by David Goodis
“I don’t have anything with me.”
The man kept shaking his head. “You see? I’ve already started with you. I can’t let it pass now. I’ll have to take you in.”
“I’ve got my wallet at the hotel,” Parry said. “Couldn’t we go over there? I’ll give you all the identification you need.”
“All right,” the man said. “That’ll make it easier. Let’s go to the hotel.”
Parry took some change out of his pocket, laid it on the counter.
They walked out of the diner, stood waiting under the sloping roof that kept the rain away from them.
“Where you staying?” the man said.
Parry tried to think of a place. He couldn’t think of a place. He thought of something else. He looked at the man and he said, “I just remembered. The wallet’s not there. I never keep my money in the wallet. The only thing I took with me was money. All my available cash.”
“How much?”
“Close to two thousand.”
The man tapped a forefinger against his thin moustache.
Parry said, “I don’t want to go back to Portland. It’s bad enough the way it is now. I’m just about ready to crack. I almost cracked a year ago and if I crack now I’ll never get over it. And here’s another thing. My name’s not really Linnell. It’s a new name because I’m trying to make a new start. I’ll never make it if you take me in.”
“You working now?”
“I only checked in last night,” Parry said. “I’ll find work. I know investments backwards and forwards.”
The man folded his arms and watched the rain ripping down. He said, “What’s the offer?”
“A hundred.”
“Make it two.”
Parry took bills from his pocket and began counting off fifties. He put four fifties in the man’s hand.
The man studied the money and pocketed it and walked away.
Parry waited there for ten minutes. He saw an empty taxi, waved to it. The driver beckoned.
The taxi took him to Golden Gate Park, took him around the park and back to Civic Center. He went into a hotel lobby and bought a magazine and used up an hour. Then he went through the revolving door and stood under an awning and watched the rain weaken. When the rain had stopped altogether he walked down the street, kept walking until he came to a department store.
He bought a grip, a good-looking piece of yellow calf. He paid for it and told the salesman to hold it for him. Then he went over to the men’s furnishings department and bought a suit and a thin raincoat. He bought shirts and shorts and ties and socks. He bought another pair of shoes. He was enjoying himself. He went into the toilet goods department and bought a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He bought a razor and a tube of brushless shaving cream.
When he came back to the luggage department he told the salesman he wanted to put his purchases in the grip. He said it would be easier to carry them that way. The salesman said that was all right, as long as he had the receipts.
As he was leaving the department store a man came up to him and politely asked him if he had made any purchases. He said yes, and he showed the receipts. The man thanked him politely and told him to come again. He said he would, and he walked out of the store.
He looked for a hotel. He selected the Ruxton, a small place that wasn’t fancy but was clean and trim. They gave him a room on the fourth floor. He was registered as Allan Linnell, and his address was Portland.
The room was small and very clean and neat. He gave the bellhop a quarter and when he was alone in the room he opened the grip, took out the packages and began to unwrap them.
The phone rang.
He looked at the phone.
The phone rang again.
He decided to let it ring.
It kept on ringing.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone.
The phone kept ringing and ringing.
He got up and walked across the room and picked up the phone.
He said, “Yes?”
“Room 417?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Linnell?”
“Yes?”
“There’s someone here to see you. May I send him up?”
It was a him. Then it had to be the detective. It had to be more money. The detective had trailed him, so it had to be more money or else the detective had changed his mind about taking the money and was going to take him in. He turned and saw three doors. One was a closet door, one was for the bathroom, one was for the corridor. He thought of the corridor, the fire escape. But if it was more money it would be all right. He thought of the fire escape. It was no good. It brought things back to a chase basis. He had to get rid of that. He had to end it before it became a chase.
“Mr. Linnell?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Shall I send him up?”
“Don’t hurry me,” Parry said, and he meant it. Again he thought of the fire escape. He told himself to stop thinking of the fire escape.
“Mr. Linnell?”
“Who is it wants to see me?”
“Just a moment, please.”
Parry heard dim voices. The name wouldn’t help, except that this gave him a few more seconds to think it over even though he knew there was nothing to think over.
“Mr. Linnell?”
“Yes?”
“It’s a Mr. Arbogast.”
Arbogast. It sounded hard, just as hard as the detective’s face was hard. It had to be more money. And more money was all right and it had to be all right.
“Mr. Linnell?” The voice down there was impatient.
“All right,” Parry said. “Send him up.”
He put the phone down and went back to the bed and leaned against the post. It had to be more money, maybe another three hundred. And he could spare that. He told himself it would be all right after he gave the detective another three hundred and then he told himself it wouldn’t be all right because this was the second time. And as long as there was a second time there was the possibility of a third time. And a fourth and a fifth. And after his money ran out the detective would take him in. Again he began to consider the fire escape and this was the best time for the fire escape because the detective was already in the elevator and the elevator was going up. To use the fire escape he must use it now and right now.
