Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  The air was suddenly filled with a noise that sounded like it came from an animal in mortal pain. Through the mud and confusion, Mac was aware of a blur flying past him and colliding with George. The two tangled figures sprawled in the mud and standing puddles.

  Mac struggled to sit up, watching Johnny and George roll around, the knife blade flashing between them. A crowd had gathered by this time, and a couple of the men made a halfhearted attempt to stop the battle, but most just stood there watching. George’s arm jerked and the knife slashed across Johnny’s cheek. Johnny swung a hand wildly in response, sending the weapon skidding away. Mac finally got himself untangled from the tent and sat up, trying to stop the flow of blood from his arm. “Johnny!” he yelled.

  Johnny, if he even heard him, ignored the shout. He was on top of George now, clutching the larger man by the hair. In the sudden silence of the crowd, Mac could hear the terrible dull thuds of George’s head against the rock upon which he’d cleaned his boots earlier. Again and again flesh and bone crashed against the rock. Two men tried to pull Johnny away, but he shrugged them off almost nonchalantly. It was hard to believe that there was so much strength in the slender body.

  Mac half-ran, half-crawled across the distance between them and plowed into Johnny with the full force of his body, sending them both into a puddle. Somebody immediately dragged George away. Mac lay heavily on top of Johnny, who still writhed and jerked from the emotional frenzy of the fight. “Johnny, Johnny,” he crooned, like a man trying to calm a distraught animal. “Take it easy, babe, take it easy.”

  Slowly Johnny relaxed and his breathing returned to normal. “Did he hurt you, Mac?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “No, kid, I’m okay. Just cut my arm a little.” Mac rolled off Johnny. A short distance away, a medic was bent over George. “Sit up,” Mac ordered.

  Johnny struggled up. Both his eyes were already starting to discolor and the cut on his cheek was bleeding. “You really okay, Mac?” he persisted.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, although his arm was throbbing like hell.

  “He was trying to kill you.”

  “Well, I guess. George is crazy.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, of course not,” he said reassuringly, although he didn’t know.

  “I wish he was.” Mac looked up in surprise. The expression that he could see in Johnny’s eyes was scary, a little too much like the look he’d seen in George’s eyes just before the attack. “He was going to kill you, Mac,” Johnny said by way of apparent explanation. “He deserves to die.”

  Mac sat speechless for a moment, then jerked his head around. “We need a goddamned medic over here!” he yelled. “Can’t you see we’re bleeding to death?”

  He felt dizzy suddenly and leaned against Johnny to keep from falling into the puddle again.

  Chapter 6

  He walked across the compound to the supply tent, knowing that Johnny would be there taking inventory. That was all Johnny did, by Mac’s order. It was a good job for him, because he could work alone, and by the time he finished counting all the bandages and cases of corned beef hash and the bullets, it was time to start over again. Everyone knew, of course, why Dumb Johnny had been assigned the task. Everyone except Johnny.

  He was there, bent over the omnipresent clipboard. All that remained of the fight with George was the healing scar on his cheek. Mac leaned against a case of powdered eggs. “How’s it going, kid?”

  Johnny looked up, startled, until he saw who it was, then he smiled. “Okay. Except I think I need glasses. The numbers keep getting smaller.”

  Mac cleared his throat. “I got my orders.”

  “Your orders?”

  “Shipping home. Next Wednesday.”

  Johnny lowered the clipboard. The scar suddenly stood out, vivid red against his pale skin. “Wednesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head, the eyes even more bewildered than before. “But, Mac, I—”

  “Hey, you’ll be okay, kid,” Mac said quickly, trying to sound a hell of a lot more sure than he felt. “You’ve only got eight weeks left, right?”

  “I won’t make it.”

  The words should have sounded melodramatic, but they didn’t. Instead there was the simple starkness of truth. Mac didn’t say anything and after a moment, Johnny sighed and raised the clipboard. “Johnny, hey—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Fifty-two, fifty-three—”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean, it doesn’t matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m glad you’re getting out of this mess. Sixty-four, sixty-five—”

  “Johnny . . .”

