by David Goodis
“I can’t.” She was holding her sides, as though her ribs were cracking. Her laughter climbed to a screaming pitch.
Kerrigan moved toward her, his eyes burning, his teeth grinding. But suddenly he stopped short, staring past Bella, seeing something that caused him to stiffen. His eyes were aiming at a small mirror on the wall and he saw his carefully combed hair and the Sunday suit.
The mocking laughter jabbed at him like hot needles inserted in his brain. But he heard it, the jeering sound wasn’t coming from Bella. He told himself it came from the mirror.
He turned away and hurried out of the kitchen. The laughter followed him down the hall, through the parlor, and went on jabbing at him as he opened the front door and walked out of the house.
10
HE WALKED aimlessly on Vernon, crossing the street several times for no good reason at all. On Wharf Street he turned around and went back on Vernon all the way to Eleventh, then walked eleven blocks back to Wharf, and turned around again. It didn’t occur to him how much ground he was covering, how many hours it was taking. The only definite feeling he had was the weight of the camera in his jacket pocket.
The sky was dark now. He continued to walk back and forth along Vernon Street and finally he stood outside a store window, staring at the face of a clock that read eleven-forty. He scowled at the clock and asked himself what in hell he was going to do with the camera.
He turned away from the store window and resumed walking along Vernon. The heat-weary citizens were grouped on doorsteps, the perspiration gleaming on their faces. As Kerrigan walked past, they stared at him in wonder, seeing the buttoned collar and the necktie and the heavy worsted jacket and trousers. They shook their heads.
But although he wasn’t thinking about it, the sticky heat seeped into his body and he moved with increasing difficulty. His mouth and throat were aching for a cold drink. He saw the light in the window of Dugan’s Den, and it occurred to him that he could use a few beers.
Entering the taproom, he heard the squeaky tune that Dugan hummed off key. There were three customers at the bar, a couple of hags with a lot of rouge on their faces and an ageless humpbacked derelict bent low over a glass of wine. The hags were glaring at Dugan, who had his arms folded and his eyes half closed and was concentrating on the music that came from his lips.
One of the hags leaned toward Dugan and yelled, “Shut up with that noise. I can’t stand that goddamn noise.”
Dugan went on humming.
“You gonna shut up?” the hag screeched.
“He won’t shut up,” the other hag said. “Only way to quiet him down is shoot him.”
“One of these nights I’ll do just that,” the first hag said. “I’ll come in here with a gun, and so help me, I’ll put a slug in his throat.”
Kerrigan was at the bar. He caught Dugan’s attention and said he wanted a beer. Dugan filled a glass and brought it to him. He finished it quickly and ordered another. He looked up at the clock above the bar and the hands pointed to twelve-ten. In his jacket pocket the camera was very heavy.
The first hag was pointing to Kerrigan and saying loudly, “Look at that goddamn fool. Look at the way he’s all dressed up.”
“In a winter suit,” the other hag said.
“Maybe he thinks it’s wintertime,” the first hag said. She was short and shapeless and her hair was dyed orange.
The other hag began to laugh. She made a sound like two pieces of rusty metal scraping against each other. Her throat was ribboned with several knife scars and on her face she had a hideous vertical scar that ran from the right eye down to the mouth. She was of average height and weighed around eighty pounds. Pointing a bony finger at Kerrigan, she jeered, “You tryin’ to suffocate? Is that whatcha wanna do? You wanna suffocate?”
“He don’t even hear ya,” the shapeless hag said. “He’s all dressed up to go somewhere and he don’t even hear ya.”
“Hey, stupid,” the scarred woman hollered. “You goin’ to a party? Take us with you.”
“Yeah. We’re all dressed up, too.”
Kerrigan looked at them. He saw the rags they wore, the cracked leather and broken heels of their shoes. Then he looked at their faces and he recognized them. The shapeless woman with orange hair was named Frieda and she lived in a shack a few doors away from the Kerrigan house. The scarred woman was the widow of a ditchdigger and her name was Dora. Both women were in their early forties and he’d known them since his childhood.