Then he was moving toward the door, going slowly, telling himself to go faster, telling himself it was already a chase even though a chase was the last thing he wanted. He was trying to go faster and his legs wouldn’t play along and he begged himself to go faster, to open the door and get out of here and give himself a lead and build the lead. He was almost at the door. He heard sounds in the corridor, footsteps coming toward the door. He felt empty and worn out, and he knew it was too late. If he ran now he would be up against a gun. All these detectives carried guns. A good idea for a novelty song. All detectives carry guns.
This was the end of it, because it couldn’t be money, because it was a matter of plain reasoning, because the detective had already taken a big risk, taking that two hundred, and the detective had no intention of taking a bigger risk now. The detective was here to work, to give back the two hundred and take him in. There was a weakness in the wife in Portland story and the detective had snatched at the weakness before letting him get out of sight, and had trailed him and had him now and would take him in. And this was the end of it and it had to end this way, it had to end here, and what he had sensed all along was reality now, there was really no getting away, they had to grab him sometime, an ostrich could stick its head in the ground, stop seeing everyone else but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t see the ostrich. As he stood there listening to the footsteps coming toward the door he thought of how easy it had been at the beginning, how convenient everything had been, the way the truck was placed, the empty barrels in the truck, the guards away from the truck and the open gate and the truck going through. It had been very easy but it was ended now, and the
ending of it was reasonable even though it wasn’t fair, because now they would kill him, and he didn’t deserve death.
The footsteps came closer and he wondered why it was taking so long for the footsteps to reach the door.
The sound of the footsteps was a soft mallet sound, softly tapping at the top of his skull, and slowly.
The sound of the footsteps took form and became a mallet. The mallet was a weapon. He ought to defend himself against a weapon. He had that right. It was proper and it was just that he should defend himself now. The mallet was the beginning of death and he had a right to defend himself against death.
The sound of the mallet was louder now, closer now, the feeling of it was heavier, and now it was fully upon him and it was hurting and he ought to think in practical terms, think of a way to defend himself. The detective was a fairly big man and the detective had a gun and fists wouldn’t be sufficient. There was Patavilca to think of, there was getting away from here and going to Patavilca to think of, and the detective was trying to keep him away from that, trying to take him away from life and the delight of Patavilca and he had a right to defend himself, to hold onto life. He was looking at the door, listening to the footsteps coming toward the door, listening to the mallet, feeling the mallet, knowing that as each blow of the mallet came against him it was doing something to his brain, knowing he had to stop that, knowing he couldn’t stop it, knowing he had a right to defend himself, listening to the footsteps, feeling the mallet, knowing it wasn’t fair that they should kill him, knowing that soon it would be too late, he would be dead, and he was alive now, and he should be preparing to defend himself, knowing he was going to do something to defend himself, knowing he didn’t hate the detective and he really didn’t want to hurt the detective but he had to do something to defend himself and what he had to do was grab something. He turned his head and on the dresser across the room he saw an ash tray.
It was a glass ash tray.
It was fairly large.
It was heavy. A very heavy ash tray had killed Gert. This one was very heavy.
He stared at it.
The mallet was banging now, banging hard on his skull. He got up from the bed and went over and picked up the ash tray and he was thinking that he would open the door for the detective and hide the ash tray behind his back and manage to get behind the detective and then hit him with the ash tray, hit him hard enough so he would go down, hard enough so he would stay down, but not too hard, because too hard would kill the detective and he didn’t want to kill the detective. He didn’t want to but he wanted to hit the detective hard enough to put him down and keep him down long enough for the negotiation of the fire escape and the complete beginning of a complete getaway, but not too hard, of course not too hard. But hard enough. That would take measuring and he wondered if he would be able to measure it correctly. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to measure it. He knew he was going to bring it down too hard because he was so anxious to get away, because now he was at a point where he was more afraid of bringing it down too lightly than too hard. And now that he had it in his hand and his mind was made up to use it he could not put it down and he was going to do something now that he didn’t want to do, that he never expected he would do, and he didn’t want to do it, and he pleaded with himself not to do it, and he knew he would always regret doing it, and he was sick and he was tired, every part of him was so tired except his right arm and his right hand and the fingers that had a firm hold on the heavy glass ash tray. He pleaded with himself to drop it, to let his fingers go limp, to let the ash tray go to the floor. His grip tightened on the ash tray, the mallet crashed down on him, the door became liquid, flowing toward him, flowing back, the floor was liquid, the door flowed in again, the mallet crashed down again, he saw it happening, just as if it was already happening he saw the detective coming in and the perfect teeth smiling at him and the forefinger tapping against the thin moustache and he heard the detective telling him it was tough and it was too bad but it was necessary to take him in and he could hear himself saying something about the offer of an extra three hundred and he could see the detective shaking a head and saying no, it was tough, it was too bad and it was a rotten job but it was a job all the same and it was necessary to take him in. And the detective was asking him to come along and he said all right, he would come along and then he was getting around and sort of behind the detective and the heavy glass ash tray was a part of his fingers, a part of his arm as he brought up his arm, brought it up high as the detective started to turn to look at him to see what he was doing and then he brought it down, swinging it down, the heavy glass ash tray, very heavy, very hard and thudding so horribly hard against the detective’s head. And the detective stood there looking at him. And he wanted the detective to go down. And he brought the ash tray down again, and the head began to bleed. The blood came running out but the detective wouldn’t go down so he hit the head again and still the detective wouldn’t go down and he hit the head once more. And the detective refused to go down even though the blood was running very thickly now, very fast, and the ash tray came against the head and against the head again and the blood washed down over the detective’s face and the perfect teeth were smiling and very white and glistening until the blood dripped down over the teeth and made them very red and glistening and the detective stood there with his head of blood and he wouldn’t go down.
