by David Goodis
They stood there and waited for him. He sighed and shook his head slowly as he walked up to them. One of them was large and past forty and the other was a young handsome man with pale blue eyes, like aquamarine.
The large cop said, “This your car?”
“I wish it wasn’t.” Harbin looked at the car and shook his head.
“What you doing around here?” the young cop said.
Harbin frowned at the car. “Know where there’s an all night mechanic?”
The large cop rubbed his chin. “You kidding?”
The young cop looked at the black car. It was a 1946 Chevrolet sedan. “What’s wrong with it?”
Harbin shrugged.
“Let’s see your cards,” the large cop said.
Harbin handed his wallet to the large cop and watched the young cop walking around the Chevrolet and examining it as though it was something new in the zoo. Harbin leaned against a fender and went on smoking his cigarette as he watched the large cop looking through the cards and checking them with the license plates. He saw the young cop opening the front door on the other side and sliding in behind the wheel.
The large cop handed back the wallet and Harbin said, “I must have walked a couple of miles. Nothing. Not even a gas station.”
“You realize what time it is?”
Harbin looked at his wristwatch. “Jesus Christ.”
From inside the car, the young handsome cop said, “Where’s your keys?”
“What do you mean?” Harbin said.
“I mean where’s your keys? I want to try it.”
Harbin opened the front door next to the steering wheel, reached in toward the ignition lock and found only the lock. He frowned up at the long nose of the young cop. He withdrew himself from the car, threw a hand toward his rear trousers pocket, then went through an act of searching for the keys, telling himself he didn’t like the eyes of the young cop.
The young cop came out of the car and folded thick arms and watched him as he searched for the keys.
“God damn it,” Harbin said. Now he was going through his coat pockets.
The young cop said, “How come you lose keys?”
“They’re not lost,” Harbin said. “They got to be around somewhere.”
“Been drinking?” The young cop moved in a little.
“Not a drop,” Harbin said.
“All right then,” the young cop said, “where’s the keys for your car?”
Instead of answering, Harbin leaned his head inside the car, under the steering wheel and began to search on the floor for the keys. He heard the young cop saying, “You look at his cards?”
“They’re in order,” the large cop said.
A hand touched Harbin’s shoulder, and he heard the young cop saying, “Hey.”
He came out from underneath the steering wheel. He faced the young cop. He said, “Some nights a man just shouldn’t go out.”
Again the young cop had his arms folded. His aquamarine eyes were lenses. “What do you do?”
“Installment business,” Harbin said.
“Door to door?”
Harbin nodded.
The young cop glanced at the large cop and then he turned his handsome face toward Harbin and said, “How do you make out?”
“I break even,” Harbin pushed a weak grin onto his lips. “You know how it is. It’s a struggle.”
“What ain’t?” the large cop said.
Harbin rubbed the back of his head. “I must have had the keys in my hand when I got out of the car. Must have dropped them while I was walking.” He waited for the policemen to say something, and when they didn’t he said, “I might as well crawl in the back and go to sleep.”
“No,” the young cop said, “you can’t do that.”
“Can you run me into town?”
The young cop pointed to the red bandit chaser. “Does that look like a taxi?”
Harbin put his hands in trousers pockets and gazed dismally at the street. “Might as well go to sleep in the car.”
There was a long wait. Harbin kept his eyes away from their faces. He had a feeling the young cop was watching him closely. He knew it was now at the point where it would go one way or another, and all he could do was wait.
Finally, the large cop said, “Go on, get in your car. The night’s half shot anyway.”
Harbin crossed in front of the aquamarine eyes of the young cop. He opened the rear door of the car, climbed in, curled up on the upholstery and closed his eyes. Around a minute later he heard the engine of the red car starting up. He heard the red car going away.