“Hello, Frieda,” he said. “Hello, Dora.”
They stiffened and stared at him.
“Don’t you know me?” he said.
Without moving from where they stood at the other end of the bar, they leaned forward to get a better look at him.
“I know what he is,” Frieda said. “He’s a federal.”
Dora slanted her head and looked Kerrigan up and down and then she nodded slowly.
“A goddamn federal,” Frieda said. “I can spot them a mile away.”
“What’s he want with us?” Dora’s voice was wary.
“I’m wise to these federals,” Frieda declared in a loud voice. “They can’t put anything over on me. Hey, you,” she shouted at Kerrigan. “Whatever you got in mind, forget it. We ain’t bootleggers and we ain’t peddling dope. We’re honest, hard-working women and we go to church and we’re all paid up on our income taxes.”
“And another thing,” Dora cut in. “We’re not counterfeiters.”
“We’re decent citizens,” Frieda stated. Her voice climbed to a shrill blast. “You leave us alone, you hear?”
Kerrigan sighed and went back to his beer. He knew there was no use trying to prove his identity. He knew that Frieda and Dora were mixing their fear of the law with a certain pleasure, a feeling of importance. They visualized the United States government sending an agent to deal with two clever queens of vice. But they’d show him. They’d trip him up on every move he made.
He called to Dugan and said he was buying drinks for the ladies. They ordered double shots of gin and didn’t bother to thank him because they were in a hurry to get it down. And when it was down they forgot all about him; they gazed at the empty glasses and tried to drown themselves in the emptiness.
While Dugan hummed the squeaky tune, Kerrigan leaned low over the bar, not hearing it. He was gazing at the half-empty glass of beer and feeling the weight of the camera in his pocket.
Then the door opened and someone came into the taproom. The women looked around at the newcomer, who smiled a quietly amiable greeting and moved toward a table at the other side of the room. The hags made oaths without sound as they glowered at the delicately chiseled face of Newton Channing. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a light summer suit that was freshly pressed. As he seated himself at a table he lit a cigarette with a green enamel-cased lighter. It sent a pale green glow onto his thin, sensitive features and gave a greenish tint to his yellow hair.
The two hags went on looking at Newton Channing, their eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and absurdly futile envy.
Kerrigan had raised his head and he was staring at the mirror behind the bar. He watched the smoke climbing languidly from the cigarette in Channing’s mouth. His hand moved slowly along the side of his jacket and he reached into the pocket containing the camera.
He waited until Dugan served Channing a water glass filled with whisky. Then he walked across the room to Channing’s table. He took the camera out of his pocket and put it on the table.
“What’s this?” Channing asked without interest.
“It belongs to your sister.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“She left it with me.”
Channing frowned slightly. He picked up the camera and turned it around in his hands, holding it close to his eyes and giving it a careful inspection. Then he put it down and his head turned slowly and he looked at Kerrigan.
He said, “Aren’t you the man I met last night?”
Kerrigan nodde
d. “You bought me a beer. We talked for a while.”
“Yes, I remember.” Channing turned his attention back to the camera. “What’s the story on this?”
Kerrigan laughed.
“What’s funny?” Channing asked. His voice was very soft.
Kerrigan moved to the other side of the table and sat down. Channing had pushed the glass of whisky aside and was leaning forward and frowning puzzledly, his eyes still on the camera.
Kerrigan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He said, “You better have a talk with your sister. Tell her she was very lucky this time. Maybe next time she won’t be so lucky.”
Channing looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Can’t you add it up?”
Channing shook his head. His eyes were blank.
“She made a play for me,” Kerrigan said. He leaned back in the chair and waited for Channing’s reaction.
