyes now settled on Sloan, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Most expected him to mock, taunt, or otherwise torment the women who had technically wronged him. “Madison . . . Emily,” he began, speaking with a formality and grace one associates with a speech or a toast. “I just want you to know that I forgive you.”

“Give me a break,” Tracy doubted.

“Please,” he pleaded. “I mean it. I could make a big deal out of this, but that wouldn’t be Sloan. It’s just not my style. I forgive you both, and I’d like to make things right. Would either of you do me the honor of hanging out later tonight?”

“I don’t think so!” Madison roared.

“Emily?” Sloan’s eyes spoke volumes, but Emily merely shook her head without bothering to raise her head to make eye contact.

“You’re a jerk, Sloan,” scolded Tracy.

“I’m a jerk with no fine to pay,” he cracked. Facing Penny, he inquired. “Am I cleared?”

“Sure,” Penny assented. “I’ll talk to Kathy tomorrow.”

“I think I’ll be leaving, then. So long folks.” Sloan punctuated his farewell with an obnoxious wave.

Madison nudged Emily, and the two began to conference. Breaking their huddle, Emily spoke shakily, addressing Stu and Penny. “You’re not going to tell on us, are you?”

“I can’t see anything good coming of that,” Stu mused.

“Are you sure about this?” Penny worried.

“If we tell Kathy,” a resolute Tracy argued, “Sloan wins.”

“I guess you’re right,” Penny conceded. “We’ll have to deal with this all tonight, before Kathy returns in the morning. You’ll need to set things right, though. Can you produce the book?”

“Yeah,” the pair rang.

“Once it is cleared, he’ll be freed of the missing book fee but still owe the lateness fines. Can you pay them?”

“I guess,” replied Madison.

“I’ll go get the book right now,” Emily agreed. She and her ‘SPICY’ sweatpants quickly skittered out of the library and down the hallway.

Stu asked, “You didn’t deface it, did you?”

“No,” Madison replied. “We just hid it in a sock drawer.”

“I would have tossed it in the river,” Tracy added.

“Keeping the book allows the possibility of blackmail,” Rex quipped, earning some questionable looks from Madison and Penny. “I’m just saying,” he defended.

Stu glanced at the big clock above the door, realizing it was time to depart and feeling flustered by the recognition that he was not completely prepared for his class, which was set to begin in a few minutes. He backtracked to gather his bags and coat before excusing himself awkwardly and exiting the library.

“Who was that guy again?” Tracy asked.

“I don’t know,” said Rex, “but he really likes the library.”

Hotstuff reporter McCleary is Chapman’s protege, his go-to guy. McCleary enjoys his job, thriving in the fast-paced environment. The bright-eyed baby-faced scoopster to whom success seems so natural smiles his way though his work day, never getting his hands dirty, even when they’re all over the great unwashed. The cold-hearted Chapman, who in contrast seems to celebrate the exploitation of the peons he covers, takes pride in McCleary’s work, so much that their relationship reflects that of a father and son. Railing against the out-of-touch owners who would compromise their creative vision, Chapman fashions he and McCleary as crusaders in a noble cause and cites majority ownership as a goal once he cashes in his bonus. Later, Chapman quips about the time when McCleary will be in charge of his own paper.

Good girl Julie Allison is a feature reporter and the film’s ethical voice. She sees Chapman as a heartless ogre and tries to talk sense into McCleary. A battle for the young reporter’s soul ensues. Julie is friends with Charlie Barnes, a former Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter now out of a job because of his rampant alcoholism, a beautiful soul, a romantic everyman. Julie taps Charlie as a source, slipping him ten bucks for his effort. As Barnes runs into the Express crew on their way to dinner, he waxes on about the old days and asks Chapman for a job. Chapman leads him on and promises to call. Once Charlie is gone, he quickly denounces him as an “alchie” and a “rummy” and makes it clear he has no intention of using him.

Chapman organizes a Lonely Hearts Dance offering a public wedding giveway, but he despises the pathetic losers who attend. The wife of his youth is among the rabble and recognizes the man who deserted her 20 years ago, only she knew him as George Grant. Chapman is reluctant to be seen together in public, so they have it out in her dingy apartment. Marks still visible on her wrist indicate past abuse. Chapman says she bores him, and he’s man eager to get rid of bores and nuisances, to have his lawyer take care of things. He tries to pay her off, but she’s a feisty fighter who threatens to spread his story around town. A physical altercation breaks out and she ends up dead. He manipulates the scene to cover up the crime, making it appear she slipped in the tub. Meanwhile, he takes her suitcase, filled with incriminating evidence, to the Pete’s Hock Shop. He also rips the “Lonely Hearts Club” tag from her dress and pulls the wedding ring from her finger, tearing up the tag and dropping the ring down the sewer.

Always one step ahead of the cops, McCleary finds the top of the tag and its fastening pin still attached to her dress and sneaks off. McCleary seems to be having the time of his life as he works the folks down at the mortuary, flirting with the old clerk and buttering up the mortician with sports tickets. When the police think accident, he knows better. The body was already dead before it was placed in the tub. McCleary matches the photo of the corpse with Charlotte’s photo from the gala. With a major scoop in place, McCleary takes it to Chapman, proudly and impressively recounting the entire tale exactly as it happened. Chapman squirms but knows better than to stand in the way of a fresh catch like the “Ms. Lonely Hearts” murder. When pressed by Julie on the ethics of exploiting the poor woman’s death, Chapman agrees that the paper should pay for Ms. Lonely Heart’s  funeral.

