‘Trouble is his Business’:

A poem found in the shallow tides of Philip Marlowe detective stories

By Raymond Chandler
(With editorial help from Cameron Luke Peters)

Nobody was dead on the floor.
A fat girl was pounding a typewriter across the court.                                            She was smoking a cigarette
in a black holder.

I opened my mouth and something                                                                                I supposed might be my voice
said: ‘Huh?’

She was sitting behind a black glass desk that looked like                            Napoleon’s tomb. I wasn’t doing any work that day,
just catching up on my foot-dangling.

She said:
‘I need a man.’
‘Are you always this tough?’ I asked.
‘Or only when you have your pajamas on?’                                                                     She flushed, which was what I wanted.

I started to get up from my chair, then                                                        remembered that business had been bad                                                                   and that I needed the money. So far
I had only made four mistakes.

She was something less than beautiful and                                                            more than pretty.
He wanted to let himself get excited, but                                                                       he didn’t. We’re all wise                                                                                                        to the situation.

We have had a murder                                                                                                     and a mad killer and a                                                                                               heroic rescue and a                                                                                                      police detective framed…                                                                                                  ‘I feel swell, you                                                                                                        sadistic son of a bitch,’ I said.

She smoothed her hair
with that quick gesture, like a bird preening                                                         itself. Ten thousand years of practice behind it.                                                            It was all right with me
if she wanted to jump out of the window.

I’m still doing business-
if there’s any business for me to do.                                                                                If it’s going to be a long story let’s                                                                              have a drink.

I’m a native son. I like
liquor and women and chess
and a few other things.
Maybe this hot wind has got you crazy                                                                        too. I’m a private detective. I’ll
prove it if you let me.

(September. 2014.)