by David Goodis
He turned his head and saw the face of Ruttman.
“Easy, bud,” the dock foreman murmured. “Easy now.”
“Let go.” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Ruttman held him there.
The pier owner, still hatless, had come forward and was saying to Ruttman, “Throw this man off the dock. Give him his pay and get him out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruttman said. He took a deep breath that was like a sigh. “All right, bud. Let’s go.”
Kerrigan didn’t move. He was looking at the faces of the men with the Panama hats. They were smiling at him; they felt safe now. They saw him taken in charge by a larger man, a stronger man, a man who was obviously capable of handling him.
“I said let’s go.” Ruttman’s tone was louder.
But he didn’t hear it. He was staring at the other faces, the faces of the stevedores who’d left the crates and were moving in to see what would happen. Ruttman was the undisputed boss of Pier 17 and there were scores of dock-wallopers who’d tried their best to disprove it, only to get their teeth knocked out, their noses caved in, their jaws broken. All along the docks of Wharf Street the opinion was unanimous: It never paid to trifle with Ruttman.
Kerrigan looked at the face of Ruttman and saw the strength, the quiet confidence, saw the warning that was almost friendly. Ruttman’s eyes seemed to be saying, Don’t force me into it, I really don’t want to hurt you.
And then, as caution was mixed with the reasonable knowledge that he had no complaint against Ruttman, he turned his head, a gesture of submittal. In that instant he saw Loretta smiling at him, a mocking smile.
He let the camera fall way from his fingers, and the back of his hand cracked across her mouth.
It was a hard blow and it sent her head twisting all the way to the side. But he didn’t have time to see what damage he had done, because Ruttman was already hitting him.
Ruttman was smashing him with a straight right that caught him under the eye. He fell back with his arms wide, his feet off the ground. He collided with a crate, bounced away, started to fall, made up his mind he wouldn’t fall, and lunged at Ruttman with his fists flailing.
He found Ruttman’s head with his right hand, staggered Ruttman with another blow to the temple, then came in close and ripped both hands to the body. He heard Ruttman grunting and again he punched to the body, and Ruttman started to double up, falling forward, trying to clinch.
Kerrigan stepped back and hooked a short left to Ruttman’s jaw, followed it with another left to the side of the head, stepping back again and chopping with the right and missing, and then taking a terrible, thundering blow from Ruttman’s right hand. It was a roundhouse smash, a punch that started wide, came in short, exploded on his jaw, and knocked him down.
“That winds it up,” someone said.
Kerrigan’s eyes were closed and he was flat on his back. There was no pain, only the feeling of wanting to stay here and keep sinking into the darkness.
But then he heard a voice saying, “Finished?”
He opened his eyes and looked up and saw Ruttman. He grinned and said, “Not yet.”
Ruttman sighed reluctantly and stepped back, giving him a chance to get up. He got up slowly, now feeling the pain, the grogginess, and it was as though his jaw were bolted to his skull and a wrench were tightening the bolt.
He saw Ruttman walking in to measure him, the right hand taking aim. In Ruttman’s eyes there was no satisfaction. Ruttman came in close, feinted with the left, and threw the right.
Kerrigan moved his head, got away from the big fist, blocked a left that tried to find his ribs, blocked the right coming again toward his jaw, then side-stepped going away from another right. Ruttman grunted, lunged, missed with both hands, lunged again, and missed again as Kerrigan crouched going backward, weaving and dodging, ducking and coming up and then moving away from where Ruttman wanted him to be.
Ruttman’s expression had changed. Now his eyes showed impatience. He took a deep breath and charged at Kerrigan, putting everything he had in an overhand right that whizzed toward Kerrigan’s head. The fist hit empty air and nothing else. Ruttman lost his balance and stumbled and fell to one knee.
Someone laughed.
Ruttman came up fast. He rushed again, his left arm swinging hard. Kerrigan went inside the hook, shot a short right to Ruttman’s belly, used the right again, ripping it to the ribs. Ruttman lowered his hands to protect his midsection, and Kerrigan took a backward step, took aim, and hauled off and smashed a straight right hand to the chin.
He saw Ruttman staggering sideways, the thick arms flailing. The dock foreman struggled to keep his balance, managed to hold on and stay on his feet, moving unsteadily, eyes dull, then bracing himself and coming in again.
Kerrigan was ready. He jabbed with his left, jabbed again and again, finding Ruttman’s nose and mouth. Then another vicious jab that had all his strength behind it, his fist twisting as it landed against Ruttman’s brow. He saw the flaring red streak above Ruttman’s eye, and he sent another left to the same place, that widened the cut.
The dock workers were silent, staring in disbelief as they saw Ruttman taking it and falling backward and still taking it. They were watching the downfall of a man they believed to be invincible. And they didn’t like it.
Kerrigan put another left against Ruttman’s bad eye. Ruttman let out a groan of pain, tried to cover up, and Kerrigan, working very fast now, hooked a left to the head, hooked again to the body, chopped with the right and brought more blood and a couple of teeth from Ruttman’s mouth.
