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

by David Goodis

  The policemen didn’t say anything. They knew he was having fun with them. This one had a habit of having fun with everyone. Usually they didn’t mind and they kidded him back. But now it was an important arrest, it was a homicide and the victim was a policeman. Certainly it was no time for the Lieutenant to be having fun.

  The Lieutenant stood there smiling at them. He hadn’t yet looked at Whitey. He was waiting for the policemen to say something. Behind him, inside the station house, another commotion had started, but he didn’t turn to see what was happening in there.

  Finally one of the policemen said, “We weren’t timing it, Lieutenant. Only timing we did was according to the book. Used the radio and made the report. Waited there for the wagon to come and get the body. The wagon came and got it and now we’re taking this man in. I don’t see why we’re getting criticized.”

  “You’re not getting criticized,” the Lieutenant said. His tone was mild and friendly and only slightly sarcastic as he went on: “I think you’ve done very nicely, Bolton. You too, Woodling.”

  The two policemen glanced at each other. They could feel the sarcasm and they wondered how to handle it.

  The Lieutenant put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and leaned back just a little on his heels. He said, “I’m sure you’ll get a commendation from the Captain. He’s gonna be very pleased with this arrest. It’ll come as a pleasant surprise.”

  “Surprise?” Patrolman Bolton said. “I don’t get that. Ain’t he been told about the murder?”

  “Not yet,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Why not?” Bolton was frowning. “We sent in the report thirty minutes ago.”

  The Lieutenant glanced at his wrist watch. “Twenty minutes,” he corrected. Then he flipped his thumb backward to indicate the noisy action inside the station house. “The Captain’s been very busy these past twenty minutes. I figured it was best not to bother him.”

  “Bother him?” Bolton came near shouting it. “For Christ’s sake, Lieutenant—”

  And Woodling was chiming in, “Listen, Lieutenant, this is serious.”

  The Lieutenant nodded very slowly and seriously. “I know,” he said. And then for the first time he looked at Whitey. He gave a little sigh and said to Whitey, “You sure picked a fine time to do it.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Whitey said.

  “Of course not,” the Lieutenant said conversationally. Then he shifted his attention to the two policemen. “We’ll have to wait a while before we tell the Captain.” Again he glanced at his wrist watch and at the same moment his head was slightly turned, he seemed to be measuring the noise from inside the station house. He said, “I think we’ll have to wait at least fifteen minutes.”

  “But why?” Bolton demanded.

  The Lieutenant spoke slowly and patiently. “I’ll tell you why. When a man has diarrhea you don’t give him a laxative. You give him a chance to quiet down.”

  “But this—” Woodling started.

  “Is dynamite,” the Lieutenant finished for him. And then, not looking at anything in particular, sort of murmuring aloud to himself, “If I had my way, I wouldn’t tell the Captain at all. He’d never get to hear about it. I think when he hears about it he’s gonna get sick. Real sick. I only hope he don’t burst a blood vessel.”

  The two policemen looked at their prisoner. Then they looked at each other. They didn’t say anything.

  The Lieutenant went on talking aloud to himself. “As if things haven’t been bad enough. Getting worse all the time. And now we got this.”

  “Well,” Woodling said, tightening his hold on Whitey’s arm, “at least we got the man who did it.”

  The Lieutenant gave Woodling an older-brother look of fondness and gentle schooling. “You don’t get the point. You’re thinking too much in terms of the arrest. Try to forget the arrest. Think about the Captain.”

  The two policemen stood there frowning and blinking.

  “The Captain,” the Lieutenant said. He leaned toward them. He took his hands from his pockets and put them behind his back. “You get the drift of what I’m talking about?”

  They went on frowning puzzledly.

  “Listen,” the Lieutenant said. “Listen to me. And it’s very important that you listen carefully.” He took a deep breath, and then his lips tightened and the words came out sort of hissing, like sound pumped from a hose. “From here on in,” he said, “you’ll be playing with a firecracker. Whatever you say to the Captain, think twice before you say it. And whatever you do, make sure it’s not a mistake. He’s in no condition to see you making mistakes, not even tiny ones. I’m telling you this so you’ll remember it, and I want you to pass the word around.”

