Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  “What?”

  He waved the fork in the direction of the music. “I played that song for you.”

  Mac looked puzzled. “What is it?”

  “Nat King Cole. You told me that you liked Nat King Cole.”

  “I did? When?”

  He licked lemon pudding from the fork. “A long time ago.”

  Mac shrugged.

  Anxiety replaced Johnny’s pleasure. “That’s right, isn’t it? You do like him, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Mac said quickly. “He’s one of my favorites.”

  Johnny relaxed again.

  In a few more minutes they left the diner, but instead of pulling back onto the highway, Mac drove around behind the building and parked again. “I want to try and get some sleep,” he explained, leaning back against the seat. “Just an hour or so.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said agreeably. He lit another cigarette.

  Mac’s eyes were closed. “Johnny?”

  “Huh?”

  “Thanks for playing the song.”

  A warm feeling rushed through him. “Sure, Mac. And I’ll try not to forget so many things.”

  “Hell, you remembered about me liking Nat King Cole. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, his eyes still closed, and in a minute he was asleep.

  It was quiet then, except for the faint and reassuring sound of Mac’s snoring. White-silver waves of light from the moon washed over the scene, enveloping them in an aura of unreality that Johnny could feel, if not define. He watched Mac, noticing with solemn wonder how sleep eased the worry lines from the craggy, familiar face.

  Los Angeles. Los Angeles, California. He wouldn’t forget again. Mac would be proud of how well he could remember things when he tried. Johnny wanted Mac to be proud of him. Or at least not to be mad at him. Mac’s anger was an earthquake that shook the foundations of Johnny’s world. He sighed, resolving yet again to be better, to do nothing that would disappoint Mac, or make the green eyes flash with lightning. Resting one hand lightly on the other man’s lean arm, Johnny solemnized the promise. Mac stirred a little in his sleep, almost seeming to turn toward the touch.

  Sometimes Johnny tried to remember what his life had been like before, but it was all just a barren landscape inhabited by grey, indifferent figures hovering always just beyond his reach. No one ever touched him. His father, one of the indistinct memories, used to talk about Jesus a lot. That much Johnny remembered, and in the old man’s words Christ was an incandescent being, a brightness that cut through the darkness of human existence. Johnny had never seen the Lord, though, never felt the pull, never understood what his father had been talking about.

  But now he knew.

  Mac was the golden light, the savior, the epicenter of Johnny’s being, and his benign approval was like a long swallow of cool spring water to a parched man. Johnny sometimes yearned inside, without knowing what it was he craved, desired without knowing why. But for now he was content to sit in the bathing calm of the moonglow, watching as Mac slept, letting the night wrap around them like a blanket.

  He moved a little closer and rested against Mac. The other man stirred restlessly, patting Johnny’s shoulder. “S’okay, kid,” Mac mumbled sleepily.

  Johnny sighed. He dared a little more, draping one arm across Mac’s chest. The sleeping man moved into the embrace, murmuring something that Johnny couldn’t quite hear. It didn’t matter. He smiled and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 2

  He sat in the motel room, watching M*A*S*H, and waiting for Mac to come back with the hamburgers. It seemed to be taking a very long time. Johnny got up from the bed a couple of times and walked over to peer out the window. Sometimes, he knew, Mac got sort of distracted and ended up playing cards or something when he was supposed to be running an errand. Usually, Johnny didn’t mind, but tonight he was awfully hungry. And a little lonely.

  At last, Johnny heard the sound of the key in the lock and the familiar lanky figure came into the room. His relief was reflected in a wide smile. “Hi.”

  Mac grunted a reply and dropped a paper bag of food and a six-pack onto Johnny’s bed. “Goddamned place was busy,” he muttered, pulling off his windbreaker.

  Johnny’s smile slowly faded. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You act like there is,” he insisted.

  Mac finally sat down, too. “I have a headache, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

  Johnny nodded, accepting that, and opened the sack. “Eat something,” he ordered. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Yeah? You sure about that?”

