The Walking Wounded

  THE WALKING WOUNDED

  Ed Noon Mystery #31

  By Michael Avallone

  The vengeful son of the murdered

  Tall Dolores comes back a lifetime

  later to kill the private detective

  who killed his mother……

  Copyright 2019 © David Avallone and Susan Avallone

  Cover Art by Dave Acosta

  Cover Color by Tomi Varga

  Cover Graphics by Augusta Avallone Table of Contents

  SHOOT IT AGAIN, ED-----

  FROM A PRIVATE DETECTIVE'S CASEBOOK: THE LEGLESS RUNNER

  1. HELLO, MY UGLY

  2. THE MAD MARCEL

  3. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

  4. ANOTHER MALMEDY MASSACRE

  FROM A WRITER'S NOTEBOOK: WHO'S AFRAID OF SIGMUND FREUD?

  1. DUMAS ALL ALONG

  2. SOME KIND OF A MURDER

  3. BLOODY AWFUL

  4. THE EYE MUST DIE

  FROM THE PLAY CALLED 'LIFE': THE STORY OF GI JO

  1. TWO NIGHTMARES MET

  2. TOMB SERVICE

  3. YOU CAN'T KISS A CORPSE

  4. STILL WALKING

  PLAY IT AGAIN, ED----

  SHOOT IT AGAIN, ED---

  …"DOLORES!" I yelled. "YOU CAN'T GET AWAY! THE JOINT IS

  SURROUNDED!" I checked the .45 and cursed. The magazine had been minus a

  cartridge. It was all right now.

  I aimed down the stairs. She couldn't get away, but there had been too many

  broken noses already and too much pushing around. She wouldn't come quietly, that

  was for sure. And the boys hanging around outside would get their lumps. My mind was

  made up.

  I sighted down the long line of stairs and drew a bead on one of her legs as it kept

  poking out with each jerky movement of her big body. I squeezed the trigger, hoping for

  the best shot of my life.

  It was probably the worst.

  Because Dolores suddenly stumbled, pitched headlong, caught herself again.

  Just as the steel-jacketed slug from my .45 lifted the back of her head off. I'll

  never forget the sound her big body made as it bounced and banged the rest of the way

  down. I cursed. I cursed hard.

  The Tall Dolores 1953, Henry Holt and Co.

  "A critic is a legless man who teaches running."

  Channing Pollock

  FROM A PRIVATE DETECTIVE'S CASEBOOK:

  THE LEGLESS RUNNER

  "I don't care what the theatre critics say.

  Critics don't know anything about acting."

  Zero Mostel

  HELLO, MY UGLY

  Malmedy's play came in the mail. On a mad day when the President was

  impeached, Brando hung himself, tornadoes ripped up half the state of Kansas and the

  Mets got thirteen runs in one inning at Wrigley Field, Chicago. It was that kind of a day.

  Pure Kafka, sheer clockwork orange with a lot of Al Capp lunacy inserted in the seams.

  I wasn't prepared for that kind of day. Nor the play, either. My world wasn't a gay balloon, soaring high. But also, it was not the Theatre of

  the Absurd, by any critical standards.

  Still, Malmedy had sent me his new play. That Malmedy.

  As if I were an in-demand actor, a producer with a lot of money or at the very

  least, someone who knew a lot of people with a lot of money. No angel I, not by any

  classification.

  Yet the play arrived in my hands, posted with the proper amount of stamps,

  nicely tucked in a 10x13 brown manila clasp envelope and addressed to the occupant of

  Apartment 14D at 600 Central Park West. Me. None other. Ed Noon of Manhattan.

  Jo Malmedy was only the Number One Playwright on the scene, at the time,

  having easily displaced Williams, Albee, Pinter and all that crowd with three successive

  Best Play Awards. He had also had an Oscar from Hollywood to use as a matching

  bookend for the Emmy he had won with his adaptation of his own movie classic,

  Widows Walk Away. The old Violet Paris hit film. Remember?

