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

by David Goodis

  He shook his head. Again he gave a heavy sigh. He said, “We went to Dugan’s Den.”

  “Then where’d you go?”

  His jaw hardened. “All right,” he muttered, “let’s drop the questions.”

  “You’ll sit there and answer them. You’ll tell me where you went after you left Dugan’s Den.”

  He turned and frowned at her. “What’re you getting at?”

  She wasn’t looking at him. Her voice was a grinding whisper. “You know what I’m getting at. You’ve told me about the license and the ring. And the celebration. Now I want to hear the rest of it. I want to know all about the wedding night.”

  He aimed the frown at the floor. “We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you mean.”

  She let go of the bedpost. She breathed in and out and it was almost like a sigh of relief. The corners of her mouth moved up just a trifle, starting to build a smile.

  Kerrigan went on frowning. He heard himself saying, “The way it happened, we walked out of Dugan’s and she had her car parked outside and we climbed in. She drove me back here and she helped me into the house. Then she was sitting on the sofa and I was moving around, I didn’t know where the hell I was going. Went down the hall and got the rooms mixed up and landed in the wrong bed.”

  “You weren’t as mixed up as you thought you were,” Bella said. She had the smile fully glowing in her eyes. “You were on your way to the right bed. You’re in it now.”

  He stared at her. She was moving toward him, coming slowly across the room. He told himself to get up but somehow he couldn’t lift his limbs. As he watched Bella approaching, it was like a wall closing in on him.

  She was saying, “Don’t you see the way it is? Last night was just a joke, it wasn’t for real, and you know it. Whatever it was that made you do it, we’ll check that off, it ain’t important. Only one thing matters. You’re here with me.”

  “No,” he said. “No.”

  Her smile widened and brightened and she said, “You don’t mean that. You mean yes.”

  “Now wait.” And his hand was lifted, telling her to stay away.

  She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He fell back with her weight pressing against him. Her eyes were wild and her lips found his mouth and he could feel the flame rising in his body, the red-black flame that curled and swept in wide arcs, and he held her tightly, his heart pounding. But just then he heard the soundless voice of his brain saying, You damn fool, you’re falling into a trap, get out, get out.

  He tried to push her away. She wouldn’t let go of him. He seized her wrists and twisted hard, then gave her a violent shove that sent her to the floor. He stood up quickly, lunged across the room, and picked up his shoes and the shirt and the jacket and trousers. He started toward the door. Then abruptly he came to a stop. He glared at her. He said, “I oughta push your face in for trying a trick like that.”

  It seemed she was speaking to the bed. “Well, I tried.”

  “Damn right you did. And you saw what it got you. You’re lucky it didn’t get you a broken jaw.”

  She looked at him. “I’m still here, if you feel like slugging me.”

  “It ain’t worth the effort,” he said. Then he braced himself, expecting that she’d leap at him with clawing fingernails.

  For some moments she didn’t move. Then very slowly she got up from the floor. She walked across the room, picked up a robe, and put it on. He watched her as she reached into a pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Her voice was oddly matter-of-fact as she said, “Want one?”

  He shook his head. Her eyes were blank, puzzled.

  She was lighting a cigarette. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  He breathed hard. “Only thing I want from you is a definite understanding. From here on in you’re gonna leave me alone. You’ll hafta get it through your head I’m a married man.”

  “By the way,” she murmured casually, “where is she?”

  He blinked a few times.

  She took a slow easy drag at the cigarette. “Well?” She watched the smoke drifting away from her lips. “Come on, tell me. Where’s the bride?”

  His mouth was opened loosely. He went on blinking.

  “I’ll tell you where she is,” Bella said. “She’s sound asleep in a nice clean bed. In a nice clean house. In a nice respectable neighborhood.”

  He swallowed hard. He couldn’t say anything.

  Bella said, “It stands to reason she wouldn’t stay here. She’d be a damn fool to spend the night in this dump.”

