David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America)

by David Goodis

  The taxi came to a stop.

  Parry looked out the window. They were home.

  The taxi driver turned and looked at him and said, “How is it?”

  Parry nodded.

  “Think you can make it alone?”

  Parry nodded again. He took bills from his pocket, picked out a fifty dollar bill and handed it to the driver. The driver looked at the bill and then offered it back. Parry shook his head.

  The taxi driver said, “I’m not doing this on a cash basis.”

  Parry nodded. The taxi driver made another attempt to return the bill. Parry shook his head.

  The taxi driver said, “Now you’re sure you can make it?”

  Parry nodded. He started to open the door. The taxi driver touched his wrist. He said, “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. You’ll never see me again. I’ll never see you again. You don’t know the name of the men who fixed your face. Or put it this way. You always had the face you have now. You were never in a courtroom. You were never in San Quentin. You were never married. And you don’t know me and I don’t know you. How does that sound?”

  Parry nodded.

  The taxi driver said, “Thanks for the tip, mister.”

  Parry stepped out of the taxi. The taxi went into first gear and went on down the street. Parry walked up to the door of the apartment house, went in, and from his coat pocket he took the key that Fellsinger had given him. He opened the inner door.

  In the elevator he wondered if Fellsinger had a cigarette holder up there. He was in great need of a cigarette. The elevator climbed four floors and came to a stop. Parry walked down the hall. He wondered if Fellsinger had a glass straw in there. He wondered how it would be to take rum through a glass straw. He wished Fellsinger had some gin around. He wanted gin and he wanted a cigarette. He had a feeling that falling asleep tonight would be hard work. He was at the door of Fellsinger’s apartment and he put the key in the door and turned it and opened the door and went in.

  It was dark in there, but light from the hall showed Parry the switch on the wall near the door. He flicked the switch and closed the door, facing the door as he closed it and then turning slowly and facing the room. He looked at Fellsinger.

  Fellsinger was on the floor with his head caved in.

  11

  THERE WAS blood all over Fellsinger, blood all over the floor. There were pools of it and ribbons of it. There were blotches of it, big blotches of it near Fellsinger, smaller blotches getting even smaller in progression away from the body. There were flecks of it on the furniture and suggestions of it on a wall. There was the cardinal luster of it and the smell of it and the feeling of it coming up from Fellsinger’s busted skull and dancing around and settling down wherever it pleased. It was dark blood where it clotted in the skull cavities. It was luminous pale blood where it stained the horn of the trumpet that rested beside the body. The horn of the trumpet was slightly dented. The pearl buttons of the trumpet valves were pink from the spray of blood.

  Fellsinger was belly down on the floor, but his face was twisted sideways. His eyes were opened wide, the pupils up high with a lot of white underneath. It was as if he was trying to look back. Either he wanted to see how badly he was hurt or he wanted to see who was banging on his skull with the trumpet. His mouth was halfway open and the tip of his tongue flapped over the side of his mouth.

  Without sound, Parry said, “Hello, George.”

  Without sound, Fellsinger said, “Hello, Vince.”

  “Are you dead, George?”

  “Yes, I’m dead.”

  “Why are you dead, George?”

  “I can’t tell you, Vince. I wish I could tell you but I can’t.”

  “Who did it, George?”

  “I can’t tell you, Vince. Look at me. Look what happened to me. Isn’t it awful?”

  “George, I didn’t do it. You know that.”

  “Of course, Vince. Of course you didn’t do it.”

  “George, you don’t really believe I did it.”

  “I know you didn’t do it.”

  “I wasn’t here, George. I couldn’t have done it. Why would I want to kill you, George? You were my friend.”

  “Yes, Vince. I was your friend.”

  “George, you were my best friend. You were always a real friend.”

  “You were my only friend, Vince. My only friend.”

  “I know that, George. And I know I didn’t kill you. I know it I know it I know it I know it I know it.”

  “Don’t carry on like that, Vince.”

  “George, you’re not really dead, are you?”

  “Yes, Vince. I’m dead. And it’s real, Vince, it’s real. I’m really dead. I never thought I’d be important. But now I’m very important. They’ll have me in all the papers.”

  “They’ll say I killed you.”

  “Yes, Vince. That’s what they’ll say.”

  “But I didn’t do it, George.”

  “I know, Vince. I know you didn’t do it. I know who did it but I can’t tell you because I’m dead.”

  “George, can I do anything for you?”

  “No. You can’t do a thing for me. I’m dead. Your friend George Fellsinger is dead.”

  “George, who do you think did it?”

  “I tell you I know who did it. But I can’t say.”

  “Give me a hint. Give me an idea.”

  “Vince, I can’t give you anything. I’m dead.”

  “Maybe if I look around I’ll find something.”

  “Don’t do that, Vince. Don’t move from where you are now. If you step in the blood you’re going to make footprints.”

  “Footprints won’t make any difference one way or another. As soon as they find you here they’ll say I did it.”

