Hammett is a big deal for me. Back in 1999 I went on a whirlwind tour through modern hard-boiled literature in an attempt to learn about the subject prior to writing about it. Up until then, I had been writing a bunch of James Bond copycat stories which I eventually found unsatisfying; though, as you may have noticed, I’ve dived back into with gusto. But with hard-boiled, I discovered I could write about the world I actually lived in, featuring people and places I knew. Hammett was one of the last writers I checked out, and he provided a revelation.

I won’t go into Hammett’s background here; biographical information is available in many areas. He’s a big deal to me because his crisp and economical style of writing taught me to “keep it simple” and not get too bogged down in descriptions of places. He excelled at was his descriptions of people. In “Red Harvest”, he painted the picture of a lady, Dinah Brand, wanted by every man in town, but her make-up was always a little off, her clothes askew, wrinkled, holey. She obviously didn’t take care of herself. The description is so vivid she stays in your mind long after you’ve finished the book; in fact, she’s more memorable than Brigid O’Shaughnessy in “The Maltese Falcon”.

One thing about Hammett’s background I will mention is that as the years went on, he wanted to write less and less about detectives and criminals. Ultimately he didn’t think a “good guy” could win the fight against the “bad guys”, and that attitude shows in his last novel, “The Thin Man”.

I didn’t read “The Thin Man” for a long time because it was Hammett’s last; I wanted to save it. Plus, I knew the mood and tone of the book, considering Hammett’s attitude at the time, would be much darker than the other novels. Indeed it was, despite the movie version which paints the story as a comedy. He didn’t intend “Thin” to be his last, but it almost reads that way. There’s a sadness and touch of despair that follows the narrative. Nick Charles, the hero, a retired detective who wants nothing more to do with crime busting, is indeed going to solve the crime despite his verbal statements that he doesn’t care who killed the titular thin man, but he knows revealing the murderer won’t amount to much. He just wants another drink.

“The Thin Man” lingers for the wrong reasons. It’s almost a suicide note. It’s the end. Hammett would try and try but would write no more novels after “The Thin Man”. (He helped his lover, Lillian Hellman, with her plays, and she would write nothing more after his death, but that doesn’t count.) After five books and many, many short stories, Hammett had said everything he was able to say.

You cannot overlook “The Thin Man”. It’s brilliantly written. The lines are thin, like the victim in the story. You won’t find much description or hoopdedoodle and you won’t know anything more than Nick Charles wants you to know. He doesn’t tell you his thoughts, and his words contradict his actions. That’s the magic of the book. You’re told one thing while seeing something else, and it’s hard to look away, because you want the hero to save the day and set the wrong things right. But in the end, the hero doesn’t care. When Sam Spade, in “The Maltese Falcon”, busted the killer of his partner Miles, a man he didn’t really like very much, he did it because when a man’s partner is killed he has to do something about it, and it doesn’t matter what your personal feelings for the killer are, you gotta hand ’em over. Spade was on a quest. Nick Charles is the opposite. He would say that sometimes you do things because you must, but you don’t have to like it, and if you can get it over with quickly and get on with your life, so much the better.

“The Thin Man” lingers for the wrong reasons. That’s why I like “Red Harvest” and “The Maltese Falcon” better. But Hammett was a true wordsmith who became better and better the more he wrote, and “The Thin Man” shows him at the top of the mountain. With that in mind, maybe it’s not so bad he didn’t write any more books. He’ll always be at the top of the mountain.

So I had to go to the wedding of a friend over the past weekend. Most people have a good time at such events but let me tell you, I’m not one of them. As author Raymond Chandler once said about Southern California’s hot Santa Ana winds, they make my hair stand up and my skin itch. It’s not that I’m opposed to weddings or marriage, far from it. Flowery sentimentalism and vulgar displays of emotion simply aren’t my idea of a good time. But I wanted to support my buddy Mark as he began his Last Mile, so the wedding I attended.