  Bolton blinked again. “Are things that bad?”

  “Worse than bad,” the Lieutenant said. He was about to say more when Woodling made a warning gesture, indicating that they shouldn’t discuss this topic in front of the prisoner. For a moment the Lieutenant hesitated. Then he looked at the ragged little Skid Row bum, the white-haired blank-eyed nothing who stood there wearing handcuffs. He decided there were just three men present and he could go on with what he was saying.

  He said, “This situation in the Hellhole. These riots. It’s got out of control. Two nights ago I’m with the Captain when he gets a phone call from the Hall. The Commissioner. Wanted to know if we needed help. Said he was ready to send reinforcements. Add twenty men to this district, give us seven more cars. You know what that was? That was a slap in the teeth. That was the Commissioner telling the Captain to clean up the floor or give up the mop. In a nice way, of course. Very polite and friendly and all that.”

  Bolton spoke in a low murmur. “What did the Captain say?”

  “He told the Commissioner to leave him alone. He said he didn’t need reinforcements, he could do this job without help from the Hall, and all he wanted was a promise that they wouldn’t interfere. He said he’d been in charge of this district for nine years and he’d always been able to hold the wheel and if they’d only leave him alone he’d go on holding it.

  “Now mind you,” the Lieutenant went on, “that was only two nights ago. So what happens tonight? Another riot in the Hellhole, the worst yet. And something else. Something I knew was bound to happen sooner or later. We lose an officer.”

  It was quiet for some moments. Then both policemen turned their heads very slowly and they were looking down at the small white-haired man who stood between them. And Woodling said quietly to the prisoner, “You bastard, you. You miserable bastard.”

  Bolton jerked his head frontward as though he couldn’t bear to look at the prisoner. He swallowed hard. “But—” he started, then blurted, “But my God, they can’t blame the Captain for this.”

  “They will,” the Lieutenant said.

  “No.” Bolton’s voice was strained. “No. That ain’t fair.”

  The Lieutenant shrugged. Then his face relaxed and the seriousness went out of his eyes. He was himself again and his voice went back to the easy, friendly, mildly sarcastic murmur. “Don’t let it give you ulcers,” he told the two youthful policemen. “You’re too young to get ulcers.”

  “But this.” Woodling spoke through his teeth, his thumb flicking to indicate the prisoner. “Who tells the Captain about this?”

  “I’ll tell him,” the Lieutenant said. “I’ll figure a way to break it to him.” He bit his lip thoughtfully. “Tell you what. I’ll take this man in through the side door. I wanna ask him some questions. Meantime, you go outside and wait.”

  The policemen released their holds on Whitey and entered the station house. The Lieutenant looked at Whitey and said, “All right, come with me.”

  They walked down the steps and around the side of the station house. The Lieutenant had his hands in his overcoat pockets and moved along with his head down, his lips slightly pursed to whistle a tune in a minor key. It was a song from many years ago and he couldn’t remember past the first few bars. He tried it a few times and couldn’t g
et it. Whitey picked it up and hummed the rest of it. The Lieutenant glanced at Whitey and said, “Yeah, that’s it. Pretty number.”

  “Yeah,” Whitey said.

  “What?”

  “I said yeah.”

  “Can’t you talk louder?”

  Whitey shook his head.

  “Why not?” the Lieutenant asked. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  Whitey didn’t answer.

  They were approaching the side entrance of the station house. The Lieutenant stopped and looked fully at Whitey and said, “You got bronchitis or something?”

  “No,” Whitey said. “I talk like this all the time.”

  “It sounds weird,” the Lieutenant said. “As if you’re whispering secrets.”

  Whitey shrugged. He didn’t say anything.

  The Lieutenant leaned in slightly to get a closer look at Whitey’s face. A vague frown drifted across the Lieutenant’s brow and he murmured, “I bet you’re full of secrets.”

  Whitey shrugged again. “Who ain’t?”

