by David Goodis
“Let’s Keep This City Clean,” it said on the poster. And somebody took out a pencil and scribbled two words. You go along with them two words, you save yourself a lotta worry, a lotta complications. Because it’s them two words that simplify the issue, stating clearly and positively that we all come from the caves or the trees or maybe the bottom of the goddam ocean; and wherever we come from it’s them two words that put us where we are today and give us what we got today, like for instance meat for the table.
Don’t believe that, the badge said.
Corey grimaced, biting the corner of his mouth. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. He closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket. Then he leaned back and his hand drifted toward the bulge where his polo shirt covered the .38. His hand touched the bulge and he smiled dimly. Some greed came into his eyes. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars.
At Second and Addison the taxi pulled away and Corey walked into the Hangout. At the far end of the bar he found sufficient space to set his foot on the rail and get an elbow on the wood. The bartender looked at him. Corey nodded and the bartender served him a double gin. On either side of him some drinkers decided to call it a night; they moved off and he had that section all to himself. For some reason it was like being marooned.
And that’s as it should be, a soundless heckler remarked.
Corey nodded slowly, in dismal agreement. He was thinking about Leonard Ward Ferguson.
But actually it wasn’t your fault, he tried to veer away from the accusing finger. I mean, it wasn’t your fault directly, it was just some circumstances—
And who set up them circumstances? the heckler came in again.
But what I mean—
Don’t tell me nothing, the heckler cut in rudely. You ain’t got nothing to tell. You’re a wrong number from way back and the vote on that is unanimous.
Corey lowered his head and shut his eyes tightly.
A voice boomed above all other voices at the bar. It was Nellie, going over to aid the bartender who had his hands full with two youths wearing duck-tail haircuts and blue rayon club jackets. The youths claimed they were over twenty-one and therefore entitled to buy drinks. They looked about seventeen. Nellie told them to get away from the bar. They didn’t move. They grinned at her. She asked them if they wanted stitches in their heads. The juveniles went on grinning and didn’t move. Nellie gestured to the bartender. The bartender reached under the bar, came up with a foot-long section of lead pipe and handed it to Nellie. The two youths looked at each other. Then they walked away from the bar.
“Out the door,” Nellie said. They hesitated a moment, one of them mumbling inaudibly. Nellie took a step toward them. They hurried to the side door, opened it and went out. Nellie returned the lead pipe to the bartender, grimacing with disappointment because she hadn’t been given an excuse to use it. She moved along the bar, her eyes alert for any unruly behavior or antisocial chicanery. She came to a stop where Corey was bent low over the bar, gazing morosely at his double shot.
“Go on, drink it,” Nellie said. “It don’t do you no good just sittin’ there.”
He turned and looked at the big woman. “You pushin’ sales?”
“Just nursing the trade, that’s all. That’s part of my job. I’m here to keep the customers happy.”
“I’m happy,” Corey said.
“Yeah. You look happy.”
“Get off me,” he mumbled. He gulped the gin. Nellie grinned at him and he said tightly, “Now what the hell’s so comical?”
Nellie chuckled lightly. She said, “It always tickles me—”
“What tickles you?”
“When the slick ones get it. When the screwer gets screwed.” She started away from him. Something zigzagged through his brain. He reached out and took hold of her huge arm. She stopped, looked at his hand on her arm.
“You messin’ with me?”
“Just socializin’.” Corey forced a smile. It was a weary smile, sad and lonely. “Lemme buy you a drink.”
“It’s rye. Beer chaser.”
He ordered a double rye and a tall beer for Nellie, a double gin for himself. The big woman reached for the shot glass, brought it to her mouth, then frowned thoughtfully and set the glass on the bar. “How come?” she asked.
“What?”
“You never done this before. Buyin’ me a drink.”
“Don’t make it a big deal.”
“Jesus,” she said. She stepped back and looked at him in wonder. Then her eyes narrowed and she peered at him as though studying a chart.
