The Big Hack

A gritty, hard-boiled crime short story featuring the famous private detective Philip Marlowe.

Chapter One

I pulled up outside the house in Brentwood, California and lit myself a smoke. This would be my last chance before I got inside, so I was lucky his drive was very, very big. It was a house like any other in the neighbourhood – large, impeccably well-kept, and reeking of affluence. I was used to dealing with this. With caution, I kept smoking even after I’d knocked on the door and a polite butler had answered. Once he saw me, without a word, he disappeared, and then turned up once more around a minute later, with a bucket full of water. He daintily reached out and took my cigarette, throwing it in there. This was irritating, but I kept my trap shut as we walked into the living room.

The old man sat in his big chair, wizened like a rotted prune. His eyes surveyed me. I remained silent; he looked like the kind of guy who’d want to speak first.

“Philip Marlowe” he extended his hand. It was skeletal, but I shook it and it made it out intact “pleased to meet you, at last.”

He spoke with the broad dialogue of an Australian or New Zealander, seasoned with Americanisms.

“And you, sir. Whaddya want?” I cut to the chase

“Well, as you may be aware, I run an international company, specialising in printing and broadcasting news.”

“Yeah.”

“ Well, mate, we’ve got a job for you.”

“I guessed so, that’s why I’m here.”

“Right, right...we want you to get some hard facts down on a few people...”

His phrasing was vague. I decided it was time I ask questions.

“How many you talking?”

“You know, nothing big, 6,349 or so.”

“Yeah?” I was very curious by this point, envisioning the paycheck.

 “Yeah. We heard you’re the best private investigator this side of a bent cop. We’ll fax you the list...we want you to uncover some info on these people.”

“Should be easy enough. I’ll start off with some simple tail jobs.”

He laughed.

“No, no, Philip, mate, this is the twenty-first century. You won’t even have to leave the office!”

“What you saying?”

“What you’ve gotta do is...you use the telephone a lot, Marlowe?”

“Sure, if I don’t call my local dive they wonder where I am.”

“Well, you’ll be familiar with the concept of the answerphone, then. We want you to listen to people’s voicemails. Then the sensational results will be published in one of our British papers...” he chuckled, as if describing his newspaper as such was a stretch “...to distract our readership from the incredibly poor quality of journalism they’re reading.”

“Is this ethical, y’think, Mr Murdoch?” I asked him. His spirits were raised once more.

“Like I give a fuck! So long as we get a few juicy scoops about who soccer players are fucking besides their equally famous wives, we’ll be rolling in the dough!”

When I got home, my pocket was stuffed with dollar bills. I filled myself with whiskey and listened to the personal conversations of the families of 7/7 victims.

Chapter Two

My door crashed open so loud the Soviets could’a heard it. I placed the phone down, abruptly curtailing the fascinating account of extra-marital sodomy I was hearing a member of the British cabinet describe. The man who had entered my office, armed to the teeth, was the popular cinema actor Hugh Grant.

“Hey, friend, I’m tellin’ you this is a private office. If you wanna see me you book an appointment or speak to Louiso the bartend...”

“Speak no more, witless knave!” Grant got in my face “Lest I decorate the bloody walls with your brains.”

“ Well, I s’pose that’d be one way of making the walls bloody.” I countered

He replied in a manner as bland, long-winded and generally shitty as just about every motion picture he’s ever acted in. I didn’t really concentrate.

“Get to the point.”

“I may be a dashing debonair fop who appears in Richard Curtis films, but I’m no fool. I know you’ve been listening to my voicemails.”

“Suck my asshole you British cunt” I said, losing my patience

As he recoiled from the language he’d consider risqué, I edged forward and punched him in the nose. He fell to the floor, just after the piece fell out of his hand onto my desk, so I grabbed it and stood up. I walked around the perimeter of the desk, training the gat’s vision towards Grant, and beckoned at him to stand up. He did, shakily.

“Listen, buddy, I’m a pretty collected guy but I’ve got a short fuse at the best of times. I’m just doing a bit of investigative journalism for the News of the World. There’s nothing to it. You better back off or I’ll drive you down to the river and give you two in the back of the head.”

“You’ll never get away with this, Marlowe!” he yelled, like the archetypal British villain he probably isn’t, but has portrayed on-screen in the past “Haven’t you heard? Today is 7^th July 2011. It's the day the last ever edition of the News of the World is published!”

I pushed him out of the window of my 6^th floor office.

Chapter Three

It was February the 26^th 2012. I sat in my office smoking some Camels and drinking my coffee. It had been a slow few months for work. Suddenly, my long-retired telephone started buzzing. I picked up.

“Marlowe? This is Rupert. When I ring off, ready this phone at once. Today...the Sun On Sunday is born!”