  The Lieutenant mixed the frown with a smile. “You got a point there.”

  Then the Lieutenant was quiet and they went along the side of the station house. They came to the side door and the Lieutenant opened it and they went in. There was a narrow corridor and a door with a sign over it with the word “Captain” and then another door with the sign “House Sergeant” and finally a door with the sign “Detectives.” The door was partially open and the Lieutenant shoved it with his foot to open it all the way.

  It was a medium-sized room with a floor that needed wax and walls that needed paint. There were some chairs and a few small tables and a roll-top desk. A tall man with a very closely waved and nicely cut pompadour of light-brown hair sat working at the desk. He glanced up at them, gave Whitey a quick once-over, and went back to work.

  “Have a seat,” the Lieutenant said to Whitey. He pointed toward a table that had a chair on either side. Then he took off his overcoat and put it on a hanger. On the wall next to the hanger there was a small mirror and the Lieutenant moved in close to it as though looking to see if he needed a shave. He stood there for some moments inspecting his face and adjusting his tie. He tightened the knot, loosened it, tightened it again to get the crease under the knot exactly in the middle. When he’d finished with that, he moved his head from side to side to see if he could use a haircut. Whitey began to have a feeling that it was sort of a gag and the Lieutenant was making fun of the neatly groomed man who sat at the roll-top desk.

  Finally the man at the desk looked at the Lieutenant and said, “All right, cut it out.”

  The Lieutenant leaned in very close to the mirror and pretended to squeeze a blackhead from his chin.

  “Very funny,” the other man muttered. He bent lower over his work at the desk, his shoulders very broad and expanded past the sides of the chair. He wore an Oxford-gray suit of conservative but expensively tailored lines and his shoes were black Scotch grain and had the semiglossy British look. The Lieutenant had moved away from the mirror and was standing near the roll-top desk, looking down at the Scotch-grain shoes.

  “Where’d you get them?” the Lieutenant asked.

  “Had them made,” the other detective said.

  “That’s what I figured,” the Lieutenant said.

  The other detective sat up very straight and took a deep breath. “All right, Pertnoy. Lay off.”

  Lieutenant Pertnoy laughed lightly and patted the other detective’s shoulder. “You’re a fine man, Taggert. Really a fine man, and you always make a very nice appearance. We’re all proud of you.”

  “Oh, drop it,” the other said wearily. And then louder, almost hoarsely, “For Christ’s sake, why don’t you drop it? There’s times you actually get on my nerves.”

  Lieutenant Pertnoy laughed again. “Don’t get angry.”

  “I’m not,” Lieutenant Taggert said. “But sometimes you go too far.”

  “I know,” Pertnoy admitted. He said it with mock solemnity. “After all, there’s a time and a place for everything.”

  Taggert swung around in the chair. He pointed to the mirror on the wall. “Let’s understand something,” he said very slowly and distinctly. “I put that mirror there. And I want it to stay there. And I don’t want to be kidded about it. Is that absolutely clear?”

  “Absolutely.” It was an exaggerated imitation of the other’s crisp official tone.

  Taggert took another deep breath. He started to say something and then he noticed the ragged little white-haired man who sat at the table showing handcuffed wrists.

  “What’s that?” Taggert asked, gesturing toward Whitey.

  “Nothing important,” Pertnoy said.

  “Why the cuffs? What’s he done?”

  Pertnoy smiled at Whitey. “Tell him what you did.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Whitey said.

  Pertnoy went on smiling. “You hear?” he said to Taggert. “The man says he didn’t do anything. So it stands to reason he didn’t do anything. It figures he don’t need handcuffs.” And then, to Whitey, “Want them off ?”

  Whitey nodded.

  “All right,” Pertnoy said. “You can talk better if you’re comfortable. I’ll take them off.”

  Pertnoy moved toward the table and took a key ring from his pocket. He selected a key and unlocked the handcuffs. Then the handcuffs were off and Pertnoy slid them toward the center of the table and said, “That better?”

