by David Goodis
Say, come to think of it, you have been having yourself a time tonight, you’ve come across some real personalities. Take, for example, that Jones Jarvis. If conditions were different it could be Admiral Jarvis, U.S.N. And you know he could do the job, you know damn well he could do it. So it figures it’s mostly a matter of conditions. Sure it is. Take Captain Kinnard and put him in charge of a nursery, he’d be like melted butter and them kids would run all over him. But how do you know that? Well, you just know it, that’s all. It’s that way with some people; you take one look at them and later when you think about it, it hits you and you know. Or sometimes you get hit right away. You ought to know about that, when it comes to that you’re an old campaigner. That first time you saw her, the way it hit you. And the way it’s been coming back tonight, hitting you, hitting you. All right, for Christ’s sake, cut it out. But I wonder if Firpo is still alive and sometimes at night he wakes up and remembers the way Dempsey hit him.
He went up another step and it brought him to the top of the stairs. He stood against the door and his hand drifted to the knob. His fingers tested the give of the knob and at first it wouldn’t give, not soundlessly, anyway. He tried it again and felt it turning. A little more, and still more, and then there was the faint noise, more feathery than metallic, of the latch coming free. And now very carefully, working it by fractions of inches, he opened the door.
It showed him the lit-up kitchen. There was no one in the kitchen. But he could hear voices coming from the next room, and there was the clinking of glasses on a wooden table.
He had the door opened not quite two inches. There was the scraping of a chair and then someone was coming into the kitchen. He gave a slight pull on the door to make it appear closed. For some moments there was activity in the kitchen, the sound of a running faucet, glass tinkling against the sink. He heard Chop shouting from the next room, “Not from the sink! There’s cold water in the icebox.” And in the kitchen the icebox was being opened and he heard Bertha’s voice saying, “The bottle’s empty.” A pause, and then from the next room it was Sharkey’s voice: “We got any beer?” and Bertha replying, “It’s all gone,” and Chop again, “There’s some in the cellar.”
Whitey closed his eyes. Without sound he said: Goddamn it.
He heard Chop yelling, “We got some quart bottles down there. Go down and bring up a few.”
Then Bertha’s footsteps were coming toward the door.
He thought: Some people have it nice, they can travel anywhere they wanna go. But you, you can’t travel anywhere, you can’t go down the steps, and when the door opens you can’t get behind it because it don’t open in, it opens out. You’re gonna be right here when it opens, right here at the top of the stairs where there ain’t no room to move around, so this looks to be the windup.
Then he realized the footsteps had stopped. He heard Bertha shouting, “Go get the beer yourself. I ain’t no waitress.”
Chop yelled, “What is it, a big deal?”
“Get it yourself. Run your own errands.”
“You goddamn lazy—”
“Aw, go break a leg.”
“Lazy elephant, she won’t even—”
“Make it both legs,” Bertha yapped at Chop. “I’m tired of you giving me orders. All day long I’m running up and down the steps. This morning you were—”
“I was sick this morning.”
“You’re gonna be sick tonight if you don’t lay off me.”
Whitey heard Bertha’s footsteps going out of the kitchen. In the next room the argument continued between Bertha and Chop and finally Sharkey cut in with “All right, the hell with the beer. We’ll drink what we got here.”
There was more tinkling of glasses. And then he heard them talking but now their voices were low and he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Again he worked on the door and got it open a few inches. Then a few more inches, and he was straining to hear, gradually getting it.
Sharkey was saying, “Go on, Gerardo. Have another drink.”
“I no need—”
“Sure you do.” Sharkey’s voice was soft and soothing. “We’ll make this the bracer.”
There was the sound of liquor splashing into a glass. Whatever it was, there was a lot of it going into the glass.
“Drink it down,” Sharkey said. “Go on, Gerardo, get it all down.”
“But I—”
And then loudly, from Bertha, “You hear what Sharkey says? You do what he says.”
“Is too much whisky,” Gerardo complained. “I no—”
“Yes, you will,” Bertha shouted. “You’ll drink it or I’ll hold your nose and force it down.”
“Why you do me like this?” Gerardo whined.
“Like what?” It was Chop and he was laughing dryly. “You’re lucky, Gerardo. You’re lucky Bertha ain’t giving you lumps.”
“I got lumps already,” Gerardo said. Then, drinking the whisky, he gasped, went on drinking it, gasped again. There was the sound of the glass coming down on the table, and Gerardo saying, “Enough lumps I get tonight. Look at lumps. Look at my nose.”
“It looks busted,” Sharkey said.
“All smashed up,” the Puerto Rican wailed. “Was perfect nose and now look at it.”
“Finish what’s in the glass,” Bertha said.
“But I can’t—”
“Drink it all up,” she said. “Drink it up, Gerardo.”
“Please—”
“You’ll drink it if I hold your nose,” Bertha said. “And then you’ll really have a nose to worry about.”
Then again there was the sound of the glass, the gurgling and gulping as Gerardo forced it down, and the bitter rasping, the gasping.
“Very good,” Bertha said. “Not a drop in the glass. But you got some on your chin. I’ll wipe it off.”