But there was no reaction, except that the puzzlement faded just a little. And then Channing shrugged. He reached out for the water glass filled with whisky, lifted it to his mouth, and took a long drink. Then he put the cigarette to his lips and pulled at it easily. The smoke came out of his nose and mouth like the smoke from an incense burner, thin columns climbing lazily.
Kerrigan could feel himself stiffening. He tried to loosen up, but his eyes were getting hard and his voice sounded tight and strained. “Didn’t you hear what I said? She made a play for me.”
“So?”
“You don’t seem to care.”
“Why should I?”
Kerrigan spoke with bitter sarcasm. “She’s got class. You don’t want her mixing with bar flies and dock workers.”
“I don’t give a damn who she mixes with.”
“She’s your sister,” Kerrigan said. “Don’t she mean anything to you?”
“She means a great deal to me. I’m awfully fond of Loretta.”
“Then why don’t you look out for her?”
“She’s old enough to look out for herself.”
“Not after dark. Not in this neighborhood. No woman is safe in this neighborhood.”
Channing lifted his gaze from the camera and studied Kerrigan’s face. For some moments he didn’t speak. Then he said quietly, “I’m not worried. Why should you be?”
It was a perfectly logical statement. Kerrigan swallowed hard and said, “Just trying to give you advice, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” Channing said. He slanted his head a little. “I think you’re the one who needs advice.”
Kerrigan found himself staring toward the center of the table, at the camera.
He heard Channing saying, “Don’t be afraid of her.”
It seemed to him that the tabletop was coming up to hit him in the face. He pulled his head to one side. He wondered why he couldn’t look at Channing.
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Channing said. “After all, she’s just a woman.”
He tried to reply. He groped for phrases and couldn’t find a single word.
“I’m saying this,” Channing murmured, “because I know you want her.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Possibly,” Channing admitted with complete gravity. “But at times it’s the lunatic who makes the most sense. Maybe you’re not aware that you want her, but it shows in your eyes. You want her very much and you’re terribly afraid of her.”
Something tugged at Kerrigan’s throat. He spoke in a whisper. “Sure I’m afraid. I’m afraid if she bothers me again I might clip her in the teeth.”
Channing raised his eyebrows. For a long moment he was quietly thoughtful. Then he said, “Well, that’s easily understandable. From your point of view she’s just fooling around.”
Kerrigan put his hands flat on the table. His palms pressed hard against the wood. He didn’t say anything.
Channing said, “It’s quite possible she’s more serious than you think. Why don’t you try to find out?”
“I’m not interested. Happens I got something else on my mind.”
He paused, waiting for it to sink in.
Channing’s face was impassive.
“It concerns you.” And there was another pause, much longer. “I’d like to find out more about you.”
“Me?” Channing frowned. “What for? Any special reason?”
“I think you know what the reason is. I’m not ready to say for sure. But I think you know.”
Channing’s eyebrows were up again. “That sounds rather sinister. Now you have me curious.”
“Not worried?”
“No. Just curious.”
“You ought to be worried.”
Channing smiled. “I never worry. I suffer a lot, but I never worry.” He reached for the glass of whisky. He took a very long drink, emptying the glass. Then he poured more whisky from the bottle and took another drink. He said, “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”
“I’m not ready to tell you.”
Channing went on smiling. It was a relaxed smile. “I hope it’s something exciting,” he murmured. “I like excitement.”
“That’s what I figured,” Kerrigan said. “Anything for kicks.”
“Sure.” Channing lit another cigarette. “Why not?” He took an easy drag, let it go down deep, and then it came out in little clouds as he said, “A few weeks ago I thought it would be nice to see Alaska. I’d never been to Alaska and I had this sudden notion to make the trip. The idea hit me on a Wednesday afternoon. An hour later I was in a plane. Thursday night I was making love to a sixty-year-old Eskimo woman.”
For some moments Kerrigan was silent. Then he said, “How was it in Alaska?”
“Very nice. Rather cold, but really very nice.”
