Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  He reached the door and put both hands on it to push. He paused. Damn, he thought, I’m not responsible for him. I saved his fucking ass out there and got him a pass on top of it. What the hell more can I do? It’s not my business. I don’t want it to be. The guy’s a nutcase. Besides, I have enough trouble just looking out for myself.

  Alexander McCarthy had spent thirty-five years avoiding involvement. If he’d learned nothing else growing up at Our Lady of Mercy Orphanage, he had learned that it didn’t pay to get close to other people. If you made a friend, he’d get adopted and leave. The couple who took you home and offered the chance of a real family decided after three months that what they wanted was a baby, not a gangly eleven-year-old who swore like a sailor and played cards with deadly intensity. After things like that happened too often, he learned. Even with women he didn’t like to take chances. Maybe that was why he never found the right girl to marry and make all his fantasies of a home and family real. If he paid for what he got, there was no chance of being disappointed. Of being hurt.

  He had the army and he had his poker. That was all he needed. Goddamn, he especially didn’t need this. Didn’t want it.

  He pushed the door open with a vicious shove, then let it swing closed again. Oh, hell. A couple days. What could it hurt? “Johnny?” he said without turning around.

  “Yes, Mac?”

  He turned then. John Paul Griffith was still standing where he’d left him, arms at his sides, his expression reminding Mac of the look he’d seen on the faces of gook refugees leaving bombed-out villages. “You want to come with me? We could hang around together for a day or two, I guess. If you want.”

  Johnny took a deep breath. “I-I—” He shrugged helplessly. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “You have any money?” Mac asked, wondering glumly just what the hell he was getting into.

  Johnny moved toward him, making Mac think of a kid on his way into a circus tent. “Yeah, sure, I have money,” he said eagerly. “Plenty of money.”

  Somehow that figured.

  They stepped out onto the sun-dappled sidewalk. Johnny was grinning now and there was something infectious about his mood. “Shit,” Mac said generously. “Who the hell knows? We might even have a good time.”

  Chapter 4

  The apartment was stifling hot. A small ceiling fan managed only to stir the heavy air around a little. The only sounds were the soft slap of card against card and the low murmur of an occasional comment by one of the players.

  The game itself was a total mystery to Johnny—even Old Maid and Authors had been frowned upon in the strict fundamentalist household where he’d grown up. In the years since, it had not been the supposed evils of cards he had avoided, but the enforced society of others entailed in the games. He sat in one corner of the couch, drinking the cold beer someone had handed him, and watched as Mac played poker. The six men had been playing for hours, but Johnny wasn’t bored. He was watching Mac, bemused and a little frightened by the changes that had come over him when he sat down to play. The differences were visible in the way Mac handled the deck, with quick, familiar fingers, and even more so in the eager, intense expression on his face. The jade eyes seemed to glow.

  Johnny was glad he’d given Mac the stake money to get into the game. Mac had been reluctant, at first, to accept, but Johnny had convinced him. It made Mac happy to be here and that pleased Johnny.

  If he was also a little frightened by the intensity on Mac’s face, the almost ferocious determination with which he seemed to approach each hand, Johnny chose to ignore the fear.

  As if aware of the scrutiny, Mac looked up from his deal and met Johnny’s gaze. Nothing in his face changed, no hint of emotion that might be intercepted by the other players. Despite that, Johnny felt sure that Mac was glad to have him there. He shoved away his own apprehensions and took a gulp of beer as he watched Mac finish the deal.

  Mac came out of the game a winner. Not a big winner, but at least not a loser, and that put him in a good mood. He grinned at Johnny as they walked back onto the street. “Let’s celebrate my luck,” he suggested, shoving the small wad of bills away.

  Johnny forgot to ask for his stake money back.