Corey Bradford squirmed and muttered, “Cut it out, Nellie. God damn it, cut it out.” He snatched at his drink and tossed the gin down his throat. As he lowered the shot glass to the bar, he saw that his hand was quivering. He glanced quickly at Nellie. Her eyes aimed at his quivering hand.
“And now it ain’t no joke,” she said quietly, solemnly. “Whatever it is, you really been clobbered hard.” She moved closer to him. “You wanna tell me, Bradford?”
He shook his head.
“Come on, tell me,” Nellie said. “Lean it on me.”
“It can’t be handled that way,” he mumbled. And wondered, now what does that mean? A voice burdened with sadness and choked with remorse called out to the bartender for another gin. It was his own voice and he said to himself, it can’t be handled that way, neither. But as the double shot arrived, he went for it like an empty-bellied bird diving desperately for a breadcrumb in the snow. So you know what happens now? he asked the desperate drinker. It’s them eleven faces you’ll hafta live with, the face of Leonard Ward Ferguson and the face of his widowed wife and the nine faces of them fatherless children. Because you did it. Just like McDermott said, you done him in. And don’t say it couldn’t be helped. Don’t even say you’re sorry. If you were really sorry you’d go to Grogan and tell him the deal is off, and you don’t need his fifteen grand. Can you picture yourself doing that? Can you picture a larceny expert running to the lost-and-found department with a five-dollar bill he found in the subway?
He heard Nellie say, “You know how long I’ve known you, Bradford? Since grammar school. Since fifth grade. And you still got that dent in your forehead.”
“What dent?”
“Right there. Right above your left eye. Where I hit you that time in the schoolyard. With a brick. I threw a brick. You remember?”
“Too far back.”
“You were calling me Ellie instead of Nellie. And I asked you why. And you said Ellie was short for elephant.”
“You coulda picked up a stone. It didn’t hafta be no brick.”
“A stone wouldn’t of left no mark,” Nellie said. “Guess I wanted it to leave a mark. So you’d never forget.”
“To call you Nellie instead of Ellie?”
“That’s one thing.”
“And the other thing?”
“We won’t talk about that.”
“But I don’t know what it is.”
“That’s what I mean,” Nellie said. She gulped the double rye and chased it with some beer. She started away from the bar. Again he reached out and took hold of her arm. She said tightly, “Now what?”
“Lemme buy you another.”
“I don’t want no more.”
“The hell you don’t,” Corey said. He pulled the big woman toward the bar. He released her arm. She stood there and he ordered more drinks.
“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” she muttered sullenly, almost bitterly. “You wanna get me drunk?”
“Let’s both get drunk.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll be drunk. We’ll be good and drunk, and what’s better than that?”
“You asking me?”
“I’m asking anybody. What’s better than getting really plastered? Absolutely looped?”
“Well now, let’s see—”
“See what?” he cut in gruffly, almost angrily. Their shot glasses were empty and he called for refills.
They drank the refills. He ordered more and said, “Ain’t nothing to see. Ain’t nothing better than when you’re soused and I mean all the way soused, don’t-give-a-good-goddam delirious, way out there where they got no clocks and there ain’t no stipulations what you gotta do because of what you done. You’re out there, you don’t see no fingers pointing.”
Nellie frowned thoughtfully, “Is that what they mean when they say blind drunk?”
“Who knows what they mean?” He lost track of the question. “Who cares what they say?” He turned and yelled to the bartender for more drinks. The refills came and then came again.
The refills kept coming.
At one of the tables there was a disturbance, two women were on their feet, going for each other’s hair. Another woman moved in to stop it and got her face clawed for her good intentions. Someone yelled for Nellie as the female combatants went at it with more fury. Then others were yelling for Nellie and she turned toward them. She looked at the two women who were now on the floor, grappling, biting, scratching and screeching. A man shrieked at Nellie, “Come on, bouncer, don’t stand there, do something.”
“Go jump a giraffe,” Nellie said.