  “I’m trying to count this stuff, Mac. It’s my job. Seventy-three, seventy—”

  Mac suddenly moved toward him, grabbed the clipboard, and threw it across the tent. “Forget the fucking inventory,” he said. “Nobody cares if you stand in here counting things.”

  Johnny’s hands dropped to his sides, and he stared at the floor.

  “Johnny?”

  The silence rang loudly in the tent.

  “Johnny, say something to me.”

  But he didn’t.

  Mac clenched his fingers around the edge of a packing case. “Don’t do this, Johnny. It’s stupid.”

  Instead of answering, Johnny relaxed his legs and slid down the pile of boxes, huddling on the floor. Mac could feel a seething white anger well up inside him. “You stop it,” he said raspingly. “Stop it now, or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” Words wouldn’t come; he didn’t even know what the hell he wanted to say. He crashed a fist against the top of the box. “Damn you. I don’t care what happens. I don’t care if you sit there until hell freezes over. You bastard. You crazy son of a bitch.”

  He turned around and walked out of the tent, not looking back.

  Johnny didn’t show up for supper. Mac sat alone, for the first time in months, but he didn’t eat much. He pushed the food around on the plate for awhile, then left. Bumming a bottle of cheap wine from Wash, he crawled into his cot, resolving to drink until he passed out.

  He almost made it.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about Griffith sitting in the supply tent, huddled on the floor like a scared kid. The image finally propelled him off the cot. Gingerly walking what he hoped was a reasonably straight line, he made his way across the compound. Just to cover all his bases, he checked the mess tent and Johnny’s quarters, but then he went back to the supply tent.

  Johnny was still there, sitting on the floor, with his legs crossed Indian-style, and a .45 in his hand. Mac stumbled into the circle of pale yellow light. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, wishing that his tongue didn’t feel quite so thick.

  Johnny looked up at him. “I don’t want to stay here by myself,” he said quietly.

  “Shit, man, everybody ain’t leaving, just me. You’ll still have lots of company.”

  Johnny’s glance at him was filled with scorn. “You know what I mean,” he said. “I don’t want to stay here by myself.”

  Mac nodded. “Okay. I know what you mean. But what the hell are you gonna do about it?”

  “Go away, Mac.”

  He didn’t go away; he sat down facing Johnny. “This is great, you know, really great.”

  “What?”

  “We have a problem here, kid, and what happens? Do you give me a chance to handle it, to figure out what to do? No, sir, all you want to do is blow your fucking brains out. Assuming you have any brains in there, which I doubt very much. Some buddy you are. Christ.”

  Johnny stared at the gun for a moment, then lifted his gaze to Mac. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just thought—”

  “You thought? When the hell did you start thinking?”

  “I didn’t know it mattered what I did.”

  “Well, it matters.” Mac was quiet for a moment, trying to clear his fuzzy brain. “It matters, you stupid son of a bitch.”

  Carefully Johnny set the gun do
wn onto the floor. “You said you didn’t care.”

  “Oh, shut up. Nobody else around this place pays a goddamned bit of attention to anything I say; why the hell should you?

  They were quiet for a couple of minutes as Johnny chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. “What are we gonna do?” he asked finally.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I could just go AWOL,” Johnny suggested.

  “Oh, sure, that’s a terrific idea. Then they could stick you in Leavenworth or in front of a firing squad.” Mac rubbed his temples. “Look, will you just let me handle it? Leave the thinking to me. I promise I’ll get you out of here, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Mac sighed. “But right now I have to get some sleep.” He pushed himself to his feet wearily and started out. “Good night,” he mumbled.

  “Sleep tight,” Johnny returned cheerfully.

  Mac didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He did neither, just shook his head and kept moving.

