by David Goodis
“Well,” he said, “it adds up. The twenty dollars was the one thing he needed. He never has a nickel in his pockets.”
She spoke in a broken whisper. “I should have guessed what was in his mind. But I couldn’t think straight. I was half crazy. Or maybe crazy all the way. I just wanted to see you get hurt.”
“He knew that,” Kerrigan said. “He knew it wouldn’t be no trouble to sell you a bill of goods.”
She was quiet for some moments. And then, in a lower whisper, “I came near spending more than the twenty.”
“Did he ask for more?”
“He wanted me to spend a hundred.”
He turned and looked at her. “Why didn’t you?”
Bella stared at the carpet. “I didn’t have it.”
“Did he tell you what a hundred would buy?”
“He said it would put you in a grave.”
Kerrigan breathed in slowly. He thought, This is worse than a grave, worse than hell.
Then gradually his mouth hardened. His arms were stiff at his sides. “All right,” he said. “Where is he?”
She raised her head. She looked at him and saw something in his eyes that made her go cold.
“You don’t hafta tell me,” he said. “I’ll find him.”
He moved toward the door. His hand was on the doorknob when Bella leaped from the sofa, ran to him, and grabbed his arms.
“No,” she gasped. “No, don’t.”
“Let go.”
“Please don’t,” she begged. “Stay here for a while. Think it over.”
He tried to pull away from her. “I said let go.”
She was using all her strength to drag him away from the door. “I won’t letcha,” she said. “You’ll only do something you’ll be sorry for.”
Her grip was like iron. Now she had her arms wrapped around his middle and he could hardly breathe. “Goddamn you,” he wheezed. “You gonna let go?”
“No,” she said. “You gotta listen.”
“I’ve listened enough. I’ve heard all I need to know.”
“You know what’ll happen if you go out that door?”
Instead of answering, he gave her a vicious jab with his elbow. It caught her in the side and she groaned. But she wouldn’t release her hold on him. He jabbed her again as she went on dragging him backward. She grunted and held him more tightly. It was as though she wanted him to keep jabbing her, to take it out on her.
“If you don’t let go,” he hissed, “you’re gonna get hurt.”
“Go ahead and hurt me. You got both arms free.”
“You’re askin’ for grief.”
Her breath came in grinding sobs. “I’m askin’ you to listen, that’s all. Just listen to me. I want you to go in your room and pack your things. And then I’ll walk you to the streetcar. You’ll take that ride uptown. And you’ll stay there. With her.”
His arms fell limply at his sides.
Bella relaxed her hold just a little. “Will you do it?”
He was looking at the door. He didn’t say anything.
“Please do it,” Bella said. “Go to her and live with her and never come back here. Don’t even use the phone. Or write. Just forget about all this. Forget you ever lived in this house.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Sure it’s easy. You said so yourself. Just a matter of spending the carfare.” Her voice was torn with a sob. “Fifteen cents.”
“That’s cheap enough,” he said. “Maybe it’s too cheap. I think it costs more than that to break off all connections.”
Then slowly, gently, he took hold of her wrists, he unfastened her arms from around his middle. She didn’t look at him as she stepped away, giving him an unimpeded path to the door. But as she heard the sound of the doorknob turning, she made one last try to hold him back, calling on the only power that could stop him now, moaning, “Dear God, don’t let him do it.”
But the door was already open. Bella sank to her knees, weeping without sound. Through the window she saw him as he stepped down off the doorstep. His face was like something carved from rock, a profile of hardened whiteness, very white against the darkness of the street. Then he was crossing Vernon and she saw the route he was taking. He moved along a diagonal path aiming at a foggy yellow glow in the distance, the window of Dugan’s Den.
16
AS HE entered the taproom he heard voices and saw faces but everything was a blur that didn’t seem real and had no meaning. His eyes were lenses going past the faces and searching for Frank. But Frank wasn’t there. He told himself to stand near the door and wait. And just then someone yelled, “Come join the party.”