  “All right,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”

  Bella looked at the cigarette held loosely in her fingers. She spoke to the cigarette. “Sure, the bride took a run-out. And who can blame her? The groom brings her to a house with the plaster chipping off the walls and the furniture coming apart and empty beer bottles all over the floor. It’s a wonder she let herself sit on the sofa. This afternoon she’ll be taking her dress to the cleaners, you can bet on that and your money’s safe. Another thing she’ll do, she’ll go to the beauty parlor and have her hair washed, an extra soaping just to make sure. After all, in these Vernon rat traps you never know, you can pick up anything. What she really oughta do is spray herself with DDT.”

  “Shut up,” he said. “You better shut up.”

  Bella shrugged. “Well, anyway, she’s breathing easier now. That cleaner, fresher air uptown.”

  He stood motionless. The quiet in the room was unbearable, and he knew he had to say something. His mouth was tight as he said, “You don’t get the point. All she did was walk out of the house. She didn’t walk out on me.”

  “That ain’t what I’m saying.” Bella spoke very quietly. But now the cigarette trembled in her fingers. “Cantcha see what I’m trying to tell ya? No matter how much she wants you, she can’t get away from uptown. And sure as hell you can’t get away from here.”

  “Can’t I?” His eyes aimed past Bella, seeing past the walls, past Vernon rooftops and sky. “All it takes is streetcar fare. Just a matter of fifteen cents.”

  The cigarette split in half. The lighted end hit the floor and scorched the carpet. Bella stepped on the burning stub. She looked at the scattered ashes. She was sobbing without sound as she said, “Don’t throw your money away. It’s a dime and a nickel wasted. All you’ll be doing is taking yourself for a ride.”

  “It’s gonna be more than that,” he said. “I’ll be going somewhere.” And then, as though Bella weren’t in the room, he said softly to himself, “She’s there, she’s waiting for me.”

  “You fool,” Bella whispered. “You poor fool.”

  He looked at her. There was a practical tone in his voice as he said, “I’m leaving tonight. As soon as I get home from work. Tell Lola not to cook for me. I’m gonna be in a hurry.”

  Bella nodded very slowly. She gazed vacantly at the door behind him. Her lips moved automatically. “All right, I’ll tell her not to cook for you.”

  He turned away from her. He opened the door and walked out of the room.

  Then in his own room he was putting on his work clothes. He was thinking, Tomorrow morning it’ll be a different room, a different house, a different street. From now on everything’s gonna be different, gonna be better. His brain could taste the pleasant flavor of saying good-by to all Vernon dwellings, all Vernon faces.

  There was a sound from the bed where Frank was sleeping fitfully. Turning over on his side, Frank grunted and let out a dry cough. Frank’s face was toward the window, and as the morning light hit him, he opened his eyes. He saw Kerrigan sitting in a chair near the window. Kerrigan had just finished tying a shoelace and he was sitting up straight.

  Frank’s eyes were shiny. His mouth began to twitch. He lifted his head from the pillow, bracing himself on his elbows. He said, “Quit watching me.”

  Kerrigan made a gesture of weary annoyance. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Why d’ya keep watching me?”

>   “For God’s sake, come off that routine.”

  “I can’t come off,” Frank said. “You keep me on it. You won’t leave me alone.”

  Kerrigan shrugged. It was no use going on with it.

  “I’m warning you,” Frank said. “You better stop watching me.”

  He told himself to go easy. He said softly, “All right, let’s skip it. I got other things on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  He smiled amiably at his brother. “Well, I finally went and did it. I got hitched.”

  Frank blinked a few times. “For real?”

  He nodded. “License and ring and the whole works. Last night at the Greek’s.”

  Frank lowered his legs off the side of the bed. He leaned forward stiffly, his skinny torso slanted like something activated by a lever. His voice was dull and metallic as he said, “Who is she?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Maybe I do,” Frank said. “What’s her name?”

  “Loretta.”

  “The blonde?”

  Kerrigan flinched. He had an odd feeling, as though he were bolted to the chair.

  “The blonde with green eyes?” Frank asked. “The tasty dish from uptown?”