Whitey heard the sound of a backhand crack across the mouth, then louder with the open palm, then very loud with the backhand again. He heard a chair toppling, and a thud, and he knew that Gerardo was on the floor.
He heard Gerardo whimpering, sobbing, “I no understand.”
“It’s instruction,” Bertha said. “You’re getting instruction, Gerardo. You gotta learn to do what Sharkey says.”
“My mouth!”
Whitey visualized Gerardo’s mouth. He knew it was a sad-looking mouth right now. It had received the full force of Bertha’s tree-trunk arm, with over three hundred pounds of hard-packed beef behind Bertha’s oversized hand. Whitey said to himself: You know how it feels, you had a taste of it, a big taste, and—
He heard Bertha saying, “It’s like baseball, Gerardo. You catch on? It’s like baseball and Sharkey’s the manager and you gotta do what he says.”
And Chop said, “It ain’t sand-lot ball, Gerardo. It’s big-league action and you gotta watch the signals very careful. When you’re safe on third you don’t take any chances. You don’t try for home plate unless you get the signal.”
“I come here because—”
“Because you got scared,” Bertha said. “You’re not supposed to get scared.” And then, to Sharkey, “Should I give our boy more instruction?”
There was no reply from Sharkey.
Whitey heard the terribly loud sound of another open-handed wallop, then the thud as Gerardo went back against a wall, bounced away, fell forward toward the table to get it again from Bertha’s hand, and again, and then really getting it and starting to cry like a baby.
Poor bastard, Whitey thought. He heard the noise of Gerardo getting it and yowling now with the pain of it. He felt sort of sorry for Gerardo, and yet he was thinking: If Chávez could see it, if Luis could see it, they’d find it interesting, very interesting.
Just then, through the sound of the blows, through Gerardo’s yowls and pleas, he heard the voice of Celia.
He heard Celia saying, “What are you doing, Bertha? What are you doing to him?”
“What’s—” Bertha grunted, her arm swinging, her hand making contact with the ba
ttered, swollen face. “What’s it look like?”
Celia’s voice was calm. “You keep that up and he won’t have a face.”
“But he’ll have brains,” Bertha said. Then another grunt, another wallop, an animal scream from Gerardo, and Bertha saying, “You see what I’m doing? I’m putting brains in his head.”
Gerardo was crying out, blubbering, talking in Spanish.
“You calling me names?” Bertha asked. “You cursing me?”
Sharkey said, “All right, Bertha. Leave him alone.”
“Was he cursing me? I’d like to know if he was cursing me.”
“He wasn’t cursing you,” Sharkey said. “Let go of him. Let him sit down. I wanna talk to him.”
“You think he’ll hear you?” It was Celia. “Look at his ears.”
And again the dry laugh from Chop, and Chop saying, “The left one ain’t so bad.”
“But look at him,” Celia said. “Look at his face. God Almighty. Give him some water. Give him something.”
“I think—” It was Gerardo and he’d stopped crying. He spoke quietly and solemnly. “I think I die now.”
“You won’t die,” Bertha said. “You’ll sit there and listen to Sharkey.”
“Wait,” Sharkey said. “Give him a napkin. He’s dripping blood all over the table.”
Bertha said, “Where we keep the napkins?”
“I no want napkin,” Gerardo said. “I want I should bleed more. I want I should die.”
Whitey heard the sound of a cabinet drawer being opened. After that the sounds were minor and he knew they were taking time to stop the flow of blood from Gerardo’s face. He wondered how long it would take to get Gerardo out of the fog. It was more or less evident that Sharkey wanted Gerardo’s full attention. Whitey hoped it wouldn’t take too long to bring Gerardo back to clear thinking. It was getting somewhat difficult, standing here and not making a sound. It was definitely uncomfortable because there wasn’t much space here at the top of the cellar stairs. He told himself to quit complaining, all he had to do was stand still and listen. And yet it wasn’t easy. He wanted to move around, make some noise, do something, anything, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy to stand here like some Buffalo Bill in a wax museum.
He heard Gerardo talking dully, dazedly, in Spanish.
And Chop was saying, “Hey, this ain’t so good. He’s in bad shape. His eyes—”
“I’ll bring him out of it,” Bertha said. “Here. Let me—”
“You keep away from him,” Sharkey said quietly. “You’ve done enough already.”
“All I wanna do is—”
“No,” Sharkey said. “Stay away from him. Stay the hell away from him.”
“Whatsa matter?” Bertha asked. “Whatcha getting peeved about?”
“Oh, he ain’t peeved.” It was Celia again. “He likes the way you work. Don’t you, Sharkey? Go on, Sharkey, tell her. Tell her how much you admire her work.”
Bertha’s voice said, “You still here?”
“Yes,” Celia said slowly and distinctly, “I’m still here.”
“I wonder why,” Bertha said.
“Me too.” Celia said it very slowly. “I always wonder about that.”
“You got a problem, honey,” Bertha said. “You oughta do something about it.”
“No.” And then a long pause. “There ain’t nothing I can do about it.”