The event proved quite educational, mostly at my expense; as a service to you, gentle reader, so you don’t make the same mistakes, I present:

THE TOP FIVE THINGS NEVER TO DO AT A WEDDING
(with names changed to protect the GUILTY)

ONE: Never get a ride from a couple who argues.

My friends Mike and Peggy Colusa were attending as well so I hitched a ride with them. Peggy’s 80-year-old mother, known to everybody as Granny Lucy, sat in the back with me.

We’re on the freeway with Mike driving and Peggy reading off directions and sniping at her husband’s driving style. It turned worse as time went on and all I wanted to do was get out of the vehicle and either walk – or hitch a ride with a stranger. The dialogue went something like this:

“Did you have to cut that guy off?” she said.

“I didn’t cut anybody off.”

“You’re an accident waiting to happen.”

“OK, miss I-hit-a-car-in-a-parking-lot-at-five-miles-an-hour-and-did-$500-damage-to-the-van,” he said.

“We’re gonna miss – see, we missed the exit you’re going so fast.”

“Forget it. I know a better way.”

“Through downtown?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll be in traffic for an hour.”

“Not at this time of morning,” Mike said.

“Any time of morning!”

“Will you please just let me drive?”

“Will you please just slow down?”

Then Granny Lucy fired off three words that stunned us all.

“I miss Pa!”

Silence. I think we missed the downtown exit, Mike was so surprised. He said: “Uh, Mom…. we all miss grandpa…. but…. um…”

Granny said: “Stop yelling!”

Thus ended the argument and Mike turned around and found the exit specified in the directions. I had to smile. Methinks Granny Lucy knew exactly what she was doing.

TWO: Never complain about there not being any booze.

For the record, I don’t drink very often. Why? It’s a long and sordid story involving a trash compactor and a car battery and that’s all I’ll say. Regardless, I think the option should be available (what can’t be cured with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a funnel?).

Did I mention we’re all a bunch of Christians? Jesus freaks, Bible thumpers, whatever label you prefer. That bit is sort of important, and explains why there wasn’t any booze. I learned this as I asked for a Coke. And since I’m a trouble-maker, I had to force the issue.

“Can you sweeten that a little?” I asked the barman as he filled my glass.

“Eh?”

“You know, throw a little extra in.”

He filled the glass to the top.

“No,” I said, “I mean throw a little rum in it.”

“No rum, sir.”

“What kind of wedding is this I can’t get rum in my Coke?”

“No rum, sir. Next!”

I took my glass and turned away only to find myself intercepted by a woman in a blue dress with a bobbed haircut who proceeded to holler about the evils of alcohol and how it was from the devil and did nothing but corrupt and destroy and I shouldn’t touch the stuff like Jesus said.

I almost told her: “Good grief, call your sponsor if you have a problem.”

I also almost said: “Lady, get off your cross because somebody in Sri Lanka needs the wood.”

But my Momma didn’t raise a rude boy, so I told her she was 100% right, and I’d never touch the foul stuff again, never mind that I couldn’t think of a specific part of the Bible where Jesus said no alcohol and seemed to recall a part where – but never mind. My words made the woman happy. She smiled. And she walked away. Praise the Lord.

THREE: Never laugh during the toast.

The best man was saying something flowery and emotional and the bride and groom were getting weepy when my friend Greg, to whom I sat next, leaned over and showed me his soda and said: “What kind of wedding is this that I can’t get any scotch?”

I let out a belly laugh. A loud one.

In the small hall we were in, the laugh echoed. I mean it bounced off the friggin’ walls.

Sudden silence. Every evil eye in the house turned on me. I sank down in my chair and covered my face and Greg, to his credit, because he could have easily thrown me under the bus, raised his hand and said: “My fault.”

Then the toast continued.

FOUR: Never hit on a girl under 18.

I swear, I swear, I swear, I swear she looked at least 21.

