by David Goodis
But Skid Row was a long ways off. It was just a few blocks away and yet it was a long ways off. It was a land of boozed-up dreams where nothing mattered, where nothing special happened, like on the moon. There was no use trying for the moon and it was the same no-dice with Skid Row. Both places were off limits and the boundary line was the station house.
He went up the stone steps, went past the frosted-glass lamps, then through the opened doorway and into the roll room, where the benches were empty except for a wino sleeping flat on his back. A blue-shirted attendant was sweeping the floor. On the wall the clock showed four-twenty. From the corridor on the other side of the room there was twangy chatter coming in from car radios.
He crossed the roll room to the corridor, and walked down the corridor past the door marked “House Sergeant” and the door marked “Detectives” and toward the door marked “Captain.” He opened the door and entered the office and saw Captain Kinnard sitting at a desk, bent over with his head on his folded arms. On the desk there was a whisky bottle, three quarters full. On the floor beside the desk there was another bottle and it was empty.
Whitey coughed to get the attention of the Captain.
The Captain raised his head and looked at Whitey. Then he shut his eyes tightly. He opened his eyes and took another look. His mouth opened and closed, then opened very wide as he leaped up from the desk, hurling himself across the room with his fist shooting from the shoulder and smashing against Whitey’s jaw. Whitey went sailing through the opened doorway and landed sitting down in the corridor.
The door marked “Detectives” had opened and Lieutenants Pertnoy and Taggert were standing in the corridor. They were staring at the Captain and the Captain was pointing at the small white-haired man sitting on the floor.
“Look at this,” the Captain said. “Look what we got here.”
“Well, now,” Lieutenant Taggert said.
“Who brought him in?” Pertnoy asked.
The Captain had no answer. All he had was a tightly clamped mouth and a mixture of flame and ice in his eyes as he moved toward Whitey. He aimed a kick at Whitey’s ribs. Whitey didn’t move, and the heavy shoe made contact with Whitey’s side. As Whitey fell over on his face, the Captain kicked him again. The Captain was making noises like an animal and stepping back to ready another kick.
Whitey looked up at Captain Kinnard and said, “How’s it feel?”
The Captain blinked. He took another step backward.
“Does it hurt?” Whitey asked.
The Captain blinked again. His mouth was open but he couldn’t say anything.
“I hope it don’t hurt too much,” Whitey said.
Taggert looked at Pertnoy and said, “I know what this one needs. A strait jacket. Listen to him talking to himself.”
“No,” Whitey said. He sat up slowly. “I’m talking to the Captain.”
“Really?” Taggert murmured. His expression was clinical, and he leaned over with his hands on his knees, like a nerve specialist talking to a patient. “I think you got it twisted. You didn’t kick him. He kicked you.”
Whitey smiled dimly. “That the way you see it? I don’t see it that way. I think he kicked himself.”
Taggert straightened and frowned at Pertnoy. The Captain was staring at Whitey. For a few moments it was very quiet in the corridor. The only sound was the muffled noise coming from the roll room, where the wino was snoring and the attendant was sweeping the floor.
Whitey was aiming the smile at nothing in particular and saying, “You ready, Captain?”
“Ready for what?” The Captain’s voice was choked.
“For the news,” Whitey said. “For the morning extra edition.”
“You’re the morning extra,” the Captain said. He was trying not to tremble as he looked at Whitey. “I got the headline right in front of me.”
You ain’t just kidding, Whitey said without sound, and he thought: He’s got the headline standing there where it’s one of these lieutenants who’s hungry for a captain’s badge and itching for the big loot that comes in when Sharkey makes this station house the branch office of Sharkey and Company. So it’s either Pertnoy or Taggert. But which one? You can’t flip your finger and say eeny, meeny, miney, mo. It’s gotta be arithmetic. It’s two minus one equals one. That’s what’s gotta be done here, it’s strictly a matter of subtraction. But how do we go about it?
He sat there on the corridor floor and heard the Captain saying, “Get up.”
He looked at the Captain’s big fists and told himself he was in no hurry to get up.
“Get up, killer,” the Captain said. “Get up so I can knock you down again.”
Whitey’s eyes moved up from the Captain’s fists to focus on the Captain’s face. It was the color of milk. Poor sick bastard, Whitey thought, and he wanted to perform some brotherly act like giving the Captain a soft pillow for his splitting head. But sometimes, he knew, you gotta knock them out before you can help them. Like when they’re going under in deep water and sure as hell this one is going under. What you’ll hafta do is hit him with a left hook, give it to him dead center between the eyes. So don’t wait, don’t think about it, just give it to him.
“You’re dying,” Whitey said to the Captain. “You’re a dying man.”
The Captain closed his eyes and kept them closed for a long moment.
“And nobody cares,” Whitey said, knowing it was a very hard left hook, seeing the Captain reeling with the impact, although actually the Captain was motionless.
Whitey hooked him again. “You’re all alone,” Whitey said. “You ain’t got a friend in the world, not even that whisky bottle I saw on your desk. It can’t give you no lift because you’re too far down.”
The Captain’s eyes were wide open and staring past Whitey, past Taggert and Pertnoy, aiming all the way down the corridor, going on across the roll room and out the door, going on and on and away from everything.
It’s working, Whitey thought. I think it’s working.
But then he couldn’t be too sure because now the Captain looked at him again. There was a moment of knowing it was touch and go, it was gonna be this or that, and the Captain would either lunge at him and rip him apart or take hold of the other prisoner who wore a blue shirt and a captain’s badge.