  He sat there and stared at Frank.

  “Sure,” Frank said. “I know her.”

  “What do you mean, you know her?”

  Frank parted his lips, his mouth curled up at the corners, revealing his yellow teeth. He didn’t say anything.

  Kerrigan tried to get up from the chair. He couldn’t move. He said very slowly, “Whatever’s on your mind, don’t hold it back. Let’s have it.”

  The toothy grimace stayed on Frank’s face. He was looking past Kerrigan and saying, “I’ve seen her in Dugan’s Den. Seen her there a lotta times. One night she bought me a drink. We talked. We stood there at the bar and she bought me more drinks and we talked.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t remember,” Frank said. The grimace widened. “All I remember is looking at her and thinking she reminded me of someone.”

  “Who?” It was blurted, almost a shout.

  But Frank didn’t seem to hear. “It wasn’t the face or the body. It wasn’t the eyes, either. More like the feeling you get when you’re in a room that looks different but somehow you know you’ve been there before. Can’t put your finger on what it is, but you know it just the same. That’s what I remember mostly, that feeling. It was sorta weird, it gimme the chills. But that don’t matter. I like to get the chills. It feels nice when I start to shiver. So there we stood at the bar and I was shivering and it felt real nice. And then, when she walked out, I waited just long enough to say the alphabet from A to Q. Then I followed her.”

  “You did what?”

  “Followed her,” Frank said, speaking to the wall.

  “Was she alone?”

  Frank’s head moved jerkily up and down. “She’d come to Dugan’s to pick up her brother, the lush. But he wouldn’t leave. He told her to go home alone. On the street I saw her walking toward that little car she drives. The little gray job with the wire wheels. It was parked on the other side of Vernon, halfway down the block. All the other spaces were taken up by trucks. So she hadda do some walking to get to the car. That gave me plenty of time to follow her. I was shivering real good then, nice and cold. She looked so slim and trim and neat, so clean and shining, like something you see in a dream. That’s it. In a dream. And I’d been there before. The same moon. The same street. Everything the same except for one thing. Her name. It wasn’t Loretta.”

  It seemed to Kerrigan that the walls were liquid, forming waves that rolled slowly toward him. He begged himself to get up from the chair and run out of the room. But he couldn’t budge. He heard himself saying, “All right, you saw her walking to the car. Then what?”

  “Nothing,” Frank said. “She drove away in the car.”

  “You’ve pulled this stunt before? You’ve followed women down the street?”

  Frank didn’t answer.

  “Tell me,” Kerrigan said. He was up from the chair, moving toward the bed. He grabbed Frank’s shoulders. “You’re gonna tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Frank uttered a soundless laugh. “Something you know already?”

  He dropped his hands to his knees. He backed away from Frank, his eyes riveted to his brother’s face. And yet his inner vision didn’t show a face at all. It showed a dark alley, with the moonlight coming down and spraying brightly on dried bloodstains.

  14

  HE TURNED away from Frank, hurried out of the room, and walked out of the house. He was trying very hard not to think about Frank. He wished he could reach with his fingers into his mind and drag Frank out of there.

  On Vernon Street, walking toward Wharf, he saw the row of wooden shacks off Vernon between Third and Fourth, and he thought, Maybe it was Mooney, after all, or maybe it was Nick Andros. He walked faster, seeing more wooden shacks and the shabby fronts of tenements and he muttered without sound, There’s more than one creep lives in these dumps, more than one hophead and bay-rum drinker and all kinds of queers. It might have been any one of them and maybe you’ll never know for sure who it was. He pleaded with himself to let it rest there, to bury it and forget about it. But his face was gray and his breathing was heavy and he was still thinking about Frank.

  And hours later, hauling crates along Pier 17, he didn’t feel the weight of heavy boxes tugging at his arms and pressing on his spine. The only pressure he felt was inside his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about Frank.