  “That’s what you always tell me.” Johnny smiled again and this time Mac returned it.

  “Guess I’m just tense,” Mac said, chewing the rubbery hamburger thoughtfully. “We’ve been sitting in this damned room for three days, and the contact hasn’t been made. Shit, I hope this job didn’t fall through.”

  “If it did, there’ll be something else.” Johnny was carefully squeezing catsup on his french fries.

  “Better be. We’re almost broke.”

  Johnny turned the volume up on the TV. “Don’t worry so much,” he mumbled. “You’ll get an ulcer.”

  Mac popped open a can of beer and took a long drink. “If I don’t worry, who will?”

  “Want me to for a while?”

  “Hah, you’re too dumb to worry,” Mac said, shoving the rest of the hamburger back into the sack.

  Johnny shrugged and finished the meal in silence. When they were done, he gathered all the trash and shoved it into the wastebasket. “Feel better?”

  “No.”

  Johnny frowned. “You mad at me, Mac?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “You sure? Because if I did something wrong, I’m sorry, really, I—”

  Mac stood abruptly. “Johnny, I’m not mad.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I keep saying the same things, don’t I?” The words seemed to be directed more at himself than at Johnny. “Year in and fucking year out. Are you as tired of it all as I am?” He stared at Johnny, who only looked back at him, having no idea what Mac wanted him to say, and long ago having learned that in such a case, it was best to keep his mouth shut. “Shit,” Mac said finally.

  “Yeah,” Johnny agreed, not really understanding what was going on, but knowing instinctively that the worst of Mac’s mood had passed. He opened a can of beer for himself and another for Mac. It was quiet again as they sat watching TV.

  At last, Mac crushed out his cigarette and drained the last of the beer. “I’ve got a game,” he said.

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “Oh, sure.” Mac smiled a good-bye. “See you later.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He left and the room seemed too quiet. Johnny tried to concentrate on a cop show, but the silence seemed to press in on him unbearably. After a few minutes, he grabbed his jacket and fled, leaving the loneliness behind.

  The harsh vibrations of downtown Los Angeles closed around him as he moved through the crowd of night people that cluttered the sidewalks around the bars and discos. The noise and movement of the scene surrounded him, and he relaxed a little, losing himself in the safety of anonymity.

  What he really wanted to do was see a movie, but he stopped in front of several rundown theatres, and they were all showing the same kind of film. The posters were of fierce-looking black men towering over frightened white men, or of Oriental martial arts experts practicing their skills on still more hapless whites. Johnny wished he could find one of the westerns he liked, the kind with lots of loud music and heroes that talked through clenched teeth.

  He finally gave up on the idea of a movie, and went into a drugstore for a candy bar and a copy of TV Guide. As he left the store, already eating the chocolate, he got the feeling that someone was following him. It wasn’t the first time lately he’d felt that way, but when he turned around, no one seemed to be paying any special attention to him, so he shrugged and walked on.

 
A young black kid approached him. “Hey, man.”

  They were standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change. “Hey,” Johnny replied, wishing that the boy didn’t look quite so much like one of those movie posters.

  “You looking for some action?”

  “What?” Johnny was staring at the pavement.

  “I got what you need.”

  “I don’t . . . uh, no. Thanks.” The words were a painful whisper.

  “Come on, man, everybody needs something. Girls? Boys? Uppers? Downers?”

  The light changed at last, and Johnny plunged out into the street, trying to escape. He kept moving, not looking back, until finally he could duck into the safety of a coffeeshop. The booths were all filled, so he sat at the counter, giving his order in a breathless voice, trying to stop the helpless trembling of his hands.

  When the waitress brought his dish of ice cream, he opened the TV Guide and bent over its familiar pages gratefully.

  “What flavor is that?” a voice asked suddenly.

  Johnny, still edgy, jumped a little. “Huh?”