Kerrigan’s hands were still flat on the table. He looked down at them. “You do these things often?”
“Now and then,” Channing said. “Depends on what mood I’m in.”
“I bet you have all kinds of moods.”
“Hundreds of them,” Channing admitted. He laughed without sound. “I ought to keep a filing cabinet. It’s hard to remember such a wide variety.”
Kerrigan closed his eyes and for a moment all he saw was black. And then something happened to the blackness and it became the dark alley and the dried bloodstains.
He could feel the trembling that began in his chest and went up to his brain and down to his chest again. His eyes were open now and he stared at his hands and saw that his knuckles were white. He said to himself, Cut it out, you’re not sure yet, you don’t have proof, you can’t do anything if you don’t have proof.
Just then something caused him to turn his head and he saw the two hags who stood at the bar. They were making hissing sounds and their eyes were focused on him and Channing. And then, somewhat hesitantly, they moved toward the table.
They approached the table with their faces sullen and belligerent and yet their twisted mouths seemed to be pleading for something. Frieda was trying to wriggle her shapeless hips and her hands made dainty adjustments to her orange hair. Dora swayed her bony shoulders and attempted to show the curves of a body that had no curves. As the two of them came closer, it was like a walking bag of flour and a walking broomstick.
“Get the hell away,” Kerrigan muttered.
“We got a right to sit down,” Dora said. And then she recognized him. “Well, whaddya know? It’s Bill Kerrigan.”
“Damn if it ain’t,” Frieda shouted.
“And he’s all dressed up in his Sunday best,” Dora declared. She let out a high-pitched, jarring laugh. “We thought you was a federal.” She folded her arms and unfolded them and then folded them again. “Why the special outfit?”
“This here’s a special table,” Frieda said. She made a gesture to indicate Channing, who sat there relaxed and smiling dimly.
Dora had stopped laughing and her face was pleated with lines curving downward. “It may be special, but it ain’t reserved. If they can sit here, so can we.”
&nbs
p; “You’re goddamn right,” Frieda said. She took the chair next to Channing. Then she shifted the chair so that the grimy fabrics covering her hip came up against the side of his clean jacket.
Dora sat down beside Kerrigan. She put her arm around his shoulder. He cursed without sound, took hold of her wrist, and pushed her arm away. But then her arm was there again. He said, “What the hell,” and let it stay there.
“Gonna buy us a drink?” Frieda asked Channing.
“Why, certainly,” Channing said. “What would you like?”
“Gin,” Dora said. “We don’t drink nothing but gin.”
Channing called to Dugan and said he wanted a bottle of gin and two glasses. At the bar the humpbacked wino had turned and was looking at the table. The face of the wino was expressionless.
“Would you like something?” Channing asked the wino.
“Go to hell,” the wino said. He said it with an effort. There was no more wine in his glass and he had seven cents in his pocket and wine was fifteen. He took a deep dragging breath and said, “You can go to hell.”
“Same to you,” Frieda yelled at the wino. “We want no part of you, you humpbacked freak.”
“Don’t say that,” Channing said mildly. “That isn’t nice.”
Frieda twisted in her chair and glowered at him. “Don’t you tell me how to talk. I’m a lady and I know how to talk.”
“All right,” Channing said.
“We’re both ladies, me and my friend Dora. That’s Dora there. My name’s Frieda.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’m Newton Channing.”
Frieda spoke loudly. “We don’t give a damn who you are. You ain’t no better than us.” She sat up very straight, and her eyes were hard. “What makes you think you’re better than us?”
“Is that what I think?”
“Sure,” Dora said. “You ain’t kidding nobody.”
Channing shrugged. Dugan arrived at the table with the bottle of gin and two glasses. Channing looked at Kerrigan. “What’s yours?”
“I don’t want anything,” Kerrigan mumbled. “I’m getting out of here.” He tried to twist away from the pressure of Dora’s skinny arm. She put her other arm around him and held him there.