Charlotte’s suitcase wasn’t in her room, so McCleary’s next mission is to find it. Chapman discovered a Pete’s Hock Shop pawn ticket among Charlotte’s belongings, so he sneaks off to check it out, only to be scared off by a few cops inside the store. As her turns away, good ‘ol Charlie Barnes greets him, eager to follow up on the job offer. Charlie no sells the brush off; Chapman can’t shake him. They are seen together by one of Charlie’s friends, a wino witness. In disgust, Chapman shoves some money at Charlie, who doesn’t even want it, but the pawn ticket was wedged between the bills. Charlie, instincts still in tact, puts two and two together and quickly cashes it in, finding two photos and a few other personal belongings inside the suitcase. The first photo features a wedding; the wife is clearly a young Charlotte, but the husband’s face is obscured. Another, a honeymoon shot, clearly pictures young Chapman as George Grant. Charlie phones Julie immediately, but the noisy drunks in the saloon he’s calling from make it difficult to make his pitch. Julie puts McCleary on the phone, respecting that it’s his case. McCleary doesn’t take Charlie seriously and even puts Chapman on the phone as he passes by. Chapman brushes him off again, but not before hearing that Charlie knows the killer’s identity. Not getting the response he had hoped for, Charlie threatens to take the story to The Daily Leader. Charlie places one of the photos in his waistband and the other in the case, which he leaves behind the bar, but Chapman is waiting for him outside The Leader. Backing him down into a dark alley, Chapman congratulates Charlie on his dynamite scoop. Charlie retorts, “You wanted to be a big man . . . and now you’ll be famous beyond your wildest dreams.” Chapman does him in, leaving with the photo that was on Charlie’s person, the shot that identified him as George Grant.

McCleary, seemingly touched by what happened to poor Charlie, picks up where the old guy left off; following the trail back to the bar, he eventually finds the case and with it the other half of the pawn ticket and the remaining wedding photo. McCleary forces Chapman’s hand into publishing the photo, but with his face obscured, it’s still a longshot he’ll be identified despite a $1000 reward put up by the paper. With daily circulation zipping past 720,000, Chapman is sweating it out but hanging in there. McCleary finds the wino witness at the bar, but he wants to describe the killer to the boss, the man who’ll pay out the money. Standing face to face with Chapman, he describes the killer as like Chapman in every way, but he doesn’t actually out him. Chapman is finding it harder and harder to keep it together.

Devastated over Charlie’s demise, Julie resigns. McCleary apologizes and encourages her to join him in the quest to find the killer, proposing they head to Connecticutt, where documents among Charlotte’s belongings indicate the wedding took place 20 years ago. Chapman tries to talk McCleary out of it, arguing that it’s best to stay close to the scene of the crime, but McCleary insists he follow his gut, reminding Chapman that it was him who taught the lesson to never give up.

Chapman calls to check to see if Hacker, the priest who married him, is still in business but is told not in the last five years. Meanwhile, ten days later, McCleary and Julie still haven’t found the man despite pressing flesh and posting fliers with the wedding shot. Finally, the retired judge spots one of the fliers. They bring the old judge back to the city, and Chapman offers to take Hacker in. While Hacker doesn’t immediately recognize Chapman, his voice gives him away. Chapman pulls a gun but is unable to pull the trigger on McCleary, instead reminding his protege of his promise that someday McCleary would run into a really great story: Chapman recites the opening graf of the cover story chronicling his own arrest. As the cops enter his office, he shoots at an officer’s foot and gets plugged. As the story breaks the next morning, NYX daily circulation soars past 750,000.

For all his big man bluster, Chapman lacks the expert obfuscation tactics of Earl Janoth, the big man behind The Big Clock, who uses his media empire to deflect suspicion after he murders a woman from his past. Chapman is too bound by his sensationalist ethos to manipulate the investigation like the mogul Janoth, who can pursue pet projects on a whim. Chapman was born to sell papers and deals with obstacles the only way he knows how, to squash them like the competition. While Janoth is pinning the crime on a patsy, Chapman is out whacking winos with his bare hands. Jannoth, however, is a spoiled, helpless child without smooth second-in-command Steve Hagan, who does the dirty work for him, but Chapman’s second isn’t a cover up guy, he’s an uncoverer, closer to George Stroud, the hard-working journalist who almost falls prey to Janoth’s set up, than Hagan.

Chapman willingly tramples nobodies on his way to the top, feeling no sting of remorse over their destruction, feeling only, when pushed, narcissistic love for his prodigy, even though the attributes Chapman instilled in his protege lead to his capture. McClearly is both the Monster and Walton–an offspring of Chapman’s ambition, but also a witness to its destructive potential. Will McCleary turn the ship around and head for safe harbor (both Julie and her ethics) or sail for the Pole (maybe 1,000,000 daily)?

Angel Heart works better than most neo-Noir because it steals and samples vintage noir devices, both literally and liberally, rather than paying homage to them a la the Coen Brothers or fetishizing them a la the French. Based on a novel named Falling Angel, Angel Heart snatches the goofy Cornell Woolrich (Black Angel) blackout noir scenarios and the Alias Nick Beal devil in disguise routine. Like B noir of the classic period, bad acting is essential to the film’s success. Mickey Rourke, about to quit film to return to the boxing ring, is totally disinterested in acting at this point and thus nails the deufus detective, the seeker who looks everywhere but can’t see his own crimes, who amasses clues yet remains clueless. I fear contemplate the hideousness of the character if he had actually tried, some blustery world-weary cynic who stomps his way through scenes. DeNiro is horribly exposed as a diabolical Joel Cairo-figure; pure bull when not raging, his contrived attemtps at subtlty quickly render his performance cartoonish, which results in a silly Satan—but a Satan without silliness would have completely ruined the movie, for B noir without camp is just another bad movie. While one doesn’t actually believe the devil made me do it conclusion, it leaves the viewer free to sort it out. Which fiction is the cover for which truth? Which metaphor removes which mask?