Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  Johnny blushed. “I only . . . I . . .” He shrugged.

  “You any good at that?” Simon asked, gesturing toward the game.

  “Yeah, I am.” Seeming relieved at the chance to do something besides talk, Johnny slipped a quarter into the machine and began to manipulate the toy car skillfully through the treacherous path. He completed the game with a perfect score.

  Simon grinned approvingly. “Hell, man, you’re a frigging expert.”

  “It’s easy. You try.”

  Simon dug for a coin and took his turn, but he sent the vehicle skidding off a mountain road and fell to a fiery death. “Oh, well,” he said with a shrug. “Guess I better stay out of the mountains.”

  Johnny gave him an uneasy half-smile, then started edging toward the door.

  Simon almost grabbed him by the arm; instead, he spoke quickly. “I’m hungry. You wanna split a pizza? Oh, by the way, my name is Simon.”

  After a pause, Johnny took the proferred hand and shook tentatively. “John,” he whispered.

  “So? How about a pizza?”

  Johnny checked the time. “Well, I guess it’d be okay.”

  They walked about half-a-block to a small beer and pizza joint. It was crowded, but they managed to find a table near the back. Simon kept getting the feeling that Johnny was about to vanish, take off like a frightened deer might disappear into the woods, so he kept his voice calm and made no sudden moves.

  Once the beers and pizza were on the table in front of them, Johnny relaxed a little. Simon pulled a slice of pizza off the tray. “This is a lonely city, isn’t it?” he said. The words surprised him; he hadn’t intended to say that.

  Johnny looked blank.

  “I mean, if you don’t have any friends,” Simon added lamely. The cheese burned his tongue and he took a quick gulp of beer.

  Johnny was bent over the table, concentrating on the food. “I have a friend,” he said after taking a bite and swallowing. Then an anxious look appeared in his eyes, as if he’d said something wrong, and he took another bite.

  “Yeah? That’s nice.” Simon lifted a piece of pepperoni and ate it slowly, remembering the dangerous face he’d seen in the match glow earlier. Some friend, kid, who keeps you so scared all the time. “I haven’t been in L.A. very long,” he offered in a moment. “I’m from back east.”

  Johnny looked up. “New York?”

  “I’ve been there, yeah.”

  “We used to live in New York.” There was an edge of nostalgia in the words.

  “Too crowded.” Simon poured them each more beer from the pitcher.

  “I didn’t mind so much,” Johnny said thoughtfully. “I liked the ferry boat. We used to ride out to Staten Island and back sometimes. That was fun.” He looked even younger suddenly, and Simon wondered, fleetingly, if maybe this was all a mistake. Johnny Griffith was no killer. He was just a nice, shy kid. Then the blond frowned, as if some of his memories weren’t so pleasant. “There were some really terrible people there, though.”

  “What’d they do?”

  Johnny only shrugged. He checked the time again. “I better go.”

  “It’s early yet. Want to take in a movie or something?”

  But he shook his head. “No, I hafta be there when . . . well, I better go.”

  They split the check evenly and walked outside. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again, John.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, not sounding like he gave a damn. He nodded, shoved both hands into his pockets and walked off quickly.

  Simon waited a moment, then followed, keeping out of sight all the way back to the motel. Once there, he sat in the shadows and waited. It was nearly two hours before the BMW pulled into the lot and McCarthy got out.

  Simon could tell from the studied care in the man’s walk that he was drunk. He dropped the key trying to insert it into the lock, then just pounded on the door instead.

  Simon could see Johnny in the doorway, helping McCarthy across the threshold, then bending to pick up the fallen key. The door closed. All he could see then were two dark shadows behind the curtains. After a few more minutes, the light went out.

  Simon waited a little longer, then he crept to the window, and tried to see into the room. The only thing visible was the tiny orange glow of a cigarette. There was some soft-voiced conversation, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. What could they talk about, the hawk-faced assassin and Johnny?

