Monsieur Spade

Welcome. Come on in. Pull up a chair. You know my name? I hope so. It was written on the door. You don’t mind if I smoke, do ya? I know. It’s a bad habit. But me and bad habits? We’re like two peas in a pod.

Enough of that. You didn’t waltz in here to talk vegetables. You want to know about Spade. Sam Spade. Private dick, like me. Solved a big case years back. The Maltese Falcon. Heard of it? I thought you might. Everyone knows about the black bird. Less folk know what happened next.

See, Sam didn’t ride off into the sunset. Oh no. It may have taken 84 years, but he’s back. Older. Wearier. Tougher than a lifer in the hoosegow. As cynical as a faithless preacher. He goes by a new handle now. Monsieur Spade. It’s French. See, that dame who killed his partner? She beat the rap. Got released. Then she hired Sam to escort her daughter home to the south of France.

Long way to go. Money must’ve been good. Or maybe there was something between them. Hard to say what motivates a man’s heart. Especially a man like Sam Spade.

So Sam takes this girl to Bozouls, a little town in the south of France. The girl’s father ain’t around. Grandmother tells Sam her son ain’t got no children. So what’s a guy to do? He floats around with nowhere to go, like a fart in a crowded elevator. Drops the girl — Teresa, that was her name — at an orphanage. Falls for a rich widow. Gets married. Settles down. Stays outta trouble.

But trouble has a way of finding us all, don’t it?

Eight years later, the father comes back to town. Some say to swipe the girl’s trust fund. Great guy, right? Then bodies start to drop. Murder is in the air. Everyone is looking for this kid. No, not Teresa. A young boy from Algeria. Why do they want him? Well, all I’ve heard are stories. Some say he’s a child prodigy. Gifted. A real wiz with the numbers. A natural code breaker. The kind governments would kill for. Others? Well, others say the kid is some great prophet reincarnated. If you believe in that sort of thing. Doesn’t matter what we think. People have killed for far less.

Sam finds himself in the middle of this. It all gets a bit confusing. Everyone thinks Sam knows about the kid. Or where to find him.The only kid Sam’s concerned with is Teresa. She’s coming of age. Quick with a lie, just like her mother. She’s hell on wheels, and living dangerously. Maybe that young soldier boy eyeing her is a ticket out of town. Or maybe he’s after the same score as everyone else. Sam? He just wants to mourn his wife. Look out for the kid. Folk just keep butting in.

I see you nodding off. I get it. I do. I shrugged my way through this story, myself. I had to hear about it all by my lonesome. Couldn’t let my girl listen to it. You kidding me? This story would’ve lulled her away like Sleeping Beauty. And I ain’t no Prince Charming.

Eventually, someone just rounds up everyone and throws ’em in a room. Makes them talk it all out. Real Agatha Christie-like. I say someone because they never say who she is. She says she’s got powerful friends. Who are we to argue? A whole lot gets said, without saying a whole lot, if you catch my drift.

Everything ends and nothing really changes. ‘cept maybe Sam has a new inkling about his place in the world. A few more bodies in the mud, too, but people die every day. Them’s the breaks.

That about sums up Monsieur Spade.

What? Not a good enough yarn for you? Hey, I didn’t write it. What can I say? The story’s a century late. It follows maybe the greatest mystery story ever told. Nothing was gonna live up to that. Are you kidding? To even come close, it’d have to be…

The stuff dreams are made of.