Masters of Noir: Volume Two

by Craig Rice

  "Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

  To cease upon the midnight with no pain ... “

  Suddenly he was wakened out of a deep sleep by a violent shaking that was not of the cold. He rolled over and sat up, startled. His mother stood there beside the cot, her hand on his shoulder, scolding him unmercifully.

  "George Burton, are you out of your mind! What's the big idea of going to bed on a night like this without a blanket over you or even a sheet, for heaven's sakes? And my stars, sleeping in your underwear—are you crazy?” Scolding away, she fished up the roll of blankets and sheet from the corner of the porch, shook them out and spread them over his cot, tucking him carefully in on all sides. He didn't say a word to her but he was very grateful and surprised at himself all the same, as he was just about dying of the cold and he didn't think he could stand it another minute.

  "Goodness knows how long you've been lying there exposed to the world like that—do you realize it's after two o'clock in the morning? Good thing for you, young man, that I got up to see if you were in! Really, George Burton, you're simply not to be trusted at all.... “

  When she had gone back to her own room, he lay there with the blankets wrapped up tight and warm around his neck. He was asleep before he had time to think, almost before he had time to realize that above every other person on earth he hated Lynette McCaffrey....

  In the morning he knew he would find her sunning, alone, on the pier. There was a small spur of pride in him as he told himself how he had finally seen through her. He was sure now that she had led him on, and that she had nearly made him kill himself.

  ” ... To cease upon the midnight with no pain,” he quoted to himself again. But it would be broad daylight now, and he didn't suppose it would be absolutely painless ...

  He went up to meet Lynette McCaffrey with no weapon but his hands, and he didn't even give a thought to what must inevitably come after.

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  NICE BUNCH OF GUYS by MICHAEL FESSIER

  All the taxi drivers and the fellows who hung around the pool hall would tell you that Marty was a laugh; you should've seen him when the boys got him burnt up about something. He was more fun than a circus, was Marty. Not exactly crazy enough to be put in the nut house or anything like that, just goofy enough to be really pretty darn funny.

  He sold papers at the station. They were Posts and Marty yelled something that sounded like “Whoa", so all the fellows got a great kick out of yelling “Giddiap! Whoa!” at him and making him mad. He got screwy when they did that. He'd come across the street with his dirty checkered cap pulled down over one side of his face and his twisted mouth all squeezed up into a snarl.

  "You old bootleggers,” he'd say. “You old bootleggers!” The fellows got a special kick out of Marty calling ‘em bootleggers and they'd laugh like anything. “I'm gonna get you,” Marty would say. “Just you wait and see. You'd better not make fun of me."

  "Aw, gosh! Don't scare us like that,” one of the fellows would say, and everybody'd laugh again. Everyone would gather around. There was always a laugh when you had Marty going. He'd lay his papers on the sidewalk and double up his fists. “Wanna fight?” he'd ask. Then everybody'd act afraid and beg Marty not to hit ‘em. Of course they weren't afraid. Marty was just a little fellow and any of the fellows could have licked him easy with one hand. They were just kidding him for a laugh. Even Old Ironsides—that's what they called the corner cop—would come by and grin at Marty standing with his fists doubled up and acting like he was a tough guy.

  They'd keep on kidding Marty and he'd start squealing like a stuck pig, he'd get so mad. You couldn't understand what he was saying when he got mad like that. Just a lot of cuss words that didn't make sense. And his mouth would froth like he was a mad dog or something.

  Then somebody'd act like he really was going to fight Marty. He'd double up his fist and prance around and wiggle his arms and say, “All right, Marty, look out!” and he'd make a couple passes at Marty. “Come on, put ‘em up,” the fellow would say, “I'm gonna knock your can off.” Then Marty'd start whimpering like a little kid. He'd rub his eyes and back away and say, “You'd better not. You'd better not. I'll tell the cops, that's what I'll do.” Then he'd grab his papers and run like hell back across the street. Gee, it was funny!