  “Yes, Vince. That’s what they’ll say. You can’t do anything about that. But if you give them footprints you’ll be throwing everything away. What I mean is, if they have the footprints they’ll have more than a conclusion. They’ll have you, because they have means of tracing footprints, tracing right through to the store where the shoes were bought. When they get that they’ll get her. And if they get her they’ll get you, because you can’t operate without her.”

  “George, I can’t go back to her.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t go back? You’ve got to go back. You can’t go anyplace else. Where else could you go?”

  “I don’t know, George. I don’t know. But I can’t go back to her.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I can’t help it, George. I can’t go back to her. I can’t bring her back into it now.”

  “But she wants to help you, Vince.”

  “Why, George? How do you make it out? Why does she want to help me?”

  “She feels sorry for you.”

  “There’s more to it than that. There’s much more. What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Vince.”

  “I can’t go back to her.”

  “You’ve got to go back. You’ve got to stay there for five days. You need someone to take care of you until those bandages come off. Then when you go away you can really go away. You’ll have a new face. You’ll have a new life. You always talked about travel. Places you wanted to see. I remember the things you said. How grand it would be to get away. From everybody. From everything. How I felt bad about it when you said that, because I figured our friendship was one of those very valuable things that don’t happen very often between plain guys like you and me. How I hoped you’d include me in your plans to go away. You knew that. You knew how I felt. And I had an idea that when you finally went away you would take me with you. To that beach town in Spain. Or that place in Peru. Was it Patavilca?”

  “Yes, George. It was Patavilca.”

  “Patavilca in Peru. Jumping out of our cages in an investment security house. Jumping out of our cages in dried-up apartment houses. Going away, going away from it, all of it, going to Patavilca, in Peru. With nothing to do down there except get the sun and s
leep on the beach. They showed that beach in the travel folder. It was a lovely beach. And they showed us the streets and the houses. The little streets and the little houses under the sun. I was waiting for you to say the word. I was waiting for you to say let’s pack up and go.”

  “Why didn’t you say the word, George? Why didn’t you take the bull by the horns? There wouldn’t have been any trial. This trouble would have never happened.”

  “You know why I didn’t say the word. You know me. Guys like me come a dime a dozen. No fire. No backbone. Dead weight waiting to be pulled around and taken to places where we want to go but can’t go alone. Because we’re afraid to go alone. Because we’re afraid to be alone. Because we can’t face people and we can’t talk to people. Because we don’t know how. Because we can’t handle life and don’t know the first thing about taking a bite out of life. Because we’re afraid and we don’t know what we’re afraid of and still we’re afraid. Guys like me.”

  “You had ideas, George.”

  “I had ideas that I thought were great. But I was always afraid to let them loose. Once you were up here and I put my entire attitude toward life into a trumpet riff. You told me it was cosmic-ray stuff. Something from a billion miles away, bouncing off the moon, coming down and into my brain and coming out of my trumpet. You told me I should do something with ideas like that. And I agreed with you but I never did anything because I was afraid. And now I’m dead.”

  “I think I better be going now.”

  “Yes, Vince. You go now. You go to her.”

  “George, I’m afraid.”

  “You go to her. Stay there five days. Then go to Patavilca, in Peru. Stay there the rest of your life.”

  “I can’t see myself going away.”

  “You’ve got to see that. You’ve got to do that. You’ve got to go far away and stay there.”

  “I wish I knew who killed you.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference. I’m dead now.”

  “And that’s why it makes a difference. Because you’re dead. And they’ll say I killed you, just as they said I killed her. And I said I didn’t kill her. I said it was an accident. All along I said it was an accident and that’s what I believed. I always believed she fell down and hit her head on that ash tray. I don’t believe that any more. I know someone killed her and that same someone killed you.”

  “You’re curious, Vince. And you’re getting angry. That won’t do. You can’t be curious and you can’t be angry. You’ve got to think in terms of getting away, and only that. And now you better go.”

  “Good-by, George.”

  Parry switched off the light. He stepped out of the apartment and closed the door slowly. There was a stiffness in his legs as he walked down the corridor. In the elevator he had a feeling he was going to faint. He sagged against the wall of the elevator and he was going to the floor and as his knees gave way he put his hands on the wall and braced himself and made himself stay up.

  On the street he tried to walk fast but his legs were very stiff and he couldn’t get any go into them. The pain in his face mixed with the pain in his arms and he wanted to get down on the pavement and sleep. He kept walking. He looked at his wrist watch and it said a few minutes past five and he looked up and saw the beginnings of morning sifting through the black sieve. He walked down the empty quiet streets.

  He walked a mile and knew he had another mile to go. He didn’t think he could make it. A taxi came down the street and he turned and saw the driver looking at him. He was tempted to take the taxi. But he knew he couldn’t take a taxi. Not now. Not at this stage. The taxi slowed down and the driver was waiting for him to make a move. He kept walking. He faced straight ahead, knowing that the taxi driver was regarding his bandaged head with increasing curiosity. He kept walking. The taxi picked up speed and went down the street and made a turn.

  A glow came onto the pavement, dripping from the grey light getting through the black sky. Parry walked past a cheap hotel and stopped and looked back at the sign. He was tempted to go in and take a room. He was so tired. The pain was so bad. He was so very, very tired.