  I remembered a lot of things when I opened that brown envelope, rather

  carefully, and drew forth the thick, tightly-bound blue-covered manuscript. There was a

  lot of impressive gold lettering tooled on the cover of the play. I can't really recall the

  very first thing that hit me. It's always like that when you try to reconstruct later on,

  when the shock wears off which was the greatest of the surprises, which the harder of the

  blows to the deep inner springs that makes all of a man tick and function.

  Properly or improperly. Well or up-tight. All I do know is that I had to find a chair and sit down, still clutching the

  manuscript. Still trying to make some kind of order and sense upon a chaos suddenly

  visited upon me.

  Or re-visited. Given the particular man and specific chaos.

  That too is hard to say. I never did find the answer.

  But I did find a chair, the nearest wing leather one in the living room of the

  domicile I call home away from the office and flicked on the lamplight. I was holding

  my breath, in the oddest, most curious way of all. As if the act of breathing would break

  a spell, a tangible wire-thin link back to some dark and well-remembered past. Like long

  ago. Like Yesterday. The Stone Age.

  But it was really twenty years ago that I was holding in my hands. Twenty years

  of living which a man called Jo Malmedy had somehow imprisoned within the pages of a

  playscript.

  At least, so it seemed.

  So it looked.

  The tooled gold-lettering on the cover wanted to run under my eyes, leapfrog,

  blur together, do a mad tango of bewildering deviltry. I wouldn't let it. I hung on. With

  all I had left.

  Still holding my breath. My heart hurt.

  I opened the binder, drawing the leather cover back very carefully, and let my

  eyes fall to the time-bomb I was holding on my locked-together knees. Edgy as any wary

  virgin.

  It had to be a time bomb. Ready to burst and destroy. The room felt close, unguarded, heavy with unknown forces of some kind. The

  walls wanted to move in on me, whispering as they came. The curtains on the windows

  were rustling, too.

  I no longer saw the afternoon sunlight flooding the wide windows. There was no

  sun anymore. Only a moon. Cold, silvery and distant. I didn't know Jo Malmedy from

  the man who was supposed to live up there in that moon. But there I sat. With his new

  play on my lap. It had to be new---it could never have played the boards before. Not

  without my knowing it. Not without my consent and approval. Which was now

  obviously why Jo Malmedy had sent it to me in the first place. If that was why he had

  sent it at all.

  Stunned, I began to read, trapped in a time warp. A man the Fourth Dimension had not forgotten.

  The Fourth Dimension and Jo Malmedy

  THE TALL DOLORES

  A Musical Mystery

  Adaptation and Lyrics by Jo Malmedy

  Based on the real-life exploits of Ed Noon, Private Eye Act One Scene One/1/

  ACT ONE

  Scene 1

  The office of Ed Noon, private detective, Manhattan, New York

  TIME: The impoverished past. The afternoon of a hot day.

  AT RISE: Ed Noon is talking on a desk phone in the mid
st of an office which can

  be charitably described as Late Salvation Army. To the right of center stage is a battered

  roll-top desk, possibly rescued from the set of The Front Page. The four walls are

  adorned with a Rand-McNally map of the borough of Manhattan, the Marilyn Monroe

  calendar and a large framed portrait of Gary Cooper. Marilyn is serving as a dart board.

  Cooper stares down with High Noon stoicism. A feathered shaft is dangerously close to

  Marilyn's heart. A worn old leather couch can be seen, Stage Left, just below a skylight-type window which shows the Gotham skyline and a few fleecy clouds. In

  reverse lettering on the pebbled glass door revealed, Stage Right, we read NOON DE

  SNOITAGITSEVNI ETAVIRP. The dismal office is furthered toward ugliness with

  mismatched chairs and walls showing buckling plaster. The owner of all this shabbiness

  is a clean-cut, alert-faced, breezy man of indeterminate age. He looks lazy while sitting

  but his sudden spirited throws of darts at Marilyn Monroe reveals energy and

  concentration. On his feet, you sense he will move like Gene Kelly in modern dance.