  At four in the afternoon the sky began to darken and the river took on a metallic sheen. Black clouds moved in and shadowed the piers and warehouses and the street that bordered the docks. At a few minutes past five, as some of the dock workers started to leave the piers and head for home, the air was split with thunder. Pier bosses and foremen shouted feverish commands. Then all at once it was coming down, and it hit with terrific force. It was like a lake falling from the sky.

  The docks were deserted. And soon the streets were empty. There was no human activity at all. There were only the darkness and the rumble of thunder and the relentless cascade of rain. The river was choppy with white caps, and angry waves came smashing at the piers.

  Cursing, drenched to the skin, Kerrigan huddled under the stingy roof of a loading platform. He tried the big door that led into the warehouse. But the door was locked, and all he could do was press his back against it and try to keep from getting wetter than he was already.

  He looked out across a few yards of wooden pier, the planks giving way to a newer driveway of concrete. Through the wall of falling rain he saw the raging foam of the river, and he could feel the vibration of the pier as the waves crashed against its pilings. Muttering an oath, he told himself it was a northeaster, and that meant it was due to last for hours and hours, and maybe days. He decided to take his chances with a run for home, and he braced himself, preparing to leap off the platform and make a beeline toward Vernon.

  Just then he heard a clicking sound behind him. Someone had unlocked the big door. He told himself he’d been seen through one of the windows and some kind-hearted character was inviting him to come in and get dry.

  He worked the door handle and pushed against the door, and the heavy bulk of it swung slowly inward. As he entered the warehouse, he saw there were no bulbs lit, and he frowned puzzledly as he groped his way forward. He shouted, “Anybody around?”

  There was no answer. The only sound was the dull roar of the storm outside.

  His frown deepened. He took a few more steps, bumped into a barrel, circled around it, and kept on going. Scarcely any light came through the partially opened door to the loading platform, and now he moved in almost total darkness.

  He decided the door had been unlocked by some gin hound who’d come out of it just long enough to do him a favor, and then had returned to an alcoholic slumber.

  His hand came in contact with the edge of a large
box. He sat down on the box and wished he had a book of matches and a pack of cigarettes. For a few moments he played with the idea of getting the hell out of here. But the air in the warehouse was warm and somehow comfortable, and a lot drier than the weather outside. He figured he might as well sit here for a while.

  But then, he thought, the storm would probably get worse and last for hours, and he was pretty hungry, getting hungrier all the time. And the problem of love had remained.

  “The hell with this,” he muttered aloud, and turned his head, looking for the column of gray light that would reveal the exit.

  All he saw was blackness, and the dim gray rectangles of the small windows. The windows were high off the floor, and that was one thing. Another thing was the fact that they were made of wired glass and he’d have one mess of a time smashing his way through.

  And yet he wasn’t thinking much about that. He was concentrating on the door, telling himself he’d left the door open and now it was closed.

  His mouth was set in a thin line as he thought, Whoever let me in here is making sure I don’t get out.

  In that same moment, he heard footsteps.

  The sounds came from behind him. He knew that if he turned his head, he would see who it was. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and the windows afforded just enough light for recognizing a face. But in the instant that he told himself to turn and look, his instinct contradicted the impulse and commanded him to duck, to dodge, to evade an unseen weapon.

  He threw himself sideways, falling off the box. There was a whirring sound that sliced the air, and then the crash of a thick club or something, landing on the top of the box where he’d been seated. He was on his knees, crouched at the side of the box, listening intently for a sound that would give him his assailant’s position.

  Again he heard footsteps, and the shuffling noises told him he was dealing with more than one attacker.

  His sense of caution gave way to a grim curiosity. He raised his head above the edge of the box and saw the men. There were two of them. The dim gray light from the windows was barely sufficient for him to estimate their size and study their features. The initial glimpse told him he was facing serious trouble. This was a professional wrecking team, a couple of dock ruffians who charged a set fee for breaking a man’s jaw, a higher fee for removing an ear or an eye. And if the customer was willing to meet their price, they’d go all the way and use the river to hide the traces of what had been done. Their business reputation was excellent. There were never any disappointed customers.