Ask Marlowe: Achy Breaky Edition

Philip Marlowe, Private Eye & Reluctant Romantic, Takes on the Cases of the Heart

They call me a detective, but some days I think I just run a lost-and-found for broken hearts. The dames and gents who write me aren’t looking for missing persons — just missing reasons. So light a cigarette, pull up a chair for two more to curl up in or for someone who likes to rock, a rocking chair, and let’s crack open this week’s file of Killy Love Songs.

CASE FILE #247 — “Diary of a Mad Fool”

(Correspondence from “Mixed-Up in Moose Jaw”)

Dear Marlowe,

I thought I’d hit the jackpot of love when I found her diary. Every page sounded like a ballad about me — the walks, the talks, the sighs in between. Then I reached the last page and found out the love she’d waited for was someone else, not me. Wouldn’t you know it? She wouldn’t show it.

— Mixed-Up in Moose Jaw

Marlowe replies:

Kid, you played peekaboo with Pandora’s box and got caught when the lid came down. Snooping’s a one-way ticket to heartbreak with no refund policy. Close the book, pour yourself something brown and unholy, and remember: If love’s got to be stolen, it ain’t worth the price of the break-in. Best thing you can do as you go through your life is to wish for her, his wife, all the sweet things she can find. All the sweet things they can find.

CASE FILE #248 — “Just My Hallucination”

(From “Dreaming in Detroit”)

Dear Marlowe,

There’s this girl — perfect as a Sunday morning dream. Every day through my window I watch her as she passes by. I say to myself, “You’re such a lucky guy.” Every night I see her beside me, walking down aisles and raising kids that don’t exist. But lately the dream’s developed some cracks — she passes me on the street and doesn’t even know my name. Tell me straight: Am I in love, or is it just my imagination runnin’ away with me?

— Dreaming in Detroit

Marlowe replies:

Pal, sounds like you’ve built a castle in the clouds and rented out your sanity as the doorman. Love’s tough enough when it’s real — when it’s smoke and mirrors, you just choke on the fumes. Wake up before you start hearing a tender rhapsody.

CASE FILE #249 — “Right Angle, Wrong Angie”

(From “Languishing in London”)

Dear Marlowe,

Her name’s Angie. She thinks I don’t love her anymore. Truth is, I love her like the last Rothmans King Size in a pack — can’t bear to light it because I know it’ll be the end. Things fell apart; maybe I fell apart first. When will these clouds all disappear?

— Languishing in London

Marlowe replies:

Kid, there’s no soft way to close a door. You can whisper or slam it, but either way the echo hurts. If you love her, say so — once, clean, like a confession in a cold church. Then walk. Don’t linger; ghosts don’t need company. She’s beautiful, yeah, but ain’t it time you said goodbye?

CASE FILE #250 — “Heard It Through the Pain Line”

(From “Hurting in Harlem”)

Dear Marlowe,

Word on the street says my baby’s packing up — but she hasn’t said a thing to me. I’m hearing whispers from the grapevine about some other guy she knew, yet nothing but silence from her lips. It took me by surprise, I must say. I don’t know what’s worse: losing her, or being the last one to find out.

— Hurting in Harlem

Marlowe replies:

Rumours are like cheap whisky — they burn going down and leave you sick in the morning. If she’s gone, she’s gone; if she’s not, she will be once she smells the fear on you. Ask her straight, man to woman. Then listen — not to the grapevine, but to her eyes. They always tell the truth, even when her mouth won’t. Ooh, I bet she’ll be wondering how you knew.

CASE FILE #251 — “As Time Goes By”

(From “Confounded in Casablanca”)

Dear Marlowe,

I’ve got this buddy, Jesse — good guy, good hair, better girlfriend. And that’s the trouble. Every time I see her, my heart jumps the fence and runs off after her perfume. She laughs at my jokes sometimes. Think that means something? She’s loving him with that body, I just know it.

— Confounded in Casablanca

Marlowe replies:

Kid, I know you wish that you had Laszlo’s girl. Sorry, did I say Laszlo? I meant Jesse. But you’re skating on the thinnest ice in the hottest town. If she’s watching him with those eyes, she’s off-limits — unless you like the taste of betrayal and broken noses. Even when of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into yours, crushes pass. Trust me on this. A beautiful friendship, on the other hand, lasts forever. Just ask my pal, Louis. Keep your distance, and keep your conscience — they’re both harder to replace than a girl who wore blue when the Germans wore grey. I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. (Oh, and maybe get yourself a wide-rimmed felt fedora. You won’t feel any better, but the next dame will dig it.)

That’s the week’s docket, folks. Five hearts on the witness stand and not one acquitted. If your own case of the blues needs cross-examining, drop me a line —“Ask Marlowe,” c/o Rick’s Café Américain, 248 Boul. Sour Jdid, Place du Jardin Public, Casablanca, Morocco

Enclose a stamp if you want your conscience returned.

— Philip Marlowe