  His voice is staccato, a rapid-fire breathlessness. We are getting a sample of this as the

  curtain rises and the darts fly toward Monroe.

  NOON

  ….YEAH, SURE. MANTLE, BERRA, BAUER. LOOK, IT'S MY DOUGH,

  RIGHT? THEN SHUT UP ABOUT IT AND PUT THE FIVER DOWN FOR ME. I

  DON'T CARE IF BARBER'S GOING. STOP GIVING ME BASEBALL ABC'S.

  BUSINESS IS BAD ENOUGH WITHOUT BOOKIES GETTING CONSCIENTIOUS…

  (as he talks, he hurls another dart. The makeup of the stage undergoes a subtle

  change. A woman's unmistakable silhouette is outlined on the glass door. NOON hangs

  up slowly as he spots shadow, finds another dart on his cluttered desk and aims at the

  door. The silhouette turns. A bust line of sheer fantasy thrusts out like the French

  Riviera. The shadow moves and a knock is heard, sounding like rolling thunder.)

  NOON (game enough for anything--and anyone)

  Come in, come in, whoever you are. I've always wanted to meet the Jolly Green

  Giant. (door opens slowly. DOLORES walks in. She is six feet three, on high heels, to

  boot. One senses the runway at Minsky's despite a sober black dress without frills and

  ruffles. Her hat is a picture job, and pure camp. She comes into the office, closing the

  door and looking around, seeming to sniff the atmosphere. Almost unbelievingly--as if a

  stranger in a new land.)

  DOLORES

  You him? Ed Noon? (her voice is like a bull fiddle)

  NOON (trying to assert himself, hurls dart. He feels small)

  It's the only name I'll endorse a check with. What can I do for you?

  DOLORES

  I want you to find a man for me.

  NOON

  Have you looked up your sleeves lately?

  DOLORES

  Save the wisecracks, Noon. I'm too big to fool around with.

  NOON

  I was just about to say something along those lines.

  (he gestures her to a seat, straightens his tie, tries to look business-like. Drops

  behind his desk into a swivel chair and rocks back. Dolores sits down in the client's chair

  across from him and immediately dwarfs the furniture.)

  DOLORES (looking around)

  Is this place for real? I thought those movies were always kidding.

  NOON (pride stirring) Look, you leave this mouse auditorium alone and I'll try not to ask you how the

  air is up there. We don't want to pick on each other, do we? Besides, this dump is

  comfortable, believe it or not.

  DOLORES

  So's the Bowery if you're a wino. What kind of a man are you, buster? To do

  business in a broom closet like this one?

  NOON (the smile of individuality)

  Investigation's my business.

  My ambition is dough.

  I'll take on your troubles

  With something to show

  For all my time and woe

  Hustling, bustling and tussling

  And so--

  (he whirls around the desk, tapping and singing and thoroughly astounding

  DOLORES who can only sit and watch, gaping at him, as at a freak show. The startling

  paradox, considering her own outlandish size)

  I'll take the case

  But the blonde must be beautiful

  I'll make the chase

  But the car must be suitable

  My desk must have Bourbon, Schenley's and Haig

  I go for a client with a pretty white laig I'll take the case but the cops can't be notified

  I'll steal a base but the job must be bona fide

  This gun's for hire

  For low-brow or Sire

  If you add to my bank account

  I'll go through fire

  All the muck and the mire

  For a fee that's the right amount

  The only thing wrong

  With a shamus like me

  Is that I'll do anything

  For a fee.

  DOLORES (not THAT surprised)

  Gee. A Boy Scout. Up and down--

  NOON

  No posies, please. You'll go to my head. Now---begin someplace. The

  beginning is still a good place. It's Spring and your husband has just discovered there's a

  girl he fancies--

  DOLORES

  There is no husband. And no girl. Who'd ever dare to buck me? But I do want

  you to find Harry Hunter for me.

