Chandler Chicken

“Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?”
As told by Raymond Chandler

Los Angeles. My office. Philip Marlowe, private detective. People confuse me with the playwright. But he's dead, and I'm not. Though business hasn't been good lately.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, mid-August. I had no idea what day it was. I wore a wristwatch, but didn’t have a calendar. If this case paid off, maybe I’d buy one. Colonel Sanders was dead. I got the news like anybody else, and then got the call. An hour earlier, which would’ve made it three o’clock in the afternoon. I still had no idea what day it was.
I remember the call like it was only an hour ago.
Women’s voice. Southern accent. Like butter, if butter instantly triggered the gallant reflex. Which I suppose it did, in the right hands.
“I’d like to discuss a case. Are you free this afternoon, Mr. Marlowe?”
“It depends on your definition of freedom. There’s some disagreement on that point.”
“Are you free to come see me?”
“You come here. Bring a calendar.”
We set a time. She showed up on time.
My secretary buzzed her in. And there she stood in the doorway. Like a metaphor poured inside a simile that didn’t quite fit.
I stood up.
“Have a seat, Ms. Sanders. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You know my name.”
“I know a lot of things. It’s my job.”
Thank God for Caller-ID.
She sat; I sat. You know the drill.
The dame slid a packet of crime scene photos across my desk. I opened it, and got a good look. Colonel Sanders, naked in an alley, dead as a sack of doornails. He was holding a bucket of chicken. Not entirely empty. They’d cut off his little colonel, breaded and fried it. Extra crispy.
“What do you see, Mr. Marlowe?”
“A deceased white male, approximately 90 years old. White hair, white goatee. No distinctive tattoos. Signs of violent trauma. Lacerations and bruising on lower abdomen and upper legs. Missing genitalia.”
“Look closer, Mr. Marlowe.”
There were chicken tracks all over. Big ones.
“Well, that narrows down the suspects to giant chickens.”
“Which one, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Well, that’s hard to say, Ms. Sanders. Every chicken in the world had a beef with your … I’m sorry. What was your relation to the deceased? Father? Lover?”
“Yes.”
She pulled out an elegant cigarette case. Silver, reflecting her pretty blue eyes. She removed a cigarette, as I figured she would, being a detective and all. I lit it for her. She took it like her due. She sat for a minute, her pretty faced wreathed in pretty blue smoke. She was thinking. Or maybe she had a migraine. Then she finally spoke.
“Pardon me for stating the obvious, but I want to get the bastard who did this, Mr. Marlowe. Money is no object.”
“That’s great, Ms. Sanders. I have no objection to money. You got any leads?”
“Ask him.”
She pointed out the window. Like a good boy, I turned to look. That’s when I saw him, through the slits in the Venetian blinds. A giant chicken, crossing La Brea Boulevard.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“He’s crossing the road. Why the hell is he doing that?”
“You tell me, Mr. Marlowe. It’s ‘your job,’ right? Do your job.”
She stood up. Then tossed something thick and heavy on my desk. It landed with a thud.
“Here’s your goddamn calendar, Mr. Marlowe.”
The chicken in question got to the other side. An hour later, I got him in the backroom. Then I grilled him, in the metaphorical sense. He had an airtight alibi, in the literal sense. At the time of the murder, they put him in a diving bell over at UCLA research. “The scientists will all vouch for me,” he pleaded. “Just call them!” I called. They vouched for chicken.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
“Sure … as soon as you answer my question.”
“I’ve answered your questions!”
“I’ve got one more.”
I stood up. I knocked over my chair and threw stuff around. I wasn’t really angry. With punks like this, you have to look intimidating sometimes. It’s an act, and I’m good at it. I took improv with UCB last summer.
“Why’d you cross the road?”
“Road? What …?”
“Stop stalling chicken! La Brea Boulevard, 4:15 p.m. yesterday. I saw you with my own eyes! You crossed! Why?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“I want a house on the beach. Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.”
I slapped him. Hard.
“Can the doubletalk, chicken.”
I slapped him again. Harder.
“I want a real answer, this time! Why’d you cross the road?”
“To get to the other side! To get to the other side!”
I slapped him harderer.
The chicken blubbered like a weak sister. Or a chicken. He stuck to his lousy story. I finally let him go.
Two days later, they found him. In a breadpan, kicking out dough. Reflex action. The chicken was dead. And I had no more leads.