  Chapter 7

  Mac was drunk. But it was his bon voyage party, so he figured he was entitled. They were drinking some punch Washington had created. It seemed to be nothing more than an uneasy mingling of all the booze in camp, with a can of fruit cocktail dumped in to give it an air of festivity.

  Mac sat in one corner, trying to dig a green grape from the bottom of his glass. He looked up blearily as Wash dropped next to him. “Great party,” he said.

  Washington surveyed the roomful of drunk men glumly. “I guess.”

  Mac almost captured the grape, but at the last minute it slithered away. “Damn. Slippery little fucker.”

  “I got a question for you, Lieutenant-buddy.”

  Mac looked at him.

  “What are you gonna do with the zombie when you get back?”

  They both glanced across the tent to where Johnny sat alone, watching the proceedings with a faint smile. Mac shrugged. “I’m not gonna do anything. He wanted out and I got him out. That’s all.”

  Washington wiped his sweating brow. “You know the guy is a real screwball, don’t you?”

  “Ahh, he’s okay. A little weird, but okay.”

  “Mac, John Griffith is sick.” The black man’s voice was flat.

  Mac took a gulp of the punch, wishing they weren’t having this conversation. “Hell, Wash, so is everybody else around here.”

  “Whenever you ain’t around, he don’t talk, man.”

  There was a by-now-familiar knot of tension in Mac’s neck, and despite the punch he felt sober again. “He gets scared, is all.”

  “That’s not all.” A hand rested firmly on Mac’s shoulder. “Take my advice and get him into a hospital.”

  “You mean turn him over to the shrinks?”

  “He needs help.”

  “No,” Mac said flatly. “I can’t do that.” He was quiet for a moment, letting the memories wash over him. “My old lady bought it in one of those places. I can’t do that to Johnny.”

  “Fine,” Washington replied. “What will you do? Dump him on the street in Frisco and walk away?”

  Mac finally captured the elusive grape and pulled it out of the glass. He studied it, then threw it across the table, watching as it bounced and rolled to the ground. “Once we’re out of here, he’s on his own. He knows that.”

  Washington snorted. “Shit, he don’t know what his own name is unless you tell him every so often.”

  The hammer was pounding in the back of Mac’s skull. “He’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah, sure, Mac. Zombies probably make out real good on their own.”

  Johnny had seen Mac staring at him. He grinned and started to make his way through the crowd toward them. Washington got to his feet. “But I guess that’s not your problem, is it? It will be though, unless you get out from under, and soon.” He smiled, suddenly and without humor. “Or else adopt the bastard.” He walked away.

  Mac watched Johnny approach. Get out from under . . . out from under. Damn it, maybe Wash was right. If he didn’t set this thing straight right now, he was liable to have Griffith around his neck for a long time. “We have to talk,” he said abruptly when the blond reached him. “Let’s go outside.”

  “Sure, Mac,” Johnny agreed, as usual.

  Mac led the way across the room and outside. They wandered across the compound aimlessly as he lit a cigarette. Back at the party somebody’s eight-track was blasting Beatles music. “What are your plans, Johnny?”

  “Plans?”

  “What are you gonna do when we get back home?”

  Johnny shook his head. “I don’t know, Mac.”

  “Well, you better start to think about it.”

  The younger man looked genuinely bewildered. “I thought you were going to do all the thinking, Mac. That’s what you said. Leave the thinking to me, you said.”

  Mac took a long drag on the cigarette. “I only meant while we were here, Johnny, not forever. When we get Stateside, you’re on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Oh.” The word was soft.

  Mac kept his eyes on the ground. “I mean, we have to get on with our own lives, right? I have things to do, you know?” He wondered as he spoke just what the hell he had to do. He was finished in the army; his own promise not to re-up was part of the deal he’d struck for Johnny’s early-out. This wasn’t the time to think about that, though. “There must be people you want to see and stuff to do, right?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ll think of something.” The words were sharp.

  “Sure, Mac,” Johnny whispered.