The man turned away. He enlisted the aid of some other men and they managed to pacify the two women. Someone put a dime in the jukebox and a blues singer lamented all the empty nights and wasted years. A bearded neurotic got up on a table and attempted to recite poetry that contradicted the singer’s lyrics, and from the bar some unpoetic creature pegged a half-eaten, hot-pork sandwich that hit the poet in the mouth.
“But I’m a vegetarian,” the poet declared in a tone that was neither male nor female. To shut him up, someone handed him a fifteen-cent Tokay. He got down from the table and sat on the floor, murmuring phrases of endearment to the yellow wine in the glass.
The bartender brought another double rye for Nellie and another double gin for Corey Bradford.
From the jukebox the blues singer was bewailing the moon and the stars and all the flowers of spring for having gone away. Nellie said to the jukebox, “Don’t tell me about it. I got my own grief.”
“What grief?” Corey queried.
The big woman looked at him. Her hand came up. It seemed she was going to hit him in the face just because he happened to be there. But then her hand moved slowly and hesitantly, and finally her fingers came to rest on the dent in his forehead above his left eye. In the touch of her fingers there was something very tender.
And what’s all this? His liquor-drenched brain groped for an answer. Then through the alcoholic haze he saw the yearning in Nellie’s eyes.
So Carp was right, he said to himself, remembering last night when Carp had stated flatly, “She’s hot for the man.”
That’s why she threw the brick when we were only nine years old. That’s why in all these years the only words you got from her were cuss words and the only looks were mean looks. Last night when she broke your wagon down in front of all these Hangout people, her big hand tight on your arm, her thick fingers digging in to hurt you, to bruise you; it was just her way of saying, cantcha see, Corey? Cantcha see how it is? How it’s always been?
But now Nellie’s hand was away from his face, aiming at the shot glass on the bar. She lifted it, gulped the rye and said, “All right, I’ll tell you what the grief is. I been told he’s cheatin’ on me.”
“Who’s cheatin’?”
“Rafer.”
“You been going with Rafer?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Nobody tells me nothin’,” Corey said.
“How can they tell you? They never get close enough.”
“Look, I live in this neighborhood.”
“No you don’t, Bradford. You live all alone on a cliff somewhere. Or maybe at the edge of a cliff.”
“Well anyway, what’s this with Rafer?”
“I gotta have somebody, don’t I?”
“Let’s have another drink,” Corey said.
“This one I’ll buy.”
“No you won’t,” Corey said determinedly. Then he realized he was getting very drunk, evil drunk. Gotta have somebody, he gritted without sound. They all gotta have somebody. He turned and looked toward the far side of the taproom, focusing on the table near the door leading to the back room. There was no one at the table. Then he saw Lillian coming toward the table with a glass in one hand and a quart of beer in the other. He said to Nellie, “Order them drinks, I’ll be back in a minute.”
He made his way across the room, bumping into standing drinkers, shoving and getting shoved, finally arriving at the table where Lillian was pouring the beer. She looked up and saw him. Some beer spilled over the edge of the glass.
He said, “Look, I don’t have no goddam dimes. So here’s a quarter, and you owe me fifteen cents.”
She stared at the coin on the table. “What’s this for?”
“The phone call. The call you made to Night Squad.”
She didn’t look up. She didn’t say anything.
Corey said, “Now listen, you. Listen good. Don’t do me no more favors. I don’t want no favors from you. I don’t want nothing. You hear me?”
“I hear you.” She sipped some beer. “I’m wondering what you’re all worked up about.”
“Don’t gimme that,” with his gin-glazed eyes seeing two blurred Lillians and then three blurred Lillians. “You know whatcha did,” his gin-cracked voice was just above a whisper. “Looked out the kitchen window and saw me running from that alley. Saw them chasing me. Saw they had guns. Then later you heard the shooting. Next thing, you’re scooting for a phone booth and putting in a call.”
“So?”
“Whaddya mean, so? I wanna know why.”
