It was raining hard in the city of angels. Water spat from drainpipes and trickled down the windowpanes like tears down the face of a showgirl turning 30. Marlowe stood silhouetted against the flaring, fizzling light from the neon sign on the hotel across the street. It made the raindrops gleam like rubies and shadowed his dark, handsome features as he looked me over coolly.

"So lady, what did you want to see me about," he asked, finally.

I came straight out with it. "Frankly, Mr Marlowe, I've heard so much about you and I wanted the opportunity to see you in the flesh. That's about all."

His eyes narrowed. "You for real?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "I've always admired you, Marlowe. You're so damn. Take your friend Terry Lennox - brought you nothing but trouble."

"Skip it," he said harshly. "Any guy in shoe leather sticks his neck out for a pal."

"And Carmen Sternwood? No matter how many times she threw herself at you, you never took advantage."

"Aw hell," he said. "Carmen was just a kid. It wouldn't have been right, that's all."

"Not just that. You're so determined too: no matter what it costs you, or how much you get hurt, you stick to your case to the end. You've been beaten and shot full of dope and roughed up by dead-eyed city cops, but you see it through. And to top it all, you're a smart guy, Marlowe."

"Listen, lady, I'm touched, but I've had a long day and the ice is melting in my Scotch. So if you don't mind -"

At the door I put out my hand. "Damn it, Marlowe," I said. "You're a straight-up guy. Can I shake your hand?"

"Where'd a dame like you learn to talk like a shamus?" he countered.

"From you, Marlowe. Just like I learned about integrity, tenacity - and how to play a mean game of chess."

He stared at me, then said, "Beat it, lady. You talk too damned much." But he shook hands, and before he turned away to his lonely room and the whispering of the rain, I swear I saw him smile.

Jennifer Mellerick, TCD