The blood dripped onto the detective’s shoulders, down over the detective’s shoulders, down the arms, dripped off the ends of the fingers, dripped onto the floor, collected and pooled on the floor, rose up and clung to the detective’s shoes, came up along the detective’s trousers as more blood came down over the detective’s chin, dripped onto the shirtfront and the detective was wearing a very red and glistening shirt and then a very red and glistening suit. All of the detective was red and glistening and the redness gushed from the black and deep openings in the detective’s head and added to the glistening and the red. And the detective wouldn’t go down. The detective was a glistening and red statue, all red, standing there and refusing to go down, and now it was impossible to use the ash tray again because the arm was tired, too tired to lift the ash tray again, and the detective stood there smiling with his perfect red teeth, and then there was a knocking on the door.
The redness stood there.
The knocking came again.
The redness vanished as Parry opened his eyes. Then he closed his eyes again, closed them tightly and tried to see redness or anything near redness and all he got was black. He opened his eyes and he heard the knocking, and he walked over to the dresser and put the ash tray back where it belonged. Then he walked back across the room toward the door, and with the inside of his head a spinning vacuum he put a hand on the knob, knowing a crazy, careening joy as he anticipated the living face of the detective.
He opened the door and saw the face of Studebaker.
16
THERE WAS no hat this time. There was grey hair, very thin on top. There was a new suit, a new shirt and a new tie. And new shoes. And Studebaker was smiling as he stood there in his new clothes. He put a hand in his coat pocket. He took out a small pistol and he pointed it at Parry.
He said, “Walk backward. Keep walking with your hands up until you hit the wall.”
Parry walked backward. His shoulders came against the wall and he bounced a little and then he stood still with his hands up.
Studebaker was in the room now and he was closing the door. He had the pistol pointed at Parry’s stomach. He said, “I could shoot you now and make myself five thousand dollars.”
“I didn’t know they were offering anything,” Parry said.
“That’s what they’re offering,” Studebaker said. “They’re stumped.”
“Have you talked to them?”
“No,” Studebaker said. “If I was a dope I would’ve talked to them. I’m not a dope. In old clothes I know I look like a farmer but I’m not a farmer. Just stand there with your hands up and I�
�ll stand here and we’ll talk it over.”
“What do you want?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“I can’t afford that. I can’t come anywhere near it.”
“She can.”
“Who?”
“The girl.”
“What girl?”
“Irene Janney.”
“Who’s she?”
“Look, Parry. I told you I’m not a dope. And I’m not a farmer. I know she’s worth a couple hundred thousand. She can spare sixty of it.”
“She’s out of it. You can’t do a thing.”
“Except turn you in. And that brings her in. That makes her an accessory to the Fellsinger job. It’s twenty years off her life.”
“They wouldn’t give her that.”
“All right, let’s give her a break. Let’s make it ten. It’s still worth sixty thousand. That leaves her a hundred and forty thousand. With that hundred and forty she can get back the sixty in no time. And then we’ll all be happy.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Parry said. “I’m sure.” He watched the pistol. The pistol remained pointed at him but it was moving. Because Studebaker was moving, because Studebaker was going toward the phone.
Studebaker took hold of the phone and lifted it from the hook.
“Put it down,” Parry said.
Studebaker smiled. He put the phone down. He said, “You’ll play?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s okay. Think about it all you want to. Look at it up and down and sideways. You’ll come to the same thing. You’ll see it’s the best way. What you’ve got to do now is shake me. I’m a big stone in the road and you’ve got to get rid of the stone to keep on going. So what you’ve got to do is talk to her and show her what her only move is. You got plenty on her.”
“You too. You seem to know plenty.”