  “That ice cream looks good. I was just wondering what kind it is.”

  The man had a friendly grin, and Johnny managed a faint smile in return. “Oh. It’s boysenberry ripple. It is good,” he added.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The guy summoned the waitress and ordered.

  Johnny glanced down at his magazine, wondering if it would be rude to start reading again. “There’s a Humphrey Bogart movie on tonight,” he said finally.

  “Yeah? He’s great. They don’t make movies like that anymore.”

  He sounded really interested and Johnny gained a little courage. “I like westerns best, though,” he said eagerly.

  “Me, too.” The man sampled the ice cream. “Hey, this is good.” He looked at Johnny. “You live around here?”

  Some of the panic returned. That was the worst part about talking to people; sooner or later, they always asked questions, and he never knew what to say. If he said the wrong thing, Mac would get very mad, so it was best not to talk at all. “I gotta go,” he mumbled, slipping from the stool. “Bye.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he jammed the TV Guide into his jacket pocket and hurried away, feeling the man’s eyes boring into his back as he went.

  He watched the Bogart movie until Mac came in. The evening had left Johnny feeling vaguely unsettled and nervous. He watched by the glow of the TV as Mac undressed and got into bed. “How was the game?”

  “Okay. I broke even.”

  “That’s good.” He sighed and turned off the television.

  “Don’t you want to watch the rest of the movie?”

  “No.” He pulled off his jeans. “I’m tired. Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  As always, Mac just nodded, scooting over to make room. Johnny slipped in next to him, feeling some of the tension drain from his body at the familiar warmth of the shared bed. “You okay, kid?” Mac sounded worried.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sure?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah.” He pulled the sheet up a little. “There were sure a lot of people walking around tonight.”

  “Did somebody bother you, babe?”

  “No.” He sighed. “Good night, Mac.”

  Mac muttered a reply. He lit a cigarette, and Johnny fell asleep watching the orange glow in the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  His first big break came in Vegas. A rumor was circulating about a hit about to come down in Los Angeles. An intra-company squabble had been going on for months, and it was about to come to a halt. Somebody was going to play the role of sacrificial lamb.

  Simon couldn’t get a line on who was supposed to carry out the hit, but it sounded like the kind of thing Johnny might be involved in, so he headed for L.A.

  It was the Sunset Strip hooker who put the final piece of the puzzle into place. Her name was Chrissie. Or Kristy. Something like that. The bar was filled with noise and smoke, and he wasn’t really listening anyway. The meeting might have been accidental, just another of the quick encounters that took place every night in the bar. But it wasn’t.

  Someone pointed her out to Simon, remembering having seen her with a gambler named Mac on at least one occasion. So he picked her up, bought her a couple of drinks, left with her. They walked to her place. Once they were sitting on the couch, drinks in hand, Simon pulled out the police drawing of Mac. It was creased and bent from the months in his wallet. “You know this guy?”

  She studied it, then shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve seen him a couple times. Alec. Or Alex. Something like that.” As she spoke, she began to undress.

  “When’d you see him last?” Simon unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Couple days ago.” She stood and pulled off the rest of her clothes. Wearing only bra and panties, she padded into the bedroom.

  Simon followed. “You know where he’s living?” he asked, piling his clothes on a chair.

  “Nope.” She climbed into bed. “He was playing cards with Tony DePalma, though.”

  He stretched out next to her, trying to remember when he’d last had sex. Not since his wife. Kimberly. A long time ago. But even so, he moved against the naked body almost absently. His hands kneaded her breasts slowly. “What was he like?” he whispered past blonde strands.

  “Who?”

  “Alex McCarthy.”

  “He was okay. Good.” She squirmed. “At least he didn’t talk about some other guy while we were screwing.”

  Simon ignored that. “He tell you anything about himself?”

  “No,” she said through clenched teeth.

  His body continued to move against hers. If Mac was in town, Johnny had to be as well. It began to look as if the rumors he’d heard in Vegas were true.