  It wouldn't be no time before he'd forget all about it and he'd be walking up and down the station platform yelling “Whoa, Whoa,” or something that sounded like that. He sold a lot of papers because people felt sorry for him, I guess. He kept all his money in one pocket and when there wasn't anybody around he'd take it out and count it. He'd count his money seventy times a day. Guess it was the biggest kick he got out of life. And you couldn't get him to spend a nickel. Nobody knew what he did with his money. He was nutty about money.

  He was always begging for it. “Gimme a nirkel,” he'd say, looking up at somebody. “Aw, go on, gimme a nirkel. Please,” he'd say, “go on, please gimme a nirkel.” It was funny the way he said nickel. There was something the matter with his tongue and he couldn't talk straight. He'd do anything for a nickel and that's no kidding. He'd do anything. Sometimes when the fellows were drunk they'd get Marty in the back room of the pool hall and if you'd been there you'd seen there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for a nickel.

  But one of the biggest kicks was when the fellows would kid Marty about his girls. Of course he didn't have any. He was about thirty years old and he had a face like a monkey. His chin sprouted long black hairs that grew far apart and the fellows said he had pig's bristles instead of whiskers. I don't think he ever shaved but the whiskers didn't get any longer. It was funny to think of him having a girl. Gosh, no girl'd even look at him. Even the Mexican woman would chase him away when he'd go to her shack across the tracks and say what the fellows had put him up to saying.

  "Hey, Marty,” the fellows would say, “who's that hot number we saw with you last night?” And Marty'd grin sly, like he really had been out with a girl, and he'd say, “Nonna yer bursness” or something like that. And they'd say, “Can't you fix it up for us? Gee, she was a hot number. Oh, boy!” Marty'd act real proud like he really could and he'd say, “Naw sir, not youse guys. Not youse guys. T'hell wit’ ya."

  The funniest thing was when somebody'd ask Marty what he did to the girl. It was a scream. He couldn't even pronounce the word right. “Aw, you never had one in your life,” they'd tell him and he'd get mad. “Tha's all you know,” he'd say. “Tha's all you know.” All Marty knew about things like that was what he heard the fellows saying in the pool hall. But you'd thought he did all ‘em himself the way he talked.

  A girl would go by on the other side of the street and the fellows would whisper, “Hey, Marty, that your girl?” And he'd say, “Sure,” and they'd act surprised and say “Gosh, Marty, you ever—?” And he'd wink like he'd seen the fellows do and say, “Yeah, sure.” Sometimes the woman would be the banker's wife or the girl that played the organ at the church but Marty'd say sure everytime. It didn't matter who it was, he'd say the same thing. The fellows always got a laugh out of that.

  One of the worst things Marty could think to call a guy was a bootlegger. The fellows around the taxi stand used to tell him that George Burke, the lawyer, was going to have him put in jail. Marty'd go white every time you mentioned jail to him. He was goofy, but he liked his freedom more'n anybody you ever saw. So when the fellows'd rib him up about Burke he'd get scared stiff, then crazy mad. He'd go running past Burke's office fast's he could, yelling, “Burke's an old bootlegger! Burke's an old bootlegger! Yeah, Burke's an old darn bootlegger!” Burke was a little red-faced guy and he'd get hopping mad but he never did anything about it. He knew the people would think it was small potatoes for a big lawyer to pick on a half-wit. So he couldn't do anything. Anytime we wanted a boot we'd rib up Marty to go after Burke. You should've seen it.

  The fellows all got a kick out of ribbing Marty, but they wouldn't stand for anybody picking on him. One time
they told Marty the reporter for another paper was playing dirty tricks on the Post, the paper Marty sold. You'd thought Marty owned the Post the way he was willing to fight for it. He couldn't read, but he'd get sore as hell if you told him the Post wasn't any good. The fellows kept telling Marty this fellow Danny McLeod was scooping the Post and things like that until Marty was hopping mad. One day Danny came walking down the street and one of the fellows said, “There's the dirty punk that's been scooping your paper, Marty. Why don't you sock him?” Marty's mouth got twisted worse than ever and he started biting his lips. When Danny got near him he all of a sudden ran out and hit him on the mouth. You could've knocked the fellows over with a feather. They didn't think Marty had guts enough to hit anybody.

