Hard Boiled Detective Quotes

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

So that's the way you scientific detectives work. My god! for a fat, middle-aged, hard-boiled, pig-headed guy, you've got the vaguest way of doing things I ever heard of.

Sure, I knew the differences between a space opera and a hard-boiled detective story and a historical novel...but I never cared about such differences. It seemed to me, then as now, that there are good stories and bad stories, and that was the only distinction that truly mattered.

To catch the bad guys, you've got to think like a bad guy - and that's why all the best detectives have a dark side...

I remembered reading in a hard-boiled detective novel that if you drink in the same place two nights in a row, the bartender and waiters will remember your face.

I said: ‘All right, talk, but do you mind putting the gun away? My wife doesn't care, but I'm pregnant.

It was a Friday night. I was tooling home from the Mexican border in a light blue convertible and a dark blue mood.

His belly was flabby, and it got softer every time I hit it. I hit it often.

Parker spent two weeks on the white sand beach at Biloxi, and on a white sandy bitch named Belle.

It was Joss Whedon's Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the television series, 1997-2003, not the lackluster movie that preceded it) that blazed the trail for Twilight and the slew of other paranormal romance novels that followed, while also shaping the broader urban fantasy field from the late 1990s onward. Many of you reading this book will be too young to remember when Buffy debuted, so you'll have to trust us when we say that nothing quite like it had existed before. It was thrillingly new to see a young, gutsy, kick-ass female hero, for starters, and one who was no Amazonian Wonder Woman but recognizably ordinary, fussing about her nails, her shoes, and whether she'd make it to her high school prom. Buffy's story contained a heady mix of many genres (fantasy, horror, science-fiction, romance, detective fiction, high school drama), all of it leavened with tongue-in-cheek humor yet underpinned by the serious care with which the Buffy universe had been crafted. Back then, Whedon's dizzying genre hopping was a radical departure from the norm-whereas today, post-Buffy, no one blinks an eye as writers of urban fantasy leap across genre boundaries with abandon, penning tender romances featuring werewolves and demons, hard-boiled detective novels with fairies, and vampires-in-modern-life sagas that can crop up darn near anywhere: on the horror shelves, the SF shelves, the mystery shelves, the romance shelves.

Sometimes a girl's gotta be bad to be good. Murder in the Dog Park

My glass is not only half-empty, I'm convinced someone spit in it.

It all started when she walked into my office that night unannounced. She told me she was in trouble. So I asked what kind. She said it was of the killing kind. Wanted to know if I could be trusted. I said up to a point, depending on who got killed.

It was a dark, dismal afternoon, like they all seem to be these days, when I got this call. I could hear the rain battering the windowpane of my office when the phone rang.

I gave chase, and he took a shot at me, so I did the only thing I could in the circumstances…. I stabbed him in the shoulder.

The tin pan notes of a piano drift faintly into the night. A man curses and a window slams. Far distant an ash can clatters on stone and the almost human screech of a cat pierces the night.

When a beautiful blonde asks, you don't say no.

He was too young to deserve a weight of the world sign like the one he expelled.

if he were any dumber we would have to water him twice a week and prune him once a year,

I was a licensed investigator who knocked off somebody who needed knocking off bad and he couldn’t get to me. So I was a murderer by definition and all the law could do was shake its finger.

And there are still a number of people around who say that Hammett didn't write detective stories at all-merely hard-boiled chronicles of mean streets with a perfunctory mystery element dropped in like the olive in a martini. (The Simple Art of Murder)

She told me she was 17 going on 22, when she left home to find a new life in the city. She wanted to get into acting and be a big star someday. I said that was swell but a tough racket to break into. She said she knew that going in. She thought maybe she'd get a lucky break and go from there. I told her lucky breaks always came with a price.

Calvino remembered he had no food in the house and would have to go shopping on Sukhumvit Road. Then he planned to crawl into his bed and sleep, the kind of deep sleep without dreams or hopes, a sleep without regrets, without knowing or thinking how things got the way they are or how occasional fragments of decency escaped the forces of gravity.

Landsman is a tough guy, in his way, given to the taking of wild chances. He has been called hard-boiled and foolhardy, a momzer, a crazy son of a bitch. He has faced down shtarkers and psychopaths, he has been shot at, beaten, frozen, burned. He has pursued suspects between the flashing walls of urban firefights and deep into bear country. Heights, crowds, snakes, burning houses, dogs schooled to hate the smell of a policeman, he has shrugged them all off or functioned in spite of them. But when he finds himself in lightless or confined spaces, something in the animal core of Meyer Landsman convulses. No one but his ex-wife knows it, but Detective Meyer Landsman is afraid of the dark.