  NOON

  Hunter? The Great White kind (stops as Dolores glares) sure. Got a picture? DOLORES

  (opens her handbag which resembles a saddlebag and passes a photo across the

  desk. Noon looks at it and grunts)

  What's the matter, Noon?

  NOON

  I'm disappointed. I expected a cross between Johnny Weismuller and Marshall

  Dillon. Doesn't look so big to me.

  DOLORES

  He's six feet six. That's big enough for me. You ought to be able to find a stud

  that size.

  NOON

  Maybe he isn't exactly a collar button---okay---but this isn't much to work on,

  Miss---Miss?

  DOLORES

  Dolores. Just Dolores. My last name isn't necessary.

  NOON (asserting himself)

  You're perfectly right about that, lady. Only your money is. I ask two hundred

  dollars as a retainer. If I can't find the missing beanstalk for you, you get half of the jack

  back. If I do, you dish out a hundred more.

  DOLORES

  I'm glad my size doesn't influence your manners, Noon. I want you to be the sort

  of man who can't be buffaloed. My Harry buffaloes very easy. Two hundred is

  agreeable. Do I pay you now? Not until you fill in some of the details. I've been in all the jails in this town

  already. You have to help me decide if this is worth working on. Caper-wise, that is.

  DOLORES (suddenly shy, like a schoolgirl)

  Noon, I'll level with you. Harry Hunter is my man. The only man I'll ever love.

  The only one I'll ever want--

  NOON

  Hold on, Dolores. Skip the violins. Is he missing or isn't he? Did he take a

  powder on you---is that it?

  DOLORES

  I see I'd better begin at the beginning.

  NOON

  Even the Bible had to. See Genesis.

  DOLORES

  I worked a rodeo out West. Dolores. A strip act. The shapeliest Glamazon in the

  World. Harry was a cowboy. What they call a hand. Odd jobs all over the Carney.

  Well, we hit it off right away. You
ought to have some idea how tough it would be for a

  dame my size to find a cat big enough to swing with. Well, my Harry was it.

  NOON

  Love at first height, of course.

  DOLORES

  He's the only man ever satisfied me in the sack. Know what that means to a dolly

  like me? I have to find him. Where did you lose this wonderful guy you're in love with?

  DOLORES

  Here in town. We pooled our life savings. Five thousand of mine, that is. For a

  big wedding in Manhattan. We were going to honeymoon in Montana. But yesterday he

  didn't show up and I'm worried. Haven't heard from him or seen hide nor hair in twenty

  four hours.

  NOON

  I see.

  DOLORES

  Do you? Really? Oh, I wonder if you got any idea at all what it means to be an

  out-sized baby like me in a world like this one?

  NOON

  I got some idea. I don't even think you need a last name. Dolores is identification

  enough. After all, you aren't exactly inconspicuous.

  DOLORES (suddenly standing, towering, on exhibition. With a mixture

  of pride, defiance and regret.)

  Inconspicuous?

  That's ridiculous

  Brother, take another look at me

  When it came to size, they threw the book at me

  I'm a chorus line all rolled into one

  Like housecleaning, I never got done. I'm just

  Too damn tall

  Outsize, King-size, monster-size

  The large economy all-purpose girl

  And that ain't all.

  Russell and Dagmar and Brigette Bardot

  Haven't got nearly as much to show

  Ekberg and Loren and Marilyn M.

  I'm bigger than all of them.

  Six feet three of girlish muscle

  I even could Tarzan a mighty tussle

  I'm power-packed and Gibraltar strong

  And all I own is over-long

  Still I'm just a lonely dame

  Sick to hell of this King Kong frame

  It's just too much

  For love and sex and such

  And it just ain't small

  It's just too damn tall

  T-A-L-L------tall!

  NOON

  I read you loud and clear. And I'll buy it. But the question of the moment is this,

  lady. Is Harry Hunter really missing because it wasn't his idea or was it because he ran away from you, taking the five thousand green men with him to faithfully remember you

  by? Think about that, now, before you answer me. We don't want to look for Missing