Someone yelled, “Come on, Ruttman! Don’t take it. Go after him.”
“Get him, Ruttman!”
“Knock his brains out!”
As the stevedores shouted encouragement to Ruttman, it was like a heavy weight falling on Kerrigan’s chest. Suddenly he realized he was fighting a man he had no right to fight. He was defeating the man and he hated the idea.
Because the adversary was not Ruttman. The true enemy was sitting there at the wheel of the parked car, her golden hair glimmering, her eyes taunting him.
It was as though she were saying, You’re afraid of me.
He could hear the grinding of his teeth as he realized it was true. He had the feeling of facing a high fence, much too high for him to climb. The fists of Ruttman were coming toward him but it wasn’t important, he didn’t care. He scarcely felt the knuckles that bashed his face. It wasn’t a fight any longer, it was just a mess, a loused-up comedy without any laughs.
Something crashed against his mouth. He tasted blood, but he wasn’t conscious of the taste, or the grinding pain.
He was thinking, You can’t handle her, you know you can’t.
A big fist hit him on the side of the head, sent him falling back. He saw Ruttman moving in for the follow-up, saw Ruttman’s arms coming in like pistons. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even bother to lift his hands.
His head jerked to the side as Ruttman’s right hand caught him on the jaw. Ruttman hit him in the midsection with a short ripping left that caused him to double up, then straightened him with a long left, then another right to the jaw, setting him up now, gauging him, sort of propping him there, and then winding it up and sending it in, a package of thunder that became a flashing, blinding streak of light going up from his chin to his brain. He sailed back and went down like a falling plank and rolled over on his face.
The onlookers stood motionless for several moments. Then a few stevedores moved forward to join Ruttman, who was bending over Kerrigan and muttering, “He’s out. He’s out cold.”
“Is he breathing?”
“He’s all right,” Ruttman said.
They turned Kerrigan over so that he rested on his back. For a few seconds they were silent, just staring at his face.
His eyes were closed, but the men weren’t looking at his eyes. They were watching his mouth.
“He’s smiling,” one of them said. “Look at this crazy bastard. What’s he g
ot to smile about?”
Kerrigan was deep in the soothing darkness and far away from everything, yet his blacked-out brain was speaking to him, smiling and saying derisively, You damn fool.
8
THEY LIFTED Kerrigan and carried him into the pier office and put him on a battered leather sofa in the dusty back room that was used for infirmary purposes. They splashed water in his face and worked some whisky down his throat, and within a few minutes he was sitting up and accepting a cigarette from Ruttman. He took a long drag and smiled amiably at the dock foreman.
Ruttman smiled back. “Hurt much?” Kerrigan shrugged.
The other stevedores were slowly leaving the office. Ruttman waited until all of them were gone and then he said, “You gave me a damn nice tussle. For a while there you had me going. But all of a sudden you quit cold. Why?”
Kerrigan shrugged again. “Ran out of gas.”
“No, you didn’t. You were doing fine.” Ruttman’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, tell me why you quit.”
“I just lost interest. I got bored.”
Ruttman sighed. “Guess I’ll have to let it ride.” And then, deciding on a final try, “If you’ll open up, maybe I can help you.”
“Who needs help?”
“You do,” Ruttman said. “For one thing, you’re out of a job.”
Kerrigan tried to take it casually, but he felt the bite of genuine panic as he thought of the family’s financial condition. His weekly pay check was the only money coming into the house these days. Of course, there were Bella’s three nights a week as a hat-check girl, but she had the gambling habit, mostly horses, and she was always in the red. So here he was with five mouths to feed and no job and the picture was definitely unfunny.
He made an effort to cheer himself up. “This ain’t the only pier on the river. I’ll go see Ferraco on Nineteen. He’s always got a shortage.”
“No,” Ruttman said. “He won’t hire you. None of them’ll hire you.”
“Why not?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.
“You’re blackballed,” Ruttman said. “It’s going down the line already.”
Kerrigan stared down at the uncarpeted floor. He took another drag at the cigarette and it tasted sour.
He heard Ruttman saying, “I’d like to go to bat, but you won’t give me anything to work on.”
He went on staring at the floor. “The hell with it.”
Ruttman let out a huge sigh. “I guess it ain’t no use,” he said aloud to himself. Then, looking at Kerrigan, “Better stay here and rest a while. When you come out, I’ll have your pay check ready.”
The dock foreman walked out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, feeling the dizziness coming again, starting to feel the full hurt of the big fists that had rammed his ribs and his belly and his face. Very slowly he pulled his legs onto the sofa and lay back. He closed his eyes and told himself to fade away for an hour or so.
Just then he heard a footstep, the rustle of a dress. He opened his eyes and saw Loretta Channing looking down at him.
She stood there at the side of the sofa, her hands holding the camera. She wasn’t aiming it, and he saw that her fingers were manipulating a lever and getting the camera open and taking out a small roll of film.
Her face was expressionless as she extended her hand to offer him the film.
He grinned wryly and shook his head.
“Take it,” she said.
“What’ll I do with it?”
“Whatever you wish. You said you’d like to shove it down my throat.”