The long hand on his wristwatch traveled for seven minutes before he raised his head to peer through the car window. Turning the handle that brought the window down, he listened for engine noise, but the night air was empty of sound. He inhaled the quiet, enjoying it. Then, climbing out of the Chevrolet, he put another cigarette in his mouth and moved toward the mansion.
Gladden was at the window as he climbed in. He gave her a grin while she handed him the tools. He turned on his flashlight, aimed it at the wall safe, followed the path of white light across the room to the square of hammered brass, and beyond the brass, the emeralds.
Chapter II
THEY WERE looking at the haul. The four of them were on the second floor of a small dingy house in the Kensington section of Philadelphia. The house was in Dohmer’s name and it was very small, part of a narrow street of row houses hemmed in by factories. The house was their dwelling place, their headquarters, and they called it the Spot. Dust and dirty air from the mills was always coming in even when the windows were closed. Gladden had a habit of throwing a cleaning-rag at the windows and saying it was no use trying to fight this dust. After awhile she would sigh and pick up the rag and go on with the cleaning.
The table in Baylock’s room on the second floor was in the center of the room and they stood around and watched Baylock as he examined the emeralds. Baylock’s fingers were pincers of thin metal as he picked up the gems one by one and held them against the glass fitted into his left eye. Dohmer had beer going down his throat from a quart bottle, and Gladden’s hands were clasped behind her back, her shoulder resting slightly against Harbin’s chest, the smoke from his cigarette spraying through the yellow hair of Gladden and floating toward the center of the table where the stones flamed green.
After awhile Baylock took the glass from his eye and picked up a piece of paper on which he had been making an itemized list with the estimated value of each jewel. “Come in around a hundred and ten thousand. Cut the stones down, melt the platinum, shape it up again and it ought to bring around forty.”
“Forty thousand,” Dohmer said.
Baylock frowned. “Less the expenses.”
“What expenses?” Dohmer said.
“Overhead,” Baylock said, biting at the corner of his mouth.
Harbin looked at the emeralds. He told himself it was a nice haul and he ought to feel good about it. He wondered why he didn’t feel good about it.
Baylock said, “We better move this rapid.” He got up from the table, walked up and down, came back to the table. “I figure we go tomorrow. Pack up in the morning and start out. Take it down to Mexico.”
Harbin was shaking his head.
“Why not?” Baylock asked.
Harbin didn’t answer. He had his wallet out and he was tearing the operator’s license and registration card in little pieces. He turned to Dohmer. “Get new cards printed and take care of the Chevvie. Get it done fast. Get new upholstery, now, new paint job, melt the license plates. Everything.”
Dohmer nodded, and then he said, “What color you want it?”
Gladden said, “I like orange.”
Harbin looked at her. He was waiting for Baylock to commence an argument about Mexico. He knew Baylock would have something to say about Mexico.
“Make it a dull orange,” Gladden said. “I don’t like bright colors. They’re cheap. They’re common. When I buy dresses, I buy
them in the soft colors. With good taste. With class. Make the car a smoky orange or a grey orange or a burnt orange.”
Dohmer took the beer bottle from his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I wish,” Gladden said, “sometime I could get to talk with women. If once a month I could talk lady talk with ladies I’d be happy.”
Baylock rubbed fingers across his balding head. He frowned down at the emeralds. “I figure we go tomorrow and head for Mexico City.”
“I said no,” Harbin let it come cool.
As though Harbin had not spoken, Baylock said, “Tomorrow’s the best time to go. Soon as we get the car changed over. Go down to Mexico City and get the stuff to a fence. Get it done rapid.”
“Not tomorrow,” Harbin said. “Not next week. Not next month.”
Baylock looked up. “How long you want to wait?”
“Between six months and a year.”
“That’s too long,” Baylock said. “Too many things can happen.” And then for some unknown reason he looked directly at Gladden and his eyes became almost closed. “Like stupid moves. Like painting the car bright orange.”
“I didn’t say bright orange,” Gladden said. “I told you I didn’t like bright orange.”