  After a few more minutes, he got into his car and left. Instead of going back to his motel, he drove all the way down to the beach and parked. Staring out over the moon-washed water, he thought about the evening. It had been so damned long since he’d just sat and had a few beers and rapped with somebody.

  He pulled his wallet out and flipped it open to the picture of Mike Conroy. None of the old feelings were left; sometimes he’d almost forgotten why he was looking for John Paul Griffith.

  Now he had Griffith.

  “Then what?” said Manny the Wise.

  Now what.

  He reached into the glove compartment and took out the envelope with the mugshot in it. What, he wondered again, did Johnny and McCarthy talk about?

  Poor Johnny. How could somebody who was really just an over-grown kid defend himself against a killer like McCarthy?

  Simon stayed on the beach until dawn.

  Chapter 4

  The shrill, impatient ringing of the phone pulled Mac up from the heavy, hung-over sleep. He rolled over, reaching for the offending instrument, and saw Johnny sitting across the room, fully dressed. “Why’nt you answer the fuckin’ thing?” he mumbled, lifting the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “Mac?”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Be out at the beach. Usual place. One o’clock.” The man hung up.

  Mac dropped the phone and closed his eyes again.

  “I figured it was business,” Johnny said softly. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “You know how to say hello, don’tcha?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, yeah, can it. Shit, my head is splitting.”

  Johnny got up and went into the bathroom, coming back a moment later with the aspirin bottle and a glass of water. “Here,” he said.

  Mac took six of the aspirin and gulped them down at one time. “Thanks.” He lay back to give the pills time to work. “Good thing that bastard called,” he said. “I dropped it all last night.”

  “Run of bad luck, huh?” Johnny asked sympathetically.

  Mac laughed, then grimaced as his head pounded in reaction. “Yeah, you could say that. A run of bad luck. That’s what they’re going to carve on my headstone. Here lies Alexander McCarthy. He had a run of fucking bad luck.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Hell, the way I feel, they might be carving it today.”

  Johnny sat down again. “You shouldn’t make jokes about dying,” he said sternly.

  “I wasn’t joking.” He sat up suddenly, staring at Johnny. “You ever think about dying, kiddo?”

  “No. Not very much.”

  Mac hated philosophical discussions, especially with Johnny, most particularly when his head was being ripped apart from the inside. Still, maybe it was important that Johnny be forced to look cold, hard reality in the face every once in a while. Besides, he felt so goddamned rotten that it only seemed fair that Johnny should suffer a little, too. “Well, you better think about it,” he muttered. “‘Cause someday we’re gonna get blown away. Or else we’ll get busted and sentenced to about seventeen life terms apiece.”

  Johnny seemed to think about that for a while. He frowned, wiping both palms on his jeans. “They won’t put us in different places, will they?” he asked very quietly.

  Mac sighed, already regretting that he’d ever gotten into this whole conversation. “No, Johnny,” he said with bitter weariness. “I’m sure they’ll give us one cozy cell.”

  “Well, that’s okay then.” Johnny’s voice was placid.

  The scary part was that Mac knew Jo
hnny really meant that. After a moment, he rolled off the bed and staggered toward the bathroom. “I gotta go to the beach,” he said before closing the door. “If you want, you can come.”

  “Okay.”

  Mac showered and shaved, managing to come alive a little in the process. Johnny was staring at some game show on TV, but he turned his head to watch as Mac got dressed. “Mac?” he said in a dreamy voice.

  He pulled his jeans up and snapped them. “Huh?”

  “If I get blown away, will you be okay?”

  Mac pulled his teeshirt on with a sudden jerk and stared at Johnny’s reflection in the mirror. “What?”

  “I said, if I get—”

  “I heard what you said,” Mac broke in. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Johnny’s face was solemn. “I was just thinking, is all.”

  Mac swore under his breath and started combing his hair. “Look, man, I told you years ago to leave the thinking to me. By any chance do you remember that?”

  Johnny nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “All right then. Do it. Okay?”