  They went into a bar, where Mac ordered a bottle of cheap wine so they could toast his win. Johnny wasn’t used to drinking and he didn’t much like the taste, but he didn’t want to disappoint Mac, so he drank whatever was poured. As the level of wine in the bottle began to drop, the evening started to grow fuzzy around the edges for Johnny. He was never quite sure just when the two women joined their party, or why. All he really knew was that a small redhead had slipped into the booth next to him, and that the conversation was all too hazy for him to understand. He talked very little, never quite sure what he was saying, and listened without knowing what he was hearing.

  Sometime later, he found himself walking along the sidewalk with the redhead. Mac and the other girl were several feet ahead of them, and Johnny could see that they were talking, but the words were too soft for him to hear. The redhead had her hand in his and she was telling him about her job at the embassy. None of it made any sense.

  When they reached the girls’ apartment, someone opened more wine and someone else turned on the stereo. Mathis began to sing in soft, intimate tones. Johnny felt as if he were on a runaway roller coaster, speeding toward some dangerous place he didn’t want to go.

  Before very long Mac and the other girl disappeared through a door, and he was alone with Kathi. “With an ‘i’,” she’d said, giggling. Johnny wondered what the joke was. She brought her glass of wine and curled on the couch next to him. Beneath the thin cotton blouse she wore, he could see the dark circles of her nipples. When he moved away slightly, she laughed. “You’re very shy, aren’t you? Well, that’s okay, because so am I. It’s just that over here things seem to move so much faster. I guess we sort of live for today, because who knows about tomorrow?”

  He thought her words sounded familiar, like lines out of The Late Show. Her hand undid the buttons on his shirt, then slid in across his chest. He shivered at the cool touch and her breath quickened in response. Without any conscious thought on his part, they were both suddenly stretched out on the sofa. He kissed her tentatively, without opening his mouth. She poked and probed with her tongue, until his lips parted. He could taste salt and wine and raspberry-flavored lip gloss.

  “Oh, boy,” she sighed. Her hand slipped down to the zipper on his fly, and a moment later he could feel her fingers twisting in the soft hairs on his groin. “You wanna do it, John?” she breathed into his ear.

  His hand was on her thigh; he felt the slender body turn, shifting, so that his fingers nestled in warm dampness. He started to shake, a black terror beginning deep inside, rushing headlong toward the surface, threatening to drown him in its waves. She was suddenly all over him, her mouth and her hands trying to devour him. She whispered as she moved, but the words were swallowed up by another voice, the echo of his father’s words coming down the years to attack him again. Condemning him. Damning him. The heat that had built up inside him turned icy, and he was afraid. He looked toward the bedroom, praying for help, but the door stayed closed.

  Her lips touched him again, possessing him. His arms stiffened abruptly and he pushed her away. She fell to the floor with a thud. “Hey,” she said, shocked, “what the hell—?”

  Without answering, he lurched up from the sofa and tried to find the door. He knocked over a table, sending a lamp crashing against the wall as he tried desperately to escape, fighting back the nausea rising in his throat.

  “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?” She was screaming at him.

  He ignored her. Finally, blindly, his fingers found the knob and he plunged out into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him and he felt safe at last. Wearily, he leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor.

  He had no idea how much time passed before he heard the door open again. Heavy footsteps came toward him, then Mac cr
ouched down. “Johnny?”

  He couldn’t look up, afraid of what he might see in the other man’s face.

  “Hey, Johnny, you okay?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice muffled against his arm.

  “Kid, if nothing’s wrong, why’d you run out like that? You scared Kathi half to death.”

  “I’m sorry.” He lifted his head finally, looking up at the other man. Mac’s shirt was on, but unbuttoned, and his craggy face was bewildered. “Tell her . . . I’m sorry.”

  Mac relaxed on the floor next to him. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Johnny. “Can I ask you something, kid?” he said, a hand resting on Johnny’s leg.

  “Sure.”

  “Haven’t you ever made it with a broad?”

  He shook his head.

  “You a fag?” There was no change in the voice, or in the grip of Mac’s hand on his leg. “‘Cause if you are, Johnny, that’s okay. I mean, to each his own, you know?”

  “No,” Johnny said wearily, “I’m not a fag, either. I just never did. Not with anybody.”