  He kept walking. Now he was going faster and he knew he was racing the morning. He knew he couldn’t keep it up like this, and if he didn’t get there soon he was going to go out cold. He knew he couldn’t afford to go out cold and he kept walking fast. He was getting there. He was almost there. He measured the streets. He told himself it was three blocks. He knew it was more than three, more on the order of six or seven. He didn’t think he could last out seven blocks. They were long blocks. The morning was getting a lead on him. He tried to walk faster. He tried to run and his legs became cotton fluff under him and he went to the pavement. He stayed there on his knees, feeling a wetness flowing all over his body, and for a few moments he thought it was the blood from his face getting out through the split flesh and pouring down under the bandage and down through his collar and going all over him. He put his hand to the under-edge of the bandage. His hand came away moist. He looked at his hand. It glistened with perspiration. He stood up and started to walk. He asked the blocks to come toward him, slide toward him and go away behind him. He kept walking. Then he could see it, the apartment house. He started to open his mouth to let out a cry and a dreadful pain spread out from his lips and went up to his eyes and came down to his lips again. He closed his mouth, and his eyes were jammed with tears. He looked at the apartment house coming toward him as he went toward it. He was about sixty steps away from the apartment house. He didn’t think he could cover those sixty steps. He covered five of them and ten of them and thirty of them. He was ahead of the morning now and he was going to make it and he knew it. And as he knew that he knew it he saw something on the other side of the street, almost at the end of the block, parked there and waiting there and it was the Studebaker.

  12

  IT WAS the same Studebaker. It was the very same, the same Studebaker from way back. The same hunk of junk that had picked him up on the road. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. And yet it was. There it was, parked across the street. There it was. Waiting there. The same Studebaker.

  Parry came toward the apartment house, not knowing he was going toward the apartment house, knowing only that he was going toward the Studebaker, wanting to make sure that it was the same car and knowing it was the same car and not believing it was the same car and knowing it anyway. There was nobody in the car. It couldn’t be the same car.

  It was the same car.

  He didn’t want to start asking himself why. And how. And why and how and when and how and why and how and why. He asked and he couldn’t answer. If there was any answer at all it was coincidence. But there was a limit to coincidence and this was way past the limit. This neighborhood aimed toward upper middle class, anywhere from fifteen thousand a year on up. Or give Studebaker a break and make it ten thousand. Even seventy-five hundred and still Studebaker didn’t belong around here. Studebaker was way down in the sharecropper category. And the car was parked in front of an apartment house that wouldn’t rent closet space for less than one ten a month. It couldn’t be the same car.

  It was the same car.

  All right, Studebaker worked there as a janitor. No. All right, Studebaker had a wealthy brother living there. No. All right, Studebaker was driving down the street and he ran out of gas and had to park there. No. No and no and no.

  It wasn’t the same car. It couldn’t be the same car.

  It was the same car.

  The morning light came down and tried to glimmer on the Studebaker. There was no polish on the Studebaker and very little paint, therefore very little glimmer. There was only the old Studebaker coupé, dull and quiet there on the other side of the street, waiting for him.

  Parry turned and went toward the apartment house. He was staggering now. On the steps he stumbled and fell. In the vestibule his finger went toward the wrong button and he veered it away just in time and got it going toward the right button and pressed the button.
<
br />   He got a buzz. He went through the lobby and entered the elevator. He pressed the 3 button. The elevator started up and Parry felt himself going down. As the elevator went up he kept going down and his eyes were closed now. He saw the black wall of his shut eyelids and then he saw the bright orange and the trapeze again and he saw the gold inlays in the laughing mouth and then he saw the black again just before everything became bright orange and after that it was all black and he was going in there in the black and he was in there. He was in the black.

  Gradually the black gave way and its place was taken by grey-violet and yellow. He was on the sofa. He looked up and he saw her. She was standing beside the sofa, watching him. She smiled.

  She said, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

  She was wearing a yellow robe. Her yellow hair came down and sprayed her shoulders.

  She said, “When I heard the buzzer I was frightened. When nobody came up I was terribly frightened. Then after a while I went out in the hall and I saw the light from the elevator. I went down there and I opened the elevator and I saw you in there. I was so very frightened when I saw the bandages but I recognized the suit and so I understood the bandages. I’m lucky you’re not heavy, because otherwise I couldn’t have managed it. Tell me what happened to you.”

  Parry shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  He pointed to his mouth. He shook his head.

  “Can you talk?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  He shook his head. Then he nodded. With an imaginary pencil he scribbled on a palm. She hurried out of the room. She came back with a pad and a pencil.

  Parry wrote——

  A taxi driver recognized me. He offered to help me. He took me to a plastic specialist who operated on my face. Then he brought me back and left me off a few blocks from here. The bandages must stay on for five days. I can eat only liquids and I’ve got to take them through a glass straw. I can smoke cigarettes if you have a holder. I’ve got to sleep on my back and to keep from turning over on my face I’ve got to have my wrists tied to the sides of the bed. My face hurts terribly and so do my arms where he had to cut to get new skin for my face. I’m very tired and I want to sleep.