  She was wriggling beneath him, making urgent little sounds.

  Simon was thinking about Johnny. Who did he screw in Los Angeles? He thought about that as his body drove with increased urgency into Chrissie/Kristy, the girl Mac had screwed. Ahh, Johnny, he thought, it’s almost over now. Pretty soon, kid, pretty soon.

  Johnny was somewhere in the city and Simon wondered if he knew how close the end was.

  It wasn’t at all what he’d expected. His first sight of John Patil Griffith caused a surge of bewildering emotions inside him.

  The final steps had been so simple, really. It took only a couple of hours to track down DePalma. A few questions and a few dollars persuaded him to reveal the make and color of Mac’s car; a few more dollars pried loose the name of a motel where Mac might possibly be staying.

  He waited outside the motel that night, waited until the door opened and John Paul Griffith came out. Simon lit a cigarette, his hands trembling, and got out of his car.

  He followed the tall thin blond for almost two hours, watching him move through the city like a phantom. The encounter with the young black pimp was curious, because Johnny seemed scared by the boy. It seemed out of character for a seasoned hitman to be afraid of an under-age street hustler.

  Simon’s confusion grew when he sat down at the coffeeshop counter next to Johnny. Their conversation was so brief and so totally absurd—ice cream and Humphrey Bogart—yet there was something beyond the brevity and absurdity of the confrontation that stayed with him. He knew fear when he saw it, and there was a lot of it in the pale blue eyes.

  After following Johnny back to the motel and picking up his car, Simon went to his own cheap room and sat glumly over a six-pack, trying to wash away the taste of that damned ice cream, staring at the old mugshot. Johnny was a cold-blooded killer and no one knew that better than Simon, but he looked more like a scared kid who needed . . . needed what?

  Simon Hirsch didn’t know.

  Shit, he thought, I don’t even know what I need.

  It occurred to him that he should have been celebrating. For such a long time he’d been hunting this man. He’d lost track of the times he’d crisscrossed the country. No more job. No more family. No more any
thing, except the mugshot and his need to find John Griffith. And so this evening they met over boysenberry ice cream and talked about Bogart.

  He threw an empty beer can across the room. It hit the wall and fell with a clatter to the uncarpeted floor. He opened another can. What was it his brother Manny the Wise had said? “And what then?”

  “Yeah,” Simon said to the mugshot. “What now, Johnny?”

  He was waiting outside the motel again the next night. He saw Alex McCarthy come out first. The lean figure in the dark wind-breaker paused long enough to light a cigarette, and in the sudden flare of the match, Simon could see the sharp-featured face and thin, ascetic lips. That, he thought, was the face of a killer. McCarthy tossed the match aside and got into the pale blue BMW. Simon stepped back into the shadows as the headlights swept the lot and then vanished.

  It was only a few minutes later when Johnny came out. Ducking his head and shoving both hands into the pockets of his jeans, he walked toward the nearby bright lights and noise, apparently unaware that he was being followed.

  The routine was much the same as it had been the night before. Johnny walked slowly along the main drags, window shopping, pausing in front of every movie theater to check out the attraction, then moving on. They might have been the only two people in the city. Simon sensed an almost unbearable loneliness in the slumped shoulders and impassive face he caught glimpses of in the windows they passed.

  Loneliness, after all, was something he was sort of an expert on.

  When at last Johnny went into a penny arcade, Simon followed. The blond paused in front of a U-Drive-It machine, not noticing as Simon approached. “Hi, there,” he said, grinning.

  Johnny spun around. “Huh?”

  Christ is he strung tight, Simon thought. “Remember me? We met last night. Boysenberry ice cream?”

  Johnny seemed to relax a little. “Uh, yeah, I remember. Hi.”

  “We seem to cover the same territory.”

  “I guess.” He glanced around, obviously looking for an escape route.

  Simon moved a little closer. “Don’t take off again, man,” he said.