  “Hell.” Mac glanced at the closed apartment door. “She was hot to trot, that’s for damned sure. Probably all over you, huh?”

  Johnny nodded again. “She was on top of me and I felt like . . . like I was suffocating. Like I was gonna disappear.” He could feel himself trembling. “One time I knew this girl, can’t remember her name, but she and I were kissing, that’s all, I swear, just kissing, and my father caught us. He made me stand up in front of the whole church and tell everybody what I’d been doing. He was the minister. I had to tell them all.” He gagged slightly. “My father said I could go to hell for that.” He fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill out. “I don’t want to go to hell, Mac.”

  “You won’t. That was a long time ago, Johnny. Your father can’t do anything to you now. They’re long dead and gone, right?” Mac grinned a little. “Hell, boy, I’ve been screwing around for years. You think I’m going to hell?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then?” Mac sobered. “Hey, look, I know the first time is a little scary, but it’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t understand.” Johnny wiped his sweaty face against one sleeve.

  “So explain it to me.”

  Johnny stared into the green eyes, wanting to gauge the reaction to his words. “I don’t want to do it. Why do I have to?”

  Mac blinked twice. “Hey,” he said finally, “you don’t have to. It doesn’t matter.”

  Johnny took a long drag on the unaccustomed cigarette, then coughed. “I must be some kind of freak.” It was not quite a question.

  “Hell, no, you’re not. Some people just aren’t interested. It’s your business.” Mac smiled again. “Shit, half the time fucking’s overrated anyhow.”

  Johnny kept looking at him. “Can we still be friends?” He’d never called anybody friend before. The word felt a little strange on his lips.

  But Mac didn’t laugh. He just gave Johnny’s leg a squeeze. “Of course. Whether or not you screw that broad has nothing to do with us.”

  Johnny sighed in relief. He lowered his eyes. “I would have tried, Mac, if you wanted me to,” he said very, very softly.

  Mac didn’t say anything.

  Johnny rested his head back against the wall. “My father always used to tell me that I was a burden,” he said almost dreamily. “Like the Lord sent me just to test them, and see if their faith could carry them through. They were stuck with me because they were my parents.” He rubbed at the floor with the heel of his hand.

  “Yeah?” Mac crushed out his cigarette.

  “You ever wonder why you were born, Mac?”

  He snorted. “Hell, kid, I know why I was born.”

  Johnny stared at him. “Really? Why?”

  “Because, asshole, otherwise you’d be sitting in this hallway talking to yourself.”

  Johnny laughed aloud. It didn’t last long, though. “I just meant . . . well, you don’t have to feel responsible for me or anything.”

  “I know that.”

  Johnny felt a sudden chill course through him. He wrapped both arms around himself, trying to get warm. “I didn’t mean to screw up your pass, Mac.”

  “Why do you keep apologizing all the time? It doesn’t matter.”

  The tears wouldn’t stay back any longer; they flowed down Johnny’s face. “I’m scared, Mac. I just get so scared.”

  “I know.” Mac put one hand on his shoulder and gripped. “It’s gonna be okay, kid,” he said. “Stop crying, huh?”

  Johnny nodded and rubbed at his face with both hands.

  Mac looked at him for a long moment; his face seemed almost angry, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Tomorrow I’m going into Major Henderson’s office and have you transferred to my unit,” he said.

  Johnny swallowed hard, trying to understand. “What?”

  “I said, you’re coming with me. You’re not going back to your old unit.”

  “Thank you,” Johnny whispered. “I . . . just, thank you.”

  They were quiet for awhile, then Mac stood. “I’m gonna go finish what I started in there,” he said. “You zip your pants and get the hell out of here.”

  “Okay, Mac, whatever you say. I’ll wait for you back at the hotel, huh?”

  “Sure, fine.”

  Johnny sat on the floor and watched until Mac had disappeared inside. Then he stood, zipped his fly, and left. He went back to the hotel and waited for Mac to come home.