“Oh, don’t say that.” Bertha’s voice was gentle but sour, soft yet sneering, and dripping with sarcasm. “You can always take a walk, you know.”
“Can I? Let’s hear what Sharkey says. How about it, Sharkey? Can I take a walk?”
“Drop it,” Sharkey said.
Bertha said, “She’s asking a question, Sharkey. She wants to know if she can take a walk.”
“I said drop it.” Sharkey’s voice was low and tight. “The two of you, drop it.”
“I guess he don’t want me to go for a walk,” Celia said.
“Yeah,” Bertha said. “That’s the way it figures.”
“Well, anyway, I asked him. You satisfied, Bertha?”
“Sure, honey. I’m always satisfied. I feel very satisfied right now.”
“That’s nice,” Celia said.
“And how is it with you?” Bertha asked, with each word aimed like a jab. “Are you satisfied?”
“I hafta go to the bathroom,” Celia said.
Bertha spoke to Sharkey. “You hear what she says? She has to go to the bathroom. She got your permission?”
“I better make a run for the bathroom,” Celia said. “I don’t wanna throw up in here.”
Whitey heard Celia’s footsteps running out of the adjoining room. He heard Sharkey muttering to Bertha, “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you leave her alone?”
“She started it,” Bertha said.
“You’d do me a favor if you’d leave her alone.”
“But she’s always starting, Sharkey. She’s always making remarks.”
Gerardo was still mumbling in Spanish. And Chop was saying, “Maybe if we give him smelling salts—”
Bertha said, “I don’t like when she makes remarks. I don’t like it and I don’t hafta take it.”
“Then do like I do. Let her talk. Don’t listen to her.”
“You kidding? Come off it, Sharkey. You know you’re always tuned in. You take in everything she says.”
“It goes in one ear and—”
“And stays inside,” Bertha said. “Deep inside. I watch your face sometimes when she says them things to you, little things, but it’s like little knives, and I see you getting cut. Real deep.”
Chop again: “We got any smelling salts?”
“Like earlier tonight,” Bertha went on, “she makes with the routine about maybe if you’d see a specialist—”
“All right,” Sharkey interrupted quickly. “Let it fade, Bertha. I don’t wanna hear no more about it.”
But Bertha had it going and she couldn’t stop it and she said, “Not a heart specialist, either. Not a brain specialist. She meant something else. I know what she meant. It’s bedroom trouble. You can’t give her nothing in the bedroom. Only thing you do in the bed is sleep.”
Then it was quiet. Whitey waited for Sharkey to say something. But the quiet went on. It was a dismal quiet, like the stillness of a stagnant pool. He could almost feel the staleness of it, as though the adjoining room were a sickroom and the air was thick with decay.
Finally Chop said, “I think we got smelling salts in the—”
“He don’t need smelling salts,” Sharkey said quietly. “He’s coming around.”
“Sure he is,” Bertha said. “How you doing, Gerardo?”
“Very nice.” Gerardo spoke as though he had glue in his mouth. “I am doing very nice.”
“Want a cigarette?” Bertha asked.
“All right,” Gerardo said. “I smoke a cigarette. Then everything is fine. Cigarette fixes everything.”
Whitey heard the sound of a match being struck. He heard Gerardo saying, “Is question I have, maybe you can answer. How can I smoke when there is no mouth?”
“You can smoke,” Bertha said. “Go on, smoke. And quit singing the blues. It ain’t as bad as you make it.”
“How you know? Is not your face banged up. Is mine. You no can say how it feels.”
Whitey heard Chop laughing and saying, “That’s right, Gerardo. Tell her.”
“I no tell her anything. I say more, she hit me again.”
Sharkey said, “That’s using your head, Gerardo. I think you’re getting with it now.”
“Not hardly,” Bertha said. “If you’re gonna talk to him, Sharkey, you’ll hafta make it later. He ain’t ready to listen.”
“I listen,” Gerardo said. “I just sit here and listen. What else for me to do?”
“You see, Sharkey?” she said. “He just ain’t ready yet. Look at him. He can’t pay attention to you. He’s too burned up at me.”
“No,” Gerardo said. “
I no burn up at you, Bertha. I just afraid of you, that’s all.”
“You are?” Bertha sounded pleased. “Well, now, that’s good. That’s the way it should be.”
But then Sharkey was saying, “You think so, Bertha? I don’t think so. I don’t want it that way.”
“Why not?” Bertha asked. “He’s gotta be made to understand—”
“Sure, I know,” Sharkey cut in softly. “But I don’t want him all scared and nervous and upset. He’s got important work to do. Ain’t that right, Gerardo?”
There was no reply from Gerardo.
“Come on, Gerardo. Get with it.” The voice of Sharkey was velvety, soothing, very gentle. “Look at me. And listen, Will you do that? Will you listen careful?”
Whitey stood motionless at the top of the cellar stairs with his head bent forward slightly in the three-inch gap of opened door between stairway and kitchen. Without sound he was saying to Sharkey: All right, Mac, we’ll listen very careful. We ain’t gonna miss a word.