  In a minute, he nodded again. “Okay, Mac.” A grin split his face. “Could I swim while we’re at the beach?”

  “Sure. Let’s go now, so you’ll have plenty of time.”

  Johnny pulled his swimming trunks on, then donned his jeans again, and they were ready to go. On the way out of town, Mac stopped at a drive-in for some coffee to drink en route. Johnny had a large orangeade.

  His head felt slightly more normal by the time they’d reached the beach, parked, and walked down to the water’s edge. He sat cross-legged on the sand, watching idly as Johnny went to swim. What they had to do, he decided, was just get a fucking little ahead, and clear out. Maybe go to Mexico and forget all this ever happened. This life was rotten. Just a goddamned little ahead, that was all.

  Johnny was a good swimmer, and he especially liked it when the breakers crashed over him, submerging him completely. Everytime it happened, Mac—who disliked water in large bodies—watched apprehensively, not even aware that he was holding his breath, until the drenched blond head appeared again, glistening golden under the sun.

  At last Johnny apparently had enough. He jogged across the sand and dropped down next to Mac. “Have fun?” Mac asked, lifting his sunglasses to look at him.

  “Yeah, felt good.” He shook his head vigorously and drops of water hit against Mac. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry.” Mac glanced at his watch. “I gotta meet a guy. I’ll bring you back an ice cream.”

  “Okay. Chocolate, please.” Johnny stretched out on the sand, using one arm to shade his face.

  Mac got to his feet, then stood still for a moment, staring down at Johnny. “See you.”

  Johnny smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  The man was standing by the boardwalk rail, reading a newspaper, which he folded when Mac appeared. “Hello, Mac. It’s been a long time.”

  “A year,” Mac replied.

  “You’re looking good.”

  Mac leaned against the rail and stared out across the crowded beach, trying to spot Johnny. He couldn’t. “You have the envelope?”

  “I have it, I have it. You’re always in such a hurry.”

  “Time is money,” he said absently.

  “A man should never be too busy for the amenities. How is John?”

  “John is fine.”

  “Good, good.” The man took a manila envelope from his pocket. “All the usual information is in here.”

  Mac put the envelope away without looking at it. “And the usual money, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right.” He turned to go.

  “What’s the rush?”

  Mac paused. “John wants an ice cream.”

  He smiled. “Oh, well, by all means, you must go. Immediately. We want to keep John happy, don’t we?”

  Without answering, Mac walked away.

  They both stayed in that night. Johnny stretched out on his bed watching “Charlie’s Angels” and “Vegas”, as Mac studied the data on their target. It was late by the time he finished. The “Tonight Show” was on, with one guest host or another, but Johnny, his face a little red from the sun at the beach, had fallen asleep. Mac undressed slowly, turned off the TV, and got into bed.

  He smoked two cigarettes, but still couldn’t fall asleep. At last, he got up and crawled into bed with Johnny. Sometimes, when his own demons seemed a little too close for comfort, sharing the night helped.

  Tonight, though, some vague thought kept nagging at his mind. He tossed and turned until Johnny finally stirred. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled.

  “Nothing. Sorry I woke you.” He wasn’t really sorry; he was glad for the company.

  “That’s okay.”

  Mac rolled over so that he could look into the face shadowed in the half-light. “Johnny?”

  The blue eyes fluttered open again. “Hmm?”

  “We’re gonna get out of this. Soon. Before anything bad happens. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mac.”

  “Don’t be scared.”

  Johnny looked at him for a long moment, then smiled a little. “Don’t you be scared either, Mac.”

  “Okay.”

  Johnny rested against the pillow. “Good night,” he said.

  “Night, babe,” Mac replied.

  The blond was asleep in moments. Mac sighed, resisting the urge to light another cigarette. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to force himself to sleep. One hand absently stroked Johnny’s bare arm.

  Johnny made a soft sound and sighed in his sleep.

  “Shh,” Mac said, his lips pressed against soft blond strands.

