Scenes From a Detective Novel with Dialogue Composed Entirely from Rejection Letters I Have Received from Literary Magazines

It was the kind of night when the air was so heavy it felt like you were inside a dog. I was sitting at my desk. It was covered with coffee stained newspapers and ashes. I was staring out of the window into the starless night when there was a knock at my office door.

Without me saying anything, she came in. I knew from watching her turn the doorknob that someone would end up dead, or at least crying really hard.

She held out a picture of a man. I didn't even have to look at his mug. I knew what she wanted.

"I appreciate your interest," I said, "But am afraid that at this time, I'm going to have to pass."

***

As soon as she had closed the door to the seedy motel-room, she was on me like mold on tile. She took my hand and slid it over the cheap fabric of her dress. She had legs like a pale deer, shivering.

Our lips locked like two dogs on hot pavement. "This isn't right for us," she said as she devoured me.

I said, "While this isn't as terrible as I thought at first, I'm still afraid I can't--" but my voice trailed off.

***

My friend Lou--who owned the joint--brought another round to the table and asked if we needed anything else. I shook my head, looking at her ruined face in the dim light of the bar. "We're full for the foreseeable future. Thank you."

***

She held the letter up to the light. Through the wrinkles she got around her eyes when she squinted to read, I could see the young woman she once was. "This isn't what we are looking for," she said.

"Try again."

I pulled a photo from the box of a young woman with a child. I hand it to her. Her eyes got wide. "What the fuck is this!"

***

I pulled my gun and squeezed the trigger. Click. Nothing.

"Your piece doesn't quite work," the thug said with a snicker as she scurried away through the alley.

***

I told the antique dealer who my client was. He looked over the counter at me and I could see fear flit across his face like startled sheep. He got up, walked to the door and flipped the OPEN sign. "We are no longer in business," he said, and started to shuffle into the backroom.

I grabbed his arm and showed him the picture of the boy and his mother. "I can't give you specific feedback on this," he said, glancing around nervously. "But please feel free to try again at another time."

***

My back was against the fence, the barrel of the tough's pistol closer to my face than paint on lips. "As always, a nice try." He chuckled as he cocked the hammer.

My eyes, frantic, searched the darkness behind him for a way out, but I knew there was none. "I'm not sure what you are attempting here, but it doesn't seem to come together."

I tried to fast talk, but he cut me off. "I'm not interested in poetry. Only non-fiction."

***

I felt the words rushing from my mouth as I tried to explain everything had I found to her.

She says, "I am confused by the long section near the end. Nothing seems to hang together." She puts her hand to her forehead and I can tell she is about to faint. Then she begins to tell me everything I knew that she had been holding back.

I tell her, "Why don't you take some time to think about what you are trying to say."

***

Weeping she pointed the gun at his head. I pleaded with her, trying to get my voice through her tears. "This is not what we do."

She was shaking. "This is not right," she said and pulled the trigger.

I screamed, "No! No! No!"

***

As they carted out the bodies, the police sergeant put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry we took so long to respond."

It was ok. Sometimes you don't ever get a response.