I'm still rereading Raymond Chandler's short stories.
I love these night desk house detectives who end up
in deep. Just came across a great description of a dark
drive in the detective's 1925 Marmon touring car:
"I let the Buick lead me away from the straggling
lights of Las Olindas, through a series of small beach
towns with little houses built on sandlots close to the
ocean, and bigger ones built on the slopes of the hills
behind. A window was lit here and there. The tires
sang on the moist concrete and the little amber lights
on the Buick's fenders peeped back at me from the
curves."
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