  “Yeah,” Whitey said. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Pertnoy said. He walked across the room and stood near the roll-top desk. For some moments he stood there looking down at Taggert, who had resumed working with pencil and paper. Finally he tapped Taggert’s shoulder and said, “Were you here when the report came in?”

  Taggert didn’t look up. “What report?”

  “Nothing much,” Pertnoy said. “I’ll tell you later.” Then, offhandedly, “Can you hold that work for a while? I want to talk to this man alone.”

  Taggert wrote a few more lines on the paper, folded the paper, and clipped it onto several other sheets. He put the papers in a large envelope and placed the envelope in one of the desk drawers. Then he stood up and walked out of the room.

  Lieutenant Pertnoy glanced at his wrist watch. His lips moved only slightly as he said, “We got about five minutes.” He looked at Whitey. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Whitey blinked a few times. He saw Lieutenant Pertnoy moving toward him. The Lieutenant moved very slowly and sort of lazily. For some moments he stood behind Whitey’s chair, not saying anything. It was as though the Lieutenant had walked out of the room and Whitey was there alone. Then the Lieutenant moved again, circling the table and sitting down in the chair facing Whitey.

  The Lieutenant sat almost directly under the ceiling light, and now for the first time Whitey saw him clearly and was able to study him. Lieutenant Pertnoy looked to be in his middle thirties and had a glossy cap of pale blond hair parted far on the side and brushed flat across his head. He had a gray, sort of poolroom complexion, not really unhealthy, just sun-starved. There was something odd about his eyes. His eyes were a very pale gray and had the look of specially ground lenses. They gave the impression that he could see beyond whatever he was looking at. Whitey had the feeling that this man was cute with a cue stick or a deck of cards. The cuteness went along with the Lieutenant’s slim and well-balanced physique, around five-ten and 150 pounds. He wore a gray flannel suit that needed pressing but wouldn’t look right on him if it were pressed. It seemed to blend with his easy relaxed manner and his soft lazy smile.

  The smile seemed to drift across the table, almost like a floating leaf in a gentle breeze. The Lieutenant was saying, “Tell me why you did it.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Whitey said.

  “All right.” The Lieutenant shifted in his chair, facing the wall on the other side of the room. “Let’s take it slower. We’ll talk about the weapon. What’d you hit hi
m with?”

  “I didn’t hit him,” Whitey said. “I didn’t touch him.”

  Pertnoy smiled at the wall. He waved his hand lazily toward Whitey and said, “Look at your clothes. Look at the blood on you.”

  “I got that trying to help him. He was sitting there and I was holding him to keep him from falling.”

  Pertnoy gave a slow nod of assent. “That ain’t bad. It might even stand up in court.”

  “Will it reach court?”

  Pertnoy looked at Whitey and said, “What do you think?”

  “I think you oughta go look for the man who did it.”

  “You mean you didn’t do it?”

  “That’s what I been saying.”

  “Maybe you’ll get tired saying it.”

  “Maybe.” Whitey shrugged. “I’m getting tired now.”

  “Wanna break down?”

  “And do what?”

  “Cry a little,” Pertnoy said. “Make some noise. Confess.”

  “No,” Whitey said. “I’m not that tired.”

  “Come on.” The Lieutenant’s voice was very soft and kindly, like a doctor’s voice. “Come on,” the Lieutenant said, opening the table drawer and taking out a pencil and a pad of paper. “Come on.”

  “Nothing doing,” Whitey said.

  The pencil was poised. “Come on. You can spill it in just a few words. He’s chasing you down the alley and you pick up a brick or something. You don’t really mean to finish him. All you wanna do is knock him down so you can get away.”

  Whitey smiled sadly. “You putting words in my mouth?”

  “I wanna put some words on this paper,” Pertnoy said. He flicked another glance at his wrist watch. “We only got a couple of minutes.”

  Whitey stopped smiling. “Until what?”

  “Until I break it to the Captain.”

  “Then what?”

  “God knows,” Pertnoy said. And then his expression changed. His face became serious. It was the same seriousness he’d displayed outside the front entrance of the station house when he’d told the two policemen about the Captain.