  He tried to ignore the tightness in his gut. Shit, he was only getting out from under. It was the smart thing to do. He sure as hell didn’t need to have John Paul Griffith hanging around his neck like some kind of goddamned millstone. He was going to have a hard enough time keeping himself afloat. Given a burden like that, they’d probably both go under. So it was best to dump him now, like Wash had said.

  So what if the guy was glad to see him every morning?

  Suddenly, irrationally, he knew, Mac was angry at Wash. Where the hell did that black bastard get off butting in to say that Johnny was crazy and that Mac would be better off without him? Sure, the kid had some problems, but who the hell didn’t? Given a little time, they could work it out.

  He glanced sidewise at Johnny walking next to him.

  Wash was a good guy, and a good friend, but this time he was wrong. Griffith was okay. He liked the kid, damn it, and to hell with what anybody else thought. When the rest of the fucking world kept out of it, he and Johnny got along just fine. Where the hell was it written that Alexander McCarthy couldn’t have a friend?

  He stopped walking and turned to face Johnny.

  “Hey.”

  Johnny raised his head, looking like a puppy dog that couldn’t understand why its beloved master has suddenly kicked him. “What, Mac?”

  “We could sort of stick together for awhile. Until we get our bearings. I have some connections in New York, so we might head east and see what happens. If you want.” He was surprised to realize how much he wanted Johnny to say yes.

  Johnny was staring at the ground again. “What do you want?” he asked very softly.

  “I think it sounds okay.”

  “I think so, too. I don’t get so scared when I’m with you.” Johnny’s face was suddenly anxious, as if he’d said too much. “Is that okay?”

  Mac smiled. “Yeah, sure.” He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “You want to know something, Johnny?”

  “What?”

  He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel. “I don’t get so scared when I’m with you, either.” He heard his own words with bemusement, figuring he wasn’t as sober as he’d thought, and hoping to hell he wasn’t going to regret this in the morning.

  Johnny laughed, as if he’d said something very funny. “You’re never scared,” he said complacently.

  Mac opened his mouth to set the kid straight on that, but t
hen he only shook his head helplessly. “Let’s go back to the party,” he said instead.

  “Sure, Mac, whatever you say.”

  They turned and walked back across the compound.

  Chapter 8

  It was a good night for Johnny. His Bowie knife style of throwing the darts was right on target time after time, and he won three straight games, raking in a total of thirty dollars. Prudently, he decided to go out a winner, despite the mild protests of his defeated opponents, who wanted a chance to get even. They didn’t press him too hard, however, because they realized that there would be other nights.

  Johnny was a familiar figure in the Pirate’s Cove Bar, although nobody really knew any more about him than his name. He came in several nights a week with a grim-faced poker player. The card game took place in the back room, but Johnny never went in there. He stayed in the front, perfecting his dart throwing skills to a deadly degree of accuracy. Although he was always willing for a game if asked, the other players soon discovered that it wasn’t easy to carry on a conversation with him. When a few words were pulled out of him, they were said in tones so soft as to be almost impossible to hear.

  Mostly he just sat in the rear booth, drinking a beer or two—never more—and waiting until the poker player came out. Then the two of them would leave.

  Johnny fingered the three tens as he sat drinking a beer. This was the most he’d ever won at darts and it gave him a good feeling. Maybe, he hoped, the money would make Mac feel better, too.

  A frown creased Johnny’s brow as he thought of his friend. Mac’s luck hadn’t been too good lately. The first few months in New York were okay, although Mac’s “connections” never came through as he’d hoped they would. They both still had some army money left, though, and for a while the cards seemed to run his way more often than not. Life was turning out okay.

  But then things started to go wrong and for the past three months it had all grown steadily worse. Johnny didn’t mind getting along on a diet of cheap hamburgers, or moving from one grimy, depressing room to the next. None of that mattered much to him. But he did mind a whole lot seeing what it was doing to Mac.