This poem is drawn for its inspiration
from detective stories.
In this case, the hard-boiled American detective stories
of Raymond Chandler, creator of Philip Marlowe,
private detective in novels like The Big Sleep, The Lady
in the Lake, The Long Goodbye.
And the poem has an epigraph from Chandler, but not
from one of the novels-- from a very short essay
that Chandler wrote about the writing of detective fiction.
And the sentence is a kind of ironic piece
of advice to writers.
And it goes, "When in doubt, have a man
come through a door with a gun in his hand."
[LAUGHTER]
Like "Attack of the Crab Monsters,"
the poem is spoken by a minor character
in a typical detective novel.
In this-- not the detective, not the hero.
And in this case, the character's only function
in the novel is to be assassinated
so that his body can be discovered
the next day by the detective so that the plot can be furthered.
In the case of the poem, my character
is aware of his function.
And when confronted by his assassin,
the assassin momentarily seems reluctant to kill him,
and the character is forced into the rather uncomfortable
position of realizing that if he isn't killed,
the story just stops.
The poem is called "The Assassin's Fatal Error".
"When in doubt, have a man come through a door
with a gun in his hand."
He comes through the door, the big gun in his fist.
He says, "Nobody's going anywhere."
"Nobody was."
[LAUGHTER]
"Nobody is even here except me and this bottle of scotch.
And I'm used to waiting."
He tells me to explain about the pearls
because he knows ways to make me tell.
However, I know nothing about them.
Nothing about Mr. R or the big man,
and nothing about Oregon, where I have never
lived at any time in my life.
Perhaps I'm lying.
But he's convinced.
Although he will shoot me anyway, which I understand.
And perhaps I say, "What kept you?"
Probably, I just finished the scotch, which
is third rate but effective.
Mine, you understand, has been a temporary disguise,
which may or may not be explained at a later time.
Its importance to the story lies in the discovery of the body
by the detective tomorrow.
I also turn up three chapters from the end
as a doctor, where I can be trusted even less than now,
when I still have this death to get through.
"There must be connections," I tell him.
"There always are."
And it's smart to leave the witness silent,
get the job over, and get out of town.
The gun wanders around the room.
"Listen," I tell him.
"Anything can happen.
But this could be the fatal error.
You don't know any more than I do."
The long tube of the silencer turns toward me.
I consider the figure on the trigger, the sound
like somebody coughing upstairs in an old building,
and now the single bullet suspended
in the air between us.
You could ask, but what did I expect?
And I would have to say, "Only this.
Nothing but this."