  Chapter 5

  For the first time in weeks it wasn’t raining as Mac made his way through the knee-deep mud that covered the compound. It was too bad, he thought, that the breakfast waiting for him in the mess tent wasn’t worth all the trouble it took to get there.

  Crazy George was standing outside the tent.

  “Morning, George,” Mac said, stopping to scrape his boots on the large rock set by the door for that purpose.

  George only scowled at him.

  Mac shrugged and went inside. He paused long enough to roll his trouser legs down again, then went to pick up eggs, toast, and coffee, which he carried to a table. “Morning,” he said, unloading the tray.

  “Good morning,” Johnny said cheerfully.

  Mac, the lifelong loner, still couldn’t quite get used to the idea that someone was actually glad to see him every morning, but for whatever reasons existed inside his poor befuddled head, John Griffith apparently was. He made an effort at returning Johnny’s smile, then bent his head over the eggs. They were cold, of course.

  “How was the game last night?”

  Mac grimaced. “Don’t ask.” He looked up, chewing diligently. “I haven’t held a decent hand since that night in Saigon. Maybe you should come kibbitz again.”

  “No.” The finality of the word allowed for no discussion.

  Mac shrugged. “I was only kidding.” He didn’t understand Johnny’s firm refusal to come watch him play cards, but he accepted it as just one more quirk in a personality loaded with them. Maybe poker bored him.

  “How much did you lose?”

  “All of it.” He didn’t bother mentioning the several I.O.U.s.

  “All?” Johnny shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “Maybe you shouldn’t play so much.”

  Mac stopped with the tin mug of coffee halfway to his lips and stared at Johnny. “Get the fuck off my back,” he said coldly. “You’re not my wife or my mother, so lay off. Butt out of my life.”

  Johnny flinched back from the words as if they were physical blows. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I’m sorry.” He fumbled for his wallet. “I have fifty left. Take it for your stake tonight.”

  Mac stared at the bills, then shook his head. “Keep your goddamned money,” he mumbled. “I don’t want it.”

  “Please.” Johnny’s voice cracked, and for one terrible minute Mac thought the other man was
going to cry. “Don’t be mad at me. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s none of my business what you do with the money.”

  “Half of what I lost last night was yours,” Mac said bitterly. “I guess you’re entitled to bellyache.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I don’t care. The money doesn’t matter. Please, Mac.”

  After another long moment, Mac’s fingers closed around the bills. “Hey,” he said, “I shouldn’t have blown up like I did.” When Johnny didn’t look up, Mac reached across the table and lightly punched him on the shoulder. “Hey, Johnny-boy, you in there?” He hated it when Johnny wouldn’t talk.

  Johnny sighed finally and raised his eyes. “Are we okay again?”

  “Sure.” Mac tucked the money into his shirt pocket. “We’re okay, Johnny, of course we are.”

  Griffith smiled.

  Mac could feel a knot of tension forming in his neck. That seemed to happen a lot lately. “I gotta go,” lie said, gulping the last of the cold coffee. “Staff briefing in a couple of minutes.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said. “Have a nice day.”

  Mac stopped in mid-stride and turned back to Johnny, a helpless smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Jesus. Griffith sometimes said the damnedest things; there was just no way to figure the guy out. “You have a nice day, too,” Mac said after a moment. Johnny nodded and Mac walked out of the tent.

  Crazy George was still standing there. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said softly.

  Mac paused. “Yeah, George?”

  George stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I know the secret,” he said.

  “What?” Mac looked into George’s eyes and saw the madness there. Entranced by that, he didn’t even see the knife until the blade was already moving through the air. “Hey, don’t—” he started to say.

  The knife sliced through his upper arm and blood spurted out over them both. George lifted his hand again, and Mac fell away, crashing through the side of the tent. George kept coming, yelling something about God and Lyndon Johnson. Mac tried to get away, but his legs were tangled in the heavy, muddy canvas. “Oh, hell,” he said aloud, thinking that this was a fucking stupid way to die. “Damn.”