She was a willowy girl with long black hair and that’s about as much as I can say without getting arrested. In a room full of mostly middle-aged folks there weren’t many females my age in attendance, so when I saw her I had to make a move.

I went over and said hello and isn’t this a nice wedding and how are you and all that. A perceptive young lady, was she, and the flash in her eye told me she knew more about my intentions than I probably did so when I asked her to dance she hit me with: “I can’t dance with you.”

Wow, that was a new one. I told her so. She leaned close, whispered: “I’m 17.”

My whole body went ice cold and my hands started to shake and what I wanted to say shouldn’t be said in front of a lady, underage or otherwise. I fired off a quick prayer – “What would Steve McQueen do?”

The answer came quickly. When you’re stuck like this, you laugh it off like McQueen did in THE BLOB when – but never mind. See the movie. So I laughed and said: “You’re kidding me.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I’m sorry.”

Funny thing is, she sounded like she meant it.

I said: “I’m gonna go back to my table and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

I stood to leave and she said: “Nice meeting you,” but I hadn’t even asked for her name.

Now I really needed that bottle of Walker (and don’t forget the funnel), but of course there wasn’t any booze and to add insult to injury another friend came up and said I saw what you did and Jesus did too and you know she’s only sixteen, right?

“Seventeen,” I corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“About five years,” I said.

And just to prove I was an equal opportunity pervert, I went looking for Granny Lucy to see if she’d dance with me.

She did.

So there you have it. My wedding horror story. Now certain people will read this and say it didn’t happen this way and I’ve exaggerated certain points. Horse feathers, I say! But while you decide what’s true and what isn’t, keep in mind the most important lesson of the day:

FIVE: Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

Recently I read about a woman named Dixie Goldsby who had a problem: what to do with a chipmunk that had stowed away in her car after she wrapped up a camping trip in Utah. Apparently her camp site had a small population of chipmunks that, attracted by Ms. Goldsby’s organic snacks, kept making daring daylight raids into her car to grab the food. When she packed up and left, one of the little critters remained trapped in the car and made the trip back to the lovely hot tub loving town of Marin, California.

Ms. Goldsby brought her new friend to the WildCare animal rehabilitation center in San Rafael, where they had the bright idea to fly the chipmunk back to the campsite where his friends and family would undoubtedly be happy to see him and ask, in their beautiful chipmunk language, what the heck he was doing in a state where the population likes actors so much they keep electing them to run the state. This had to be done, because, as Ms. Goldsby correctly opined, if it were anywhere other than Marin, the animal would be shot. I’d like to add that he’d also be smoked and slow-roasted and enjoyed with a cold glass of beer.

Karen Wilson, WildCare’s executive director, explained why they were taking the time and expense of dropping the critter back on his home turf:

“We are trying to make the point of how each animal that comes through our center, we do our best for,” Wilson told the Marin Independent Journal.

In other words, animals are people, too.

A Marin pilot donated his time and airplane to take the chipmunk back; Goldsby and a member of WildCare went along, and as of this writing the critter is back home and presumably happy, though I’m sure he misses the hot tubs that are a state requirement for every home in Marin. But what the article didn’t say was whether or not they dropped the critter from the plane and expected him to open a parachute.

I’m trying really hard to come up with why this operation was a colossal waste of time, but deep down I understand why they did this. After all, don’t you remember those classic cartoon chipmunks known as Chip & Dale? Those two have seen to it that chipmunks everywhere get a little extra care and attention. This chipmunk had no name–he was christened “chipmunk 1344 from Utah”–which makes it sound like he was an undercover secret agent. That would actually make a pretty good movie. Imagine the whole car trip as the only way to insert Chipmunk 1344 into California to stop a great chipmunk criminal conspiracy involving Chip & Dale, who, tired of being on the shelf, are cooking up a scheme to murder Mickey Mouse and recapture the spotlight. Or something.

I’m sure a real writer can come up with a plot.