Pat Novak for Hire
Originally Posted by Moejoe
Raymond Chandler was the king of these:
was a radio detective show that was on the air from 1946-1949. Jack Webb of Dragnet fame and Ben Morris both had their turns at playing Novak, and John Galbraith and Raymond Burr had their turns at playing Inspector Helmann. Richard L. Breen's writing on the series has been called 'Chandleresque' for its style of humorous noir. Here are some samples of what was heard regularly on the program:
She was as sad as a tap dancer in moccasins.
Somebody was on my bed. Either that or the landlord had installed an echo.
Somebody had used to her badly, like a dictionary in a stupid family.
She was as safe a tap dancer on a floor full of dynamite caps.
It was like washing your kid's face and finding out he was ugly to begin with.
She was at least 50, because you can't get that ugly without years of practice.
Inspector Hellman: "No, I'm not going to tell you he's dead, Novak. He might be a soft breather."
The street was deserted except for a couple of winos, near the corner, trying to buy back 1926 at a dollar a jug.
Somebody had gone duck hunting in the middle of his back.
He slipped out of my arms and stopped paying taxes.
There was a stale, musty odor, could have been a marathon dancer's dressing room, with a little fixing up, the sort of place you wouldn't be found dead in. There was a guy lying next to me who didn't feel that way about it.
The doorman was a sober-looking specimen, the kind of guy that breathes every other Tuesday.
You start with trouble, and it never stops. It's like offering to buy aspirin for a two-headed boy.
The street was as deserted as a warm bottle of beer.
Her lounging pajamas reminded you of a good butler: it came in and went out at the right places, and it stayed close to the job.
It was a pretty room, if you like dead women on your rugs.
We tried to follow the car, but it would have been easier to win the Kentucky Derby on a pogo stick.
I noticed her eyes for the first time. They were small and so close together, they could have saved time and put 'em in one socket.
He was a tough, hard cop, with a heart big enough to hide behind a piece of birdseed.
When I left, he was crumpled up against the desk and she was staring down at him as if she forgot to water the plants.
. She sauntered in, moving slowly from side to side like 118 pounds of warm smoke.
She'd been traded around more than a Red Sox pitcher.
I watched her as she turned and walked out the door. She was wearing a flowered print dress, and as she walked, the roses kept getting mixed up with the daisies.
She had nice hair, and the dress helped too. It was dark blue and had a v-neck, but the designer believed in big letters.
She was standing there in a dark, silk evening gown. It was strapless, and she had no worries.
Oh, it wasn't a bad book—if you ever wanted to start a forest fire.
It was a long stretch from Easter Monday, but he was still celebrating Irish independence.
I looked up the only honest guy I know, an ex-doctor and a boozer by the name of Jocko Madigan. He's all right for a guy who thinks people with steady hands are lazy.
I looked up the only honest guy I know, an ex-doctor and a boozer by the name of Jocko Madigan, a good guy, but to him a hangover is the price of being sober.
She gave you a nice warm feeling, like a Bunsen burner in the middle of your back.