It was the voice of the skinny hag, Dora. She sat with several others at a couple of tables pushed together for what seemed like a celebration. Kerrigan focused on the drinkers. Dora was seated between Mooney and Nick Andros. The other chairs were occupied by the humpbacked wino and Newton Channing. Next to Channing there was an empty chair and the person who’d been sitting on it was prone on the floor, face down and out cold. He looked at the sleeper and saw the orange hair and shapeless figure of Dora’s friend Frieda.
For some moments he stood there gazing down at Frieda. She had one arm outstretched and he saw something that glittered on her finger. It was a very large green stone and he didn’t need to be told it was artificial.
Dora said, “It cost a goddamn fortune.” She reached across the table to nudge Channing’s arm. “Go on, tell him how much it cost.”
“Three-ninety-five,” Channing said.
“You hear?” Dora screeched at Kerrigan. Then again she nudged Channing. “Now tell him what it’s for. Tell him why we’re celebrating.”
“Gladly,” Channing said. He stood up ceremoniously. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a straw-colored linen suit. His face was solemn as he bowed to the sleeping woman on the floor. Then he bowed to Kerrigan and said, “Welcome to our little gathering. It’s an engagement party.”
“You’re goddamn right it is,” Dora hollered. She reached through a maze of bottles and glasses and found a water glass containing gin. Lifting the glass, she tried to rise for a toast and couldn’t make it to her feet. She leaned heavily against Mooney, spilling some gin on his shoulder as she pronounced a toast for all the world to hear:
“The yellow moon may kiss the sky,
The bees may kiss the butterfly,
The morning dew may kiss the grass,
And you, my friends—”
“Knock it off,” Nick Andros cut in. He pointed to the empty chair and shouted to Kerrigan, “Come on and sit down and have a drink.”
Kerrigan didn’t move. “I’m looking for my brother,” he said. “Anyone here seen my brother?”
“The hell with your brother,” Nick said.
“The hell with everybody,” Dora yelled. “The yellow moon may kiss the sky—”
“Will you kindly shut up?” Nick requested. He kept beckoning Kerrigan to take the empty chair.
Kerrigan looked at Mooney. “You seen him?”
Mooney shook his head slowly. His eyes were half closed and he looked drunk. But he was studying Kerrigan’s face and gradually his mouth opened, his eyes widened, and he sat up straight and stiffly. He tried not to take it further than that, but his hands were lifted and then came down hard on the table and a bottle fell off the edge and crashed to the floor. At the table all talk was stopped. The only sound in the room was the squeaky tune coming from behind the bar. Kerrigan looked in that direction and saw Dugan standing with his arms folded, his eyes closed, humming the melody that took him away from Vernon Street.
Moving toward the bar, Kerrigan said, “Hey, Dugan.”
Dugan opened his eyes. The humming slowed down just a little.
“My brother been here?” Kerrigan asked.
Dugan shook his head. Then his eyes were closed again and he picked up the tempo of the tune.
A hand touched Kerrigan’s arm. He turned and saw Mooney. The sign painte
r’s face was expressionless.
“Is this what I think it is?” Mooney asked quietly.
Kerrigan pulled his arm away from Mooney’s hand. “Go back to the table.”
Mooney didn’t move. He said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
“It don’t concern you.” But then he remembered the water-color portrait in Mooney’s room. He gazed past Mooney and said, “Well, I guess you got a right to know. I’ve been putting some facts together and finally got the answer.”
Mooney just stood there and waited.
Kerrigan closed his eyes for a moment. He heard himself saying, “The creep who jumped my sister was her own brother.”
“No,” Mooney said. “Don’t tell me that. You can’t tell me that.”
“But I am telling you.”
“You know what you’re saying?”
Kerrigan nodded.
“You sure?” Mooney’s voice quivered just a little. “You absolutely sure?”
“I got it all summed up,” Kerrigan said. “It checks.”
“You have proof?”
“I know what I need to know. That’s enough.” He looked down at his hands. His fingers were distended, bent stiffly, like claws.
Mooney said, “We got some hundred proof on the table. I’ll fix you a double shot.”
“No,” Kerrigan said. “I don’t want that. All I want is to see him walking in here.”