He went on grinning. “Did I really say that?”
She nodded. Then she stepped back a little, studying him. Her eyebrows were lifted slightly, as though she was seeing something she hadn’t expected to see. He knew she’d anticipated another bitter outburst from him, another display of uncontrollable rage.
He lowered his legs over the side of the sofa, then leaned back, comfortably relaxed. He watched her as she walked across the room and dropped the roll of film into a waste basket. Then she turned and looked at him and she was waiting for him to say something.
He saw the bruise on her lip, and he winced.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said. Then, with the feeling that he had to say more, he added, “I didn’t mean to do it. Just lost my head for a second.” He stood up and moved toward the window that looked out upon the sun-drenched river. His voice was very low, not much more than a husky whisper. “I’m really very sorry.”
It was quiet for a few moments. Then he heard her say, “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you did it.”
He turned and looked at her.
“Yes,” she said. “I know I deserved it. I shouldn’t have come out there on the pier, and I certainly had no right to snap your picture.”
“Why did you do it?”
She opened her mouth to answer. Then she changed her mind and her lips shut tightly. He saw her face go red. She blinked a few times, then looked past him and said, “Whatever my reasons were, it was inexcusable, and I’m very much ashamed of myself.” With an effort she gazed directly at his face. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
For some strange reason he wasn’t able to meet her eyes. He looked at the floor and swallowed hard. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s forget it.”
“I can’t. I want you to know how badly I feel about this. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble. You took a bad beating out there on the dock. And now they tell me you’ve been fired.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that’s the way it goes. I was looking for grief, so they gave it to me.”
“But it’s all my fault,” she said. And then, in a lower tone, “Won’t you let me make it up to you?”
He looked at her. “How?”
“I know one of the pier owners. I’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll let you keep your job.”
His eyes hardened, and he could feel the cold anger coming. But as he stood there and looked at her, his gaze gradually narrowed and his thoughts became more reasonable. He was thinking, For God’s sake, take it easy. Don’t blow your top again.
She was saying, “All you need to do is say the word. I’ll arrange for an appointment right away.”
He was able to say easily, “You really think it’ll work?”
“I’m sure it will.”
“Well,” he said, “whichever way it goes, it’s damn nice of you to try.”
“Not at all.” Her tone was level. “I’m only doing what I think is fair. All this was my fault and there’s no reason why you should suffer for it.”
He didn’t say anything. He had a relaxed feeling, an awareness that it was happening the way it should happen. Somehow it was as though they were meeting for the first time.
His smile was pleasant. “If I get my job back, it’ll take a load of worry off my chest. You’ll be doing me a big favor.”
She had moved toward a table near the window. She put the camera on the table, then turned slightly and gazed out the window and for a few moments she didn’t reply. Then, very quietly, “Maybe you’ll get a chance to repay it.”
He caught no special meaning from her statement, and he said lightly, “I hope so. It’ll be a pleasure.”
“Well,” she said, moving toward the door, “we probably won’t be seeing each other again.”
“I guess not.”
For a long moment she stood in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were intense, and it seemed she was trying to tell him something that she couldn’t put into words.
Then very slowly she turned and walked out of the room.
Kerrigan moved toward the leather sofa. He felt the weight of heavy fatigue and it had no connection with the battering he’d taken from Ruttman. Nor was it due to the fact that he’d had less than three hours’ sleep the night before. As he lowered himself to the sofa, he realized what an effort it had taken to control his anger and discuss matters calmly. It seemed to him tha
t he’d never worked so hard in all his life. . . .
For hour after hour he slept heavily, oblivious of the loud voices of the stevedores on the pier, the clanging of chains, the thudding of crates against the planks. At a few minutes past five he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder, and he looked up and saw the grinning face of Ruttman.
“The front office just called,” Ruttman said. “They’re putting you back on the job.”
Kerrigan sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and dragging himself away from sleep.
Through a veil he heard Ruttman saying, “I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. That call came from the big boss himself.”
Kerrigan didn’t say anything.
Ruttman was looking at him and waiting for an explanation and not getting any. The dock foreman turned away, started toward the door, then pivoted and stared at the table near the window.
Kerrigan stiffened as he saw what Ruttman was looking at. It was the camera.
“Well, whaddya know?” Ruttman breathed. “She give it to you for a gift?”
Kerrigan shook his head slowly, dazedly. “I didn’t know she left it here.”
Then it was quiet in the room while Ruttman walked slowly to the table and picked up the camera. He looked at it and murmured, “This ain’t no ordinary gadget. If it’s worth a dime, it’s worth fifty bucks. Not the kind of a thing you leave around on tables.”
Kerrigan’s lips tightened. “What are you getting at?”
Ruttman hefted the camera in his hand. He brought it to the sofa and let it drop into Kerrigan’s lap. “It’s like a game of checkers,” he said. “Now it’s your move. You find out where she lives and you take it back to her. That’s why she left it here.”
The anger was coming again and he tried to hold it back but it flamed in his eyes. “The hell with her,” he muttered. “I ain’t running no lost-and-found department.”