  It was a long time before he fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  The next night he followed Johnny again, approaching him outside a theatre. Johnny returned his greeting with a hesitant smile. “Hi, Simon,” he said, speaking in that soft voice that was so difficult to hear over the city noises.

  Simon gestured toward the marquee. “Gonna see the movie?”

  Johnny shook his head. “I thought they’d be changing the bill today, but it’s still the same old thing.”

  “Well, then, how about grabbing a beer?”

  After the usual hesitation, Johnny agreed.

  The bar they chose wasn’t too crowded this early in the evening, so they got a booth near the front. Simon waited until the beers were served. “How much longer you gonna be around town?” he asked suddenly.

  The tactic worked. Caught off-guard by the abrupt question, Johnny shrugged. “Couple days, I guess. Depends.”

  Simon realized that the hit must be getting close; his nights were spent following Johnny, but his days were spent on McCarthy’s trail. He knew who was going to be hit and he had a pretty good idea of when. “You travel a lot, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Johnny began to doodle in the wet patches on the table. “How come they don’t have very many westerns anymore, I wonder,” he said.

  Simon took a sip of beer. “Guess not enough people like them.” He glanced around, trying to come up with another line of conversation. “You play pool?” he asked, spotting a table in the back.

  “No.” Johnny looked up, brightening. “I like darts, though. One time I won thirty dollars playing darts.”

  “Well, I’m not that good, but how about a game?”

  Carrying their beers along, they went into the back room. Johnny took first turn, aiming and throwing with a concentration that was total. Each shot was better than the last. Simon shrugged, grinning. “Hell, I might as well quit now.”

  “No, it’s easy,” Johnny urged. “Just pretend like you’re aiming a gun.”

  Simon looked at him sharply, but the blue eyes were guileless as a child’s.

  They played for nearly an hour, betting pennies, until Johnny had accumulated almost two dollars’ worth. He gathered his winnings with the air of a m
an who watched his money carefully. Simon wondered about that. Hell, he and his pal were damned good, and they made damned good money for what they did. How come they lived like paupers? Of course, Mac was a gambler, and not too lucky. He also drove around in a fancy car. But what the hell did Johnny do with his share of their earnings? He had no car, no bad habits as far as Simon could see, and he dressed in old blue jeans and tennis shoes. Where did his money go?

  That, of course, was a question Simon couldn’t ask.

  They ordered a couple more beers and found seats again. Simon was trying to sort out and understand his confused emotions. The man sitting across from him was a killer. A coldblooded assassin in a T-shirt which read “Niagara Falls.” Conroy was dead because of him. Simon tried to remember Mike’s face, but the image was too blurry. The only face he saw was John Griffith’s. With the hesitant, soft voice; the blue eyes, foggy and unfocused even behind the glasses; his painful shyness, Griffith was not at all what Simon had expected to find. Had wanted to find.

  “What then?” Manny had asked.

  Simon still didn’t know. He resisted the urge to run to the nearest telephone and call Manny.

  Johnny seemed to realize that he was being watched, and he raised his eyes. Their gazes met, locked, held for a full minute, before Simon looked away. The blue gaze was empty.

  Mac spent about twenty minutes talking to her in the bar, then they left there and went to her place. Her name was Joanie, and she worked as a file clerk in a downtown office, and she was from Kansas originally. He drank a can of beer from her meager stock, watching as she undressed and released the aureate hair from its rubber band, to fall in soft locks over her shoulders. Her clothes were carefully folded and stacked on a chair. No wonder she was a file clerk. Her glasses were set to one side and her blue eyes studied him thoughtfully.

  He got up, setting the beer can aside, and undressed.

  “You don’t say much, do you?”

  He shrugged.

  She gave up then, waiting silently as he finished the beer before getting into bed. He began to stroke her body, her face, tangling his fingers in her hair. She was moving beneath his touch, making soft gasping sounds as the fervor of his stroking increased.