“Like getting up in society,” Baylock went on. “Like getting in with the servants on the Main Line.”
“You leave me alone,” Gladden said. She turned to Harbin. “Tell him to leave me alone.”
“Like getting high ideas,” Baylock went on. “With good taste. With class. First thing we know she’ll be in circulation.”
“Now you shut up, Joe,” Gladden cried. “You got no right to talk like that. I got in with the servants ’cause that’s the only way I could case the place.” Again she turned to Harbin. “Why does he pick on me all the time?”
“God, first thing we know,” Baylock said, “she’ll be up in the world with Main Line society. We’ll have rich people coming up here to play bridge and have tea and look at our emeralds.”
Harbin turned to Gladden, “Go out in the hall.”
“No,” Gladden said.
“Go on,” Harbin said, “go out and wait in the hall.”
“I’ll stay right here.” Gladden was quivering.
Baylock frowned at Gladden and said, “Why don’t you do like he tells you?”
Gladden turned fully upon Baylock. “You shut your God damn lousy face.”
Harbin felt something twisting around in his insides, something getting started in there. He knew what it was. It had happened before. He didn’t want it to happen again. He tried to work it down and stifle it, but it kept moving around in there and now it began to climb.
Baylock said, “I claim we start tomorrow. I claim—”
“Drop it,” Harbin’s voice sliced the room. “Drop it, drop it—”
Gladden said, “Hey, Nat—”
“You, too,” Harbin was up from the chair, he had the chair in his hand, up in the air, high up, then heaving the chair against the wall, moving toward the dresser and picking up a half-empty bottle of beer, bashing it to the floor. He took his fist and slammed it into the air. His breathing sounded like broken machinery. He was pleading with himself to stop it, but he couldn’t stop it. They stood there and looked at him as they had looked at him many times when it had happened before. They didn’t move. They stood there and waited for the thing to die down.
“Get out,” he shouted. “All of you, get out of here.” He threw himself on Baylock’s cot, his fingernails cutting through the sheet, then the sheet underneath, his fingers tearing at both sheets as he arched his back to destroy the fabric in his hands. “Get out,” he screamed, “get out and leave me alone.”
They worked their way out of the room. He was on his knees, on the cot, tearing the sheets, ripping them until they were scraggly ribbons. He fell on his side, rolled off the cot, hit the table so that it went off balance and the gems splattered on the floor. He was on the floor among the emeralds, his flesh touching them without feeling them. He closed his eyes and heard voices in the hall. Dohmer’s voice was loud, getting louder against the loudness of Baylock’s voice. Gladden yelled something he couldn’t make out, but he knew what was happening. He wanted to remain there on the floor and let it grow and let it finally happen. He picked himself up from the floor, and as he heard the shriek from Gladden, he staggered across the room toward the door.
He was in the hall, throwing himself between Dohmer and Baylock, getting in low to put his arms around Dohmer’s knees, his shoulder against Dohmer’s thigh, his feet bracing hard, then the push and the heave as his arms went even lower so that he took Dohmer with him to the floor.
Dohmer’s eyes didn’t see him. Dohmer was gazing past him, up at Baylock. There was a good deal of grief on Baylock’s face. Baylock’s left eye was swollen and purple and the eyebrow was cut.
Rising slowly, Harbin said, “All right, it’s over.”
“It isn’t over.” Baylock was weeping without tears.
“If you feel that way,” Harbin said, “don’t stand there thinking about it. Here’s Dohmer right in front of you. If you want to hit him, go ahead and hit him.”
Baylock had no reply. Dohmer had risen and now stood rubbing his brow as though he had a severe headache. A few times he opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but he was unable to choose words.
Gladden lit a cigarette. She gave Harbin a scolding look. “This is all your fault.”
“I know it is,” Harbin said. Without looking at Baylock, he murmured, “Maybe if certain people would stop needling me, it wouldn’t happen.”
