窗外的霓虹燈一閃一閃，那個'HOTEL'總是少一兩劃，不斷跳動的顏色跟上我頭痛的節奏，嗯，我應該知道是哪一首歌了。這該死的星期二，爛的像是昨晚酒巴臭掉的嘔吐味。
「你遲到了。」我根本懶的看她，對著杯子裡琥珀色液體嘮叨，它現在可是我唯一的傾聽者。
門口的女人倒是一點也不在意，身上一股少見的香味，嗯，是金錢的味道，她說：「我不知道你這麼準時，馬洛先生。我以為你們這一行的人，這輩子都生活在黃昏裡了。
我終於看她，她身上的風衣都能買我兩台車，那雙眼睛看過的東西，恐怕連影子都要躲。我哼了一聲，把酒瓶滑向空椅子。「在這，我們都是下班說早安。坐下吧。告訴我誰死了，或者你想讓誰死。」
"The neon sign outside my window had a stutter, blinking 'HOTEL' in a frantic, dying rhythm that matched the headache throbbing behind my eyes. It was a Tuesday—the kind of day that feels like a wet cigarette you found in the gutter.
'You’re late,' I said, not bothering to look up from the glass of amber liquid that was currently acting as my only therapist.
The woman at the door didn't flinch. She smelled like expensive regrets and rain. 'I didn't realize we were keeping time, Mr. Marlowe. I thought men in your profession lived in a permanent state of dusk.'
I finally looked at her. She was wearing a trench coat that cost more than my car, and eyes that had seen things even the shadows were afraid of. 'Dusk is a luxury,' I grunted, sliding the bottle toward the empty chair. 'In this office, we skip straight to the midnight oil. Take a seat. Tell me who died, or who you want to see dead.'"