The heroes of urban fantasy come out of the hard-boiled mystery, while the villains, monsters, and antagonists have their own roots in classic horror . . . but it is the combination that gives this subgenre its juice. For these are two genres that are at heart antagonistic. Horror fiction is a fiction steeped in darkness and fear, and set in a hostile Lovecraftian universe impossible for men to comprehend, a world where, as Poe suggested, death in the end holds dominion over all. But detective fiction, even the grim, gritty, hard-boiled variety, is all about rationality; the world may be dark, but the detective is a bringer of light, an agent of order, and, yes, justice. You would think this twain could never meet. But bastards can break all the rules, and that’s half their charm. The chains of convention need not apply.

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

He had her buns up kneelin’, and he was wheelin’ and dealin’.

I can sew the mattress up, but I'll never get the bloodstains out of the carpet. Why didn't he go and get killed out in the street?

He shook his head when he was in the elevator, going down. Dames were a mystery. He could solve cases but not women.

look for him in Baker, or continue to Barstow.

He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

RECIPE FOR MURDER 1 stocky man who abuses his wife 1 small tender wife 1 medium-sized tough woman in love with the wife 1 double-barrelled shotgun 1 small Karoo town marinated in secrets 3 bottles of Klipdrift brandy 3 little ducks 1 bottle of pomegranate juice 1 handful of chilli peppers 1 mild gardener 1 fire poker 1 red-hot New Yorker 7 Seventh-day Adventists (prepared for The End of the World) 1 hard-boiled investigative journalist 1 soft amateur detective 2 cool policemen 1 lamb 1 handful of red herrings and suspects mixed together Pinch of greed Throw all the ingredients into a big pot and simmer slowly, stirring with a wooden spoon for a few years. Add the ducks, chillies and brandy towards the end and turn up the heat.

uninformed skepticism is the domain of fools.

Pat, remember the one I had to kill with the knife? Well, I decided to keep all of him. I filleted his flesh, muscles, and tendons, and then boiled his whole skeleton.” He seemed almost proud of his accomplishment. “But how did you fit that big guy into a ten-gallon kettle?” I asked in disbelief. He looked at me, detecting the air of incredulousness, but said simply, “Pat, it’s not hard if you know what you’re doing. If you cut the joints properly, slicing the cartilage and tendons, the bones come right apart. After boiling and drying all the parts, I could place the entire body back together if I wanted to, and I did on occasion. Sometimes, after putting him back together on the floor of my apartment, I relived mentally what happened with him. I fantasized the whole scenario and got really turned on, and masturbated as I fondled his bones. I thought that this would be enough to satisfy me, and that maybe I wouldn’t have to kill again; but after about a month or so, the urge to have another warm, live human being under my complete control returned. It consumed me, and soon I was out looking to kill again.

Who in the hell was Halliday? Just a guy from out of town who’d written a few bad mystery novels. Really a has-been. Still trying to ride along on the hard-boiled stuff that had gone out of favor with the old Black Mask.

I drove back to Hollywood feeling like a short length of chewed string. It was too early to eat, and too hot. I turned on the fan in my office. It didn't make the air any cooler, just a little more lively.

Through his opened bedroom window, he noticed that the night sky had turned a crimson red. The moon, punctured by hues of cerulean blue, hung precariously over the withering willow trees that lined the riverbank, located several hundred yards away. The storm predicted by the forecasters was heading his way.

HE FELL DOWN HARD—stone-cold dead, next to my feet. It didn’t take much—just a pull of the trigger. The way I figured; a bullet always had its way of settling things. It asked no questions. Just did what it was told. And I hadn’t planned on resolving my disagreement with the Thin Man that way. But he left me no choice. He pulled his Luger, deciding that one of his .28s was the only way to resolve the issue. Trouble was, he missed. But a .22 from my Colt didn’t.

The Golden Age of Radio was an era of pre-television radio entertainment from the 1930s- 1950s. The shows crossed many genres. Showcasing stories about hard-boiled detectives, Westerns, comedies, horror, etc. I LOVED to listen to those stories. The shows conjured up lush scenes of vibrant color, painful heartbreak and suspense in my young mind. Some of my favorite shows that I still listen to as an adult include: The Adventures Sam Spade, Pat Novak for Hire, Gunsmoke, Hopalong Cassidy, Have Gun Will Travel, Nero Wolfe, Richard Diamond, The Adventures of Rocky Jordan, The Marx Brothers, The Green Hornet and The Whistler, to name a few.

pan out.