“I don’t needle you,” Baylock wept. “All I do is say what I think.”
“It isn’t thinking,” Harbin said. “It’s crying the blues. You’re always crying the blues.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “Fix him up,” he said to Gladden, and she took Baylock into the bathroom. Harbin turned and moved into the bedroom and began putting things back in order.
In the doorway, Dohmer rubbed palms across his knuckles. “I don’t know what got into me.”
Harbin set the table on its legs. He put the chair back in place. He gathered the scattered gems and when they were all collected and in their cloth on the table, he turned to Dohmer and said, “You make me sick.”
“Baylock makes you sick.”
“Baylock makes me sore. You make me sick.”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Dohmer said. “I swear I didn’t really mean to hit him.”
“That’s why you make me sick. As long as you do what you mean to do, you’re a utility. But when you lose your head you’re worse than nothing.”
“You’re the one went out of control.”
“When I go out of control,” Harbin said, “I punch air, I don’t punch a face.” He pointed to the torn sheets. “I damage that. I don’t damage the people I work with. Look at the size of your fists. You could have killed him.”
Dohmer moved into the room and sat on the edge of the cot. He went on rubbing his knuckles. “Why do these things have to start?”
“Nerves.”
“We’ve got to get rid of that.”
“We can’t,” Harbin said. “Nerves are little wires inside. They stay there. When they’re pulled too tight, they snap.”
“That ain’t good.”
“Nothing you can do about it,” Harbin said, “except try to steer it when it happens. That’s what I try to do. I try to steer it. Instead of aiming that hand at Baylock, you should have aimed it at the wall.”
“I’m too big,” Dohmer stood there very dismally. He looked with pleading at Harbin. “You’ve got to believe me, Nat, I got nothing against Baylock. I like Baylock. He’s been good to me. He’s done me more favors than I can remember. So look what I go and do. I walk in and slam my hand into his eye. This hand here,” and he displayed his right hand, holding it out as though offering it to be cut off.
Harbin saw Dohmer’s head go down, the immense should
ers slumped, the big head descending into cupped hands. Something midway between a moan and a sob came from Dohmer’s throat. It was evident that Dohmer wished to be alone with his remorse, and Harbin walked out of the room and closed the door.
He entered the bathroom to see Baylock with head tilted far back under the light above the washbowl. Gladden pressed gently with a styptic pencil, then she held the white pencil under cold running water, then applied it again. Baylock made a thin sound of pain.
“It’s awful,” Baylock said. “It’s like fire.”
“Let me see.” Harbin stepped in close to examine the eye. “Not too deep. You won’t need stitches, anyway.”
Baylock gazed morosely at the floor. “Why did he have to hit me?”
“He feels worse about it than you do.”
“Does he have this eye?”
“He wishes he did,” Harbin said. “He feels lousy about it.”
“That helps the eye a lot,” Baylock whined.
Harbin lit a cigarette, taking his time. Then, after a few puffs, he looked at Gladden. “Go downstairs and fix us something to eat. Later on I’ll take you out for a drink.”
“Should I dress up?” Gladden asked. “I’d love to dress up.”
Harbin smiled at her.
She said, “I get a real kick when I’m all dressed up. What I like best is that number with the silver sequins. You like that one, Nat? That yellow dress with the sequins?”
“It’s very pretty.”
“I’m dying to wear it tonight,” Gladden said. “I got a real itch to take that dress out and put it on and wear it. Then I’ll be out with you and I’ll be wearing that dress.”
“Nice,” Harbin nodded. “Real nice.”
“It’s always real nice when I’m all dressed up in a dress I’m crazy about, and I’m sure crazy about that sequin thing. I’ll put it on and I’ll be wearing it when we go out, and I’ll have it on and I’ll feel fine. I feel real good just thinking about it.”
She was walking out. They heard her as she reached the head of the stairs, saying aloud to herself, “Just thinking about it.” They heard her going down the stairs.