“Now look, Bill—”
But Kerrigan wasn’t looking or listening. He wasn’t feeling the urgent grip that Mooney put on his arms. He spoke in a choked whisper, saying, “Gonna wait here for him. He’ll show. And when he does—”
“Bill, for God’s sake!”
“Gonna put him where he put her. Gonna put him in a casket.”
And then again everything was a blur. He heard a jumble of noises coming from the table where Nick Andros was telling Dora to shut up and Newton Channing laughed lightly at some comment from the humpbacked wino. From behind the bar the humming sound of Dugan’s tune provided vague background music for the clinking of glasses and the drinkers’ voices. It went on and on like that, with Mooney’s voice begging him to come to the table and have the double shot, and his own voice telling Mooney to leave him alone. Then suddenly he heard a sound that wasn’t glass on glass or glass on tabletop or anyone’s spoken words. It was the sound of the door as someone came in from the street.
He turned his head and saw his brother.
He heard himself making a noise that was like air coming out from a collapsed balloon.
And after that there was no sound at all. Not even from Dugan.
The quiet stretched as a rubber band stretches and finally can’t stretch any more and the fibers split apart. In that instant, as he moved, he sensed Mooney’s hands trying to hold him back and his arm was a scythe making contact with the sign painter’s ribs.
Mooney sailed halfway across the room, came up against a table, sailed over it, and took a chair with him as he went to the floor. Then Mooney tried to get up and he couldn’t get up. He was resting on his side with all the breath knocked out of his body. He saw Kerrigan lunging at Frank, and Kerrigan’s hands taking hold of Frank’s throat.
“I can’t let you live,” Kerrigan said. “I can’t.”
Frank’s eyes bulged. His face was getting blue.
“Your own sister,” Kerrigan said. “You ruined your own sister.” And then, to everyone in the room, to every unseen face beyond the room, “How can I let him live?”
He squeezed harder. There was a gurgling noise. But it wasn’t coming from Frank. It came from his own throat, as though he were crushing his own flesh, stopping the flow of his own blood. He told himself to close his eyes, he didn’t want to watch what he was doing. But his eyes wouldn’t close and he was seeing the convulsive movement of Frank’s gaping mouth. He realized that Frank was trying to tell him something.
His fingers reduced the pressure. He heard Frank gasping, “I didn’t do it.”
He released the hold. Frank was on his knees, trying to cough, trying to talk, making gagging sounds that gradually gave way to sighs.
“Talk,” Kerrigan gritted. “Talk fast.”
“I didn’t do it,” Frank repeated. “I swear I didn’t.”
For some moments there was no sound in the room. Yet in the stillness there was the feeling of something racing through the air, whirling around and around to turn everything upside down.
Frank was lifting himself from the floor. He staggered sideways and leaned heavily against the bar. His eyes were shut tightly and he had his knuckles pressed against his temples.
“You gonna talk?” Kerrigan demanded.
But Frank didn’t hear. He seemed to be alone with himself. Then gradually his eyes opened and he was staring up at the ceiling. His hands were lowered, his arms loose at his sides. He spoke to whatever he saw there on the ceiling. “It’s straight now,” he whispered. “I finally got it straight.”
Then it was quiet again. Kerrigan had his mouth open but he couldn’t speak. He was trying to get hold of his thoughts, the hollow thoughts that wouldn’t add and wouldn’t fit and had him trapped somewhere between icy rage and the misty abyss of puzzlement.
And finally he heard Frank saying, “It comes back. All of it. Comes back on all four wheels.”
“Spill it.”
Frank’s voice was level and calm. “The night it happened I was plastered. Couldn’t remember where I went or what I did. And all these months it’s been like that, getting worse and worse until it reached the point where I gave up trying. I told myself it was me who did it. I really believed it was me.”
Kerrigan spoke slowly, the sound edging through his tightened lips. “You sure it wasn’t you? You absolutely sure?”
“It couldn’t be me,” Frank said. And then, completely certain of what he was saying, not trying to force it, just saying it because it was true, “I spent that night in a joint on Second Street. Went in before dark and didn’t come out till the next afternoon.”
Kerrigan’s eyes narrowed. He was studying Frank’s face.