  Danny's lip was split right down the middle and blood ran down his chin onto his shirt. He doubled up his fists and acted like he was going to sock Marty back and the fellows came closer. Danny didn't sock Marty, though. He just turned and walked away. If he had started to hit Marty the fellows would have piled him. The fellows got a kick out of ribbing Marty but they wouldn't stand for anyone picking on him. They were as nice a bunch of guys as you'd ever find.

  After that every time Danny would come by the pool hall the fellows would yell, “Better run, Danny, here comes Marty.” Then they'd all laugh and Danny would walk faster. Pretty soon he got so he wouldn't come by the pool hall any more. Danny was all right but he couldn't take a little kidding.

  It made Marty cocky as hell. He went around town bragging about how he licked Danny and every time anybody wanted a laugh they'd say, “Hey, Marty, what'd you do to Danny?” and Marty'd stick out his chest and say, “I beat him up. Yeah, I beat him up.” It sure made Danny's life miserable for him and it gave the fellows a lot of laughs.

  One of the best jokes the fellows pulled on Marty was about Marge, the red-headed girl who worked at the coffee joint next to the station. It was a lulu of a joke and we had more darn fun, only Marty spoiled it. You'd have never thought Marty would do a thing like that but it just goes to show you how screwy he was. The fellows started telling Marty that Marge was in love with him. At first he'd grin and say, “You can't kid me, you can't kid me. You're jus’ kiddin', ‘ats all.” But the fellows kept it up. “Of course, she likes you, Marty,” they'd say. “She's goofy about you. She told us so.” “Did she?” Marty'd ask. “Did she, hones'?” and he'd lick his lips and look across at the coffee joint.

  "I bet if you bought her some candy she'd fall hard for you,” one of the fellows told him one day. “You think so?” Marty asked, all excited. “Sure,” the fellow said. “Try it and see.” So by God Marty did try it. Marge came walking by on her way to work one night and Marty popped out of the pool hall and stuck a bar of five-cent candy in her hand. “Here,” he said, and started giggling. When he giggled his lips got all slobbery and he looked like he was blowing soap bubbles. The bar of candy was all squeezed up and dirty like Marty'd hung onto it in his pocket all afternoon. Gosh, the fellows roared. “Oh, Marge,” they said, “who's your boy friend?” Marge's face got red's a beet. “It isn't funny,” she said. “He means well. Thanks, Marty,” she said, and walked away fast.

  And maybe you think the fellows didn't razz Marge after that! “Hey, Marge,” they'd yell, “how's your boy friend?” She'd flush and walk faster and it was always good for a laugh. Marty started hanging around the coffee joint when Marge was working and the owner had to kick him out almost every night. Sometimes he'd give her a bar of candy and sometimes it'd be some flowers he'd swiped out of somebody's yard. She'd take ‘em so's not to hurt his feelings but the fellows would play like she really was in love with him. Whenever they saw her they'd ask when was she getting married and things like that. Boy, did it burn her up!

  Marty got so he thought Marge really was his girl. “Who's your girl, Marty?” the fellows would ask, and Marty would grin sly as the dickens and say, “Aw, you know, you know,” and he'd giggle and bubbles would come on his mouth. Then the fellows would say, “Hey, Marty, we saw you out with another jane last night. What's the idea? Trying to ditch Marge?” Marty'd get all excited and beg ‘em not to tell Marge that. Gosh, it was funny how serious he took the thing. “What do you and Marge do when you go out?” the fellows would ask, and Marty'd grin, "You know,” he'd say, and then he'd lick his lips and look across the street where she worked.

  It was the darnedest, funniest thing you ever saw, until Marty spoiled it. You never can tell what a goofy guy'll do and Marty was like the rest of ‘em.