stairwell and started the climb to the seventh floor. He was knackered by the time they got to the third, but his agitation drove him on. Amisha's smooth and regular breathing, as she bounded up behind, stood in stark contrast to H's heavy panting. H reached the seventh. Ignoring the faces surprised to see him turning up at work, he steered a path through the open plan office and burst his way into the incident room, where an update on the Tara case was in progress. ‘Inspector Hawkins, how nice of you to drop in,’ said Hilary. ‘This is not your case - please leave immediately and make your way to my office. When I’m finished here you can update me on your case and explain where the hell you have been these last few days.’ H believed in the chain of command when he felt it was necessary. At this moment he didn’t. He stared hard at the officer in charge of the Tara case and went straight to the crux of the matter. ‘Marchant, you got anything yet?’ Miller-Marchant remained silent. H knew what that meant. Hilary

You’ve made a wise choice, lad...I won’t insult your intelligence with the word ‘trust’.

Male prostitutes? Why should women pay for it when men will do it to them for free anytime they ask?” The other detective leaned over and whispered in his ear for a few seconds, and then it dawned on the poor dumb bastard what I meant.

What if, what if, what fucking if. If my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a fucking bus,

I've always thought hard-boiled detective novels an American art form. At their best, they're more than who-dun-its or thrillers, they're vehicles for a writer's observations about culture, politics, philosophy, music, history and a time or a place. Or life, it’s ownself. When you read James Ellroy, Dashiell Hammett or James Lee Burke, their stories are always about far more than good guys chasing bad guys. That’s the kind of book I wanted to write. Still do.

When you write, you start with what you know and build from there. I knew a little something about the border, Texas and Mexico from my journalism days. Knew some cops and redneck outlaws, too. And I knew I wanted to write a noirish detective novel. So I started with that and went from there. Out popped Ed Earl Burch, Carla Sue Cantrell and THE LAST SECOND CHANCE: An Ed Earl Burch Novel.

He’s so fucking dense the light bends around him,

Jack Webb had been active in radio for several years before Dragnet propelled him to national prominence. He had arrived at KGO, the ABC outlet in San Francisco, an unknown novice in 1945. Soon he was working as a staff announcer and disc jockey. His morning show, The Coffee Club, revealed his lifelong interest in jazz music, and in 1946 he was featured on a limited ABC-West network in the quarter-hour docudrama One out of Seven. His Jack Webb Show, also 1946, was a bizarre comedy series unlike anything else he ever attempted. His major break arrived with Pat Novak: for 26 weeks Webb played a waterfront detective in a series so hard-boiled it became high camp. He moved to Hollywood, abandoning Novak just as that series was hitting its peak. Mutual immediately slipped him into a Novak sound-alike, Johnny Modero: Pier 23, for the summer of 1947. He played leads and bit parts on such series as Escape, The Whistler, and This Is Your FBI. He began a film career: in He Walked by Night (1948), Webb played a crime lab cop. The film’s technical adviser was Sergeant Marty Wynn of the Los Angeles police. Webb and Wynn shared a belief that pure investigative procedure was dramatic enough without the melodrama of the private eye. The seeds of Dragnet were sown on a movie set.

THE POUNDING RAIN HAD STOPPED as suddenly as it had begun. Sheets of silver green neon clung hungrily to the moist black asphalt like some reptilian skin.

Well, like, I've always thought somebody ought to write a novel in blank verse that starts out when the angels come inside the daughters of men and they bear the children which were giants in them days, which the flood wiped 'em all out, but their spirits become demons and have to follow Satan around for the rest of eternity. And them spirits still like to have sex, so when they infect nonbelievers or pigs, or what-have-you, that copulatin' urge is still inside of 'em, and so there's generally just a whole lot of ruttin' going on everywheres. And then one day there's a private detective who discovers a hidden tomb underneath a trailer park where his Mama still lives and there's a ancient codex that turns out to be a book that them sex-giants wrote about. the coming Hypocalypse. Something like that's what I like to read.

Well, like, I've always thought somebody ought to write a novel in blank verse that starts out when the angels come inside the daughters of men and they bear the children which were giants in them days, which the flood wiped 'em all out, but their spirits become demons and have to follow Satan around for the rest of eternity. And them spirits still like to have sex, so when they infect nonbelievers or pigs, or what-have-you, that copulatin' urge is still inside of 'em, and so there's generally just a whole lot of ruttin' going on everywheres. And then one day there's a private detective who discovers a hidden tomb underneath a trailer park where his Mama still lives and there's a ancient codex that turns out to be a book that them sex-giants wrote about the coming Hypocalypse. Something like that's what I like to read.