Frank said, “I been sick with this thing a long time. It’s been like a spike jabbing into my head. I ain’t been able to sleep, and couldn’t eat, and there were times I could hardly breathe.”
Kerrigan didn’t say anything. He could feel the truth coming out of Frank’s eyes.
He heard Frank saying, “A spike in my head, that’s what it was. And every time you looked at me, that spike went in deeper. As if you were telling me what I was telling myself. It got so bad I couldn’t take it any more.”
“Is that why you hired the gorillas?”
Frank nodded. “I musta gone haywire, just crazy enough to want you out of the way. Musta figured the only way to get rid of that spike was to use it on you.”
Kerrigan took a deep breath. It was more like a sigh, as though a tremendous weight had been eased off his chest.
Frank said, “You sure as hell choked it outta me.” He grinned weakly and rubbed his throat. “You squeezed just hard enough to loosen that spike. So now it’s out.”
Kerrigan smiled. He put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank grinned at him with a mouth that didn’t twitch and eyes that weren’t glazed.
“I’m all right now,” Frank said. “You see the way it is? I’m really all right now.”
Kerrigan nodded. He gazed past Frank. The smile gradually faded from his lips as he thought of Catherine. And he was saying to himself, You still don’t know who did it.
And then, very slowly, he felt the answer coming.
17
HE STOOD there and told himself he was getting the answer. He knew it had no connection with any man’s face or any man’s name. His eyes were focused through the window facing Vernon Street. He peered out past the murky glass and saw the moonlight reflected on the jutting cobblestones. It was a yellow-green glow drifting across Vernon and forming pools of light in the gutter. He saw it glimmering on the rutted sidewalk and
going on and on toward all the dark alleys where countless creatures of the night played hide-and-seek.
And no matter where the weaker ones were hiding, they’d never get away from the Vernon moon. It had them trapped. It had them doomed. Sooner or later they’d be mauled and battered and crushed. They’d learn the hard way that Vernon Street was no place for delicate bodies or timid souls. They were prey, that was all, they were destined for the maw of the ever hungry eater, the Vernon gutter.
He stared out at the moonlit street. Without sound he said, You did it to Catherine. You.
It was as though the street could hear. He sensed that it was making a jeering reply. A raucous voice seemed to say, So what? So whatcha gonna do about it?
He groped for an answer.
And the street went on jeering, saying, Your sister couldn’t take it, and the same goes for you. And it chose that moment to display its hole card. It opened the door of Dugan’s Den and showed him the golden-haired dream girl from uptown. As he stared at Loretta, he could hear the street saying, Well, here she is. She’s come to take your hand and lift you from the gutter.
Loretta was walking toward him. Something quivered in his brain and he thought, She reminds me of someone. And then it was there, the memory of the hopes he’d had for Catherine and himself, the hopes he’d lost in a dark alley and yearned to find again.
But taproom noises interfered. Two dimes clinked on the table as Dugan poured a drink for Frank. At the table Nick Andros poured gin for Dora. “Say when,” Nick said. But Dora said nothing, for gin had no connection with time. As the gin splashed over the edge of the glass, Kerrigan looked toward the table. He saw Frieda getting up from the floor. Mooney was doing the same, and they almost bumped heads as they came to their feet. Then Frieda staggered backward and bumped the humpbacked wino off his chair. Channing caught hold of Frieda and tried to steady her and she said, “Let go, goddamnit, I can stand on my own two legs.” There was a shout of approval from Dora. It inspired Frieda to a further statement of policy. She said to Channing, “Don’t put yer hands on me unless I tell you to.”
Channing shrugged, preferring to let it go at that. But Nick Andros frowned and expressed the male point of view, saying, “You’re wearing his engagement ring, he’s your fiance.” Frieda blinked, looked down at the ring on her finger, and then with some energetic twisting she pulled it off. For some moments she seemed reluctant to part with the green stone. She held the ring tightly, frowning at it. Then suddenly she placed the ring on the table in front of Channing. Her voice was quiet as she said, “Take it back to where you got it. This pussycat’s a self-supporting individual.”