  One night the fellows were hanging around the taxi stand in front of the pool hall when they heard a woman screaming like she'd been murdered or something. Before they could figure out where it was coming from, Marge came running into the light out of the alley. Her dress was torn and her face was bloody like it'd been scratched. Her hair was down over her shoulders and she looked like she'd seen a ghost or something. Her eyes were bugged out and she didn't seem to see. She just screamed and screamed. Finally Ironsides found out what it was all about and the fellows all ran down the alley. She stood alone on the corner and kept on screaming. It was awful.

  The fellows found Marty hiding behind a garbage can, crying. “I didn't mean to do it,” he said. “Don't let them put me in jail.” When they got him in jail and started asking him questions he acted like a kid that's been caught stealing candy or something. “I won't do it again,” he said. He'd wipe his eyes with his fists and spread dirt all over his face. “Did she tell on me?” he'd ask.

  Of course they had to send Marty to the nut house at Stockton. They were afraid he'd bust loose again. He bawled like a kid for three days after they told him what they were going to do, until they took him away. What worried him was he'd be cooped up and wouldn't get to go up and down the streets selling papers. The deputy that took him to Stockton said he didn't fight. He just bawled like a kid.

  What made the fellows sore about the whole thing was the way Marge acted when she got out of the hospital. You know how women are. You never know what makes ‘em click. Marge was that way. She got the notion the fellows were to blame. That's a hot one, isn't it? How could the fellows been to blame when they weren't anywhere near when it happened? It made them mad the way she started treating ‘em. When they went into the coffee joint she treated ‘em like dogs, wouldn't kid with them or anything. Never so much as a smile or a pleasant word. The fellows started staying away from the place, so the owner canned Marge. You couldn't blame him.

  It seemed what Marty did to her and losing her job and all kind of made her screwy herself. Before she left town she met one of the fellows on the street and he told her he was sorry about her losing her job. “If you'd treated the fellows decent,” he said, “the boss would of kept you.” Well, sir, she scratched his face something awful, and he had to slap her good to make her quit. He wasn't the kind of fellow that hits women, but women haven't got a right to scratch a fellow's face when he hasn't done anything. Old Ironsides, the cop, agreed with the fellow. He told Marge to get out of town or he'd run her out.

  The fellows sometimes say how funny it seems without Marty going up and down the streets yelling “Whoa! Whoa!” They sure used to get a kick out of him.

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  FLOWERS TO THE FAIR by CRAIG RICE

  At exactly 8:13 A.M. Mr. Petty arrived. He hung his hat in the locker, just as he had hung it every working day of his life for the last thirty years. He went over to the water cooler where he wet his dry, tense throat with a small sip of water. Then he shuffled down the hall to the door marked: George V. Benson, General Manager.

  Mr. Petty waited till his wrist watch showed precisely 8:15. Then he opened the door, walked in, closing it carefully behind him.

  Mr. Benson looked up at the little bookkeeper.

  "Always prompt, aren't you, Petty?"

  Mr. Petty gulped. “Yes, sir. You said 8:15, sir."

  "So, here you are. At exactly 8:15. Now, if you weren't the fool you are, Petty, you would
have come at 7:15. You would have gone straight to the safe and opened it—you know the combination—and you would have helped yourself, not to a measly three thousand dollars, but to two hundred thousand dollars."

  The little bookkeeper's eyes opened wide in innocent astonishment. “I couldn't have done a thing like that,” he stammered. “Why—that would be stealing."

  "That's right,” Mr. Benson said. “That would have been stealing. So what do you do instead? You pilfer the petty cash, you make false entries on your books, you kite checks, a few measly bucks at a time—for how many months? And when you're three thousand dollars in the hole and you know the auditors are due in Monday morning, you come to me with a hard luck story. What was it, horses?"

  "No, sir,” Mr. Petty said. “That would be gambling!” He paused and looked down at the floor. “Women,” he said meekly.

  "Women!"

  "Yes sir,” Mr. Petty said. “Women. It's in my horoscope. I'm a Taurus."

  "That figures,” Benson said. “Now tell me one thing more, Petty. How do you expect to pay this money back?