“Why I put in the call?” She shrugged. “You needed help.”
“From you?”
“From anyone.” She shrugged again. “Someone hadda call in. If that phone call wasn’t made, you probably wouldn’t be here now.”
“You ran out in all that rain—”
“And spent a dime,” she said. “So you owed me a dime and you gimme this quarter and I owe you fifteen cents.” She opened a purse, put the quarter in and took out three nickels. “There’s your fifteen cents.”
He looked at the three nickels on the table. He reached for the coins and missed them. His hand hit the beer glass and knocked it over. Beer streamed over the edge of the table and dripped into Lillian’s lap. Corey made another try for the three nickels. He missed again and his hand went sliding through the beer on the table as he lost his footing. His weight came against the side of the table, causing it to tilt. The bottle fell off, hit the floor and broke.
“Now look what I done,” Corey said dismally. “Just look at what I done here.”
Lillian had pushed back her chair and was on her feet, her fingers flicking futilely at her wet skirt.
“Gotta make it up to you,” Corey said, reaching for his wallet. But his hand couldn’t find the rear pocket of his trousers and he moved around in a gin-distorted circle. “Gotta pay for the beer,” he mumbled. “Gotta pay for the skirt, to get it cleaned.” He went around in another circle, still trying for the wallet. “Gotta settle all debts and meet all obligations.” He tugged fretfully at his trousers that didn’t seem to have a rear pocket. Then he found it, started to take out the wallet, but in that moment his legs got tangled and he fell to the floor. Sitting there, he saw Lillian headed toward the side door. “Hey you,” he called to her. “Hey you—”
She didn’t turn to look; she just kept moving toward the door. Then the door was open and she walked out.
Corey sat there for a while, wondering if this was really a taproom floor. It seemed more like a slanting boat deck, the boat bouncing around in rough water. Corey tried to get up, couldn’t make it, tried again and kept trying. Finally he was on his feet and staggered toward the bar. He saw Nellie reaching for a double rye, and called to her, “Hey wait—we’re drinkin’ together.”
She waite
d while Corey lurched closer to the bar. She pointed to the double gin she’d ordered for him. In a solemn and slightly ceremonious way they lifted the glasses, clinked them together. Then instead of drinking, they stood holding the glasses.
Nellie said, “So what’s the toast? Who do we drink to?”
“The precinct,” Corey suggested. “The tried and true of the Thirty-seventh.”
“Why drink to them?”
“They preserve law and order. They protect the citizens.”
“From what?”
“From bingo games, that’s what. Them wicked bingo games.” Nellie thought it over for a moment. She said, “Tell you what. Let’s drink to Sally Sullivan.”
“And who the hell is Sally Sullivan?”
“The captain’s wife. The wife of the captain of the Thirty-seventh Precinct. And she’s also vice president of the Women’s Committee.”
“Committee for what?”
“To wipe out filth. Prevent immoral influences. They’ve had her on one of them local TV programs, the city give her an award. And she goes around to them lunches, makes speeches. Gets her picture on the woman’s page damn near every Sunday. Now I’ll tell you something else, if you care to hear it.”
“By all means,” Corey said politely, patiently. But he wished she’d hurry up with it so they could drink the toast. He gazed thirstily at the gin in the shot glass.
Nellie said, “This Sally Sullivan, she’s the one that Rafer’s been seein’.”
“The captain’s wife? With Rafer?”
“Whenever she gets the chance. I won’t tell you what they do. I mean, what she does. It would make you sick in your stomach.”
“Who tipped you?”
“Rafer himself. So you know I got it on good authority.”
“But Rafer’s your man. Why would he tell you a thing like that?”
“He was high,” Nellie said. “He was forty thousand feet up. On that mixture he drinks. Calls it California Clouds. Mixes it himself. A bottle of some cola drink, six aspirin tablets, two tablespoons of snuff. Puts it all together in a bowl and sips it from the spoon. In no time at all he’s up there. California Clouds.”