The Captain turned away from Whitey and walked with his head down, his arms limp at his sides as he entered his office.
15
WHITEY REMAINED sitting on the corridor floor. He looked up at the two detectives and saw they were watching the opened doorway of the Captain’s office. No sound was coming from the office and it went on like that for the better part of a minute. Then there was the sound of glass on wood, the whisky bottle on the desktop, the bottle lifted and lowered and lifted again, the glass bottom tapping on the wood as the drinker played with the bottle and fought with it, fighting against the idea of another drink.
The glass hit hard on the wood and Whitey heard the ice-cold voice of the Captain: “All right, I’m ready for him now. Bring him in.”
Whitey stood up. Followed closely by the two detectives, he moved toward the office. In the doorway he turned and looked at the two detectives. He saw the light-brown pompadour and clean-shaven face of Taggert, saw Taggert’s carefully knotted tie and expensively tailored Oxford-gray suit and the semiglossy black Scotch-grain shoes. He thought: This tells you exactly nothing. And his eyes went to Pertnoy, taking in the flat-brushed pale-blond hair, the gray sort-of-poolroom complexion, the slim physique attired in flannel that needed pressing. Then up again to Pertnoy’s face to check the notion that this man was on the cute side, cute with a cue stick or a deck of cards. But it was just a notion so far.
He heard the Captain telling him to sit down. The Captain spoke flatly, pointing to a chair at the side of the desk. Whitey seated himself, his arms crossed in his lap, his eyes looking directly at the Captain.
“Start talking,” the Captain said.
Whitey told himself to forget there w
ere others in the room. The two detectives were standing near the desk and he knew they were there, but now he had to talk as though they weren’t there, and he said, “Nobody brought me in. I came in on my own two feet.”
“Your conscience?” the Captain said. And he managed a trace of a smile.
“No,” Whitey said. “It ain’t conscience. It’s information.”
“I don’t think so,” the Captain murmured. “I think you’re gonna tell me a fairy tale. Or something from Ripley.”
“Ripley always backed it up,” Whitey said.
“Can you?”
“I think so. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On you, Captain.” And then, making it a gamble, “It depends on how much brains you got left.”
Captain Kinnard started to lose the smile. His lips strained to hold it, managed to hold it, and then went farther than that and made it wider, almost a pleasant smile. He nodded slowly as though admitting that the prisoner had made a point. He said, “I think there’s still some tools upstairs. Keep talking.”
“Here’s item one. I didn’t kill the policeman.”
The Captain didn’t say anything.
“Item two. I know who did it.”
And he waited for the Captain to say something. The Captain remained silent and went on smiling at him.
He returned the smile and said, “You ready for item three?”
The Captain nodded again.
“Item three is the clincher,” Whitey said. “The riots.” The Captain shivered as though he’d been pushed into icy water. He sat there with his hands sliding across the desktop, searching for the edge so he could grip it.
Whitey said, “The riots are a put-up job.”
For some moments the only sound was three men breathing. The Captain wasn’t breathing.
Then Whitey said, “It’s an organization. The man who killed the cop is working for them. They’re racket people and they wanna take over the neighborhood.”
Another pause. Whitey told himself it was all timing now and he had to get it timed just right.
He said, “They can’t take over while you’re in this station house. They’re trying to get you out.”
And another pause. And the Captain saying, “Go on, mister. I’m listening.”
“They have it figured you can’t be bought, you can’t be bumped, they ain’t in no position to put pills in your coffee. So they’re doing it the slow way. Slow but sure. And when it comes, it’ll come from City Hall. They know you’re slated to go if you can’t stop these race riots.”
The Captain looked down at his hands. His hands gripped the edge of the desk. He said very quietly, “Where’d you get this?”
“I can take you there,” Whitey said.
“And then what? What can you show me? Can you show me something that proves what you’re saying?”
Whitey nodded. “It’s in the cellar,” he said. “They got a big show arranged for tomorrow night. The way they got it planned, it’s gonna be the biggest of all. This time they’re looking for the pay-off, and if you look in the cellar you’ll see they’re not playing. They got guns stacked there.”
The Captain raised his head and for a long moment he gazed at Whitey. Then, getting up very slowly, he said, “All right, let’s you and me go for a ride.”
Whitey didn’t move.
“Come on,” the Captain said.
But Whitey sat there, knowing he had to swing it now, it had to be complete or it wasn’t any good. He looked at the two detective lieutenants and wished he could see inside their heads so he could point his finger at one instead of two. His finger was indicating both of them and he was saying, “I want these men to come along.” The Captain was halfway to the door. He stopped and looked at Whitey and said, “Why?”
“For my protection,” Whitey said. He smiled at Captain Kinnard. “For yours, too.”
“How come?”
“Just in case you blow your top again.”
“You think I’m that bad off ?”
“Yes,” Whitey said. “I’m scared to be alone with you.”
But his eyes were saying something different, begging the Captain to understand, to add some number and arrive at a total.
The Captain looked at the two detective lieutenants. For some moments the Captain didn’t say anything. And then, his voice toneless, “All right, we’ll make it a foursome.”
Whitey got up from the chair.
The four of them walked out of the room.
On the instrument panel of the black-and-orange squad car the clock showed four-forty. The speedometer showed twenty miles per hour. The Captain was driving and he had to drive slowly because they were on River Street and this section of the street was hard on tires. There were a lot of bumps and deep chuckholes. From curb to curb the street was littered with overturned ash cans, fruit boxes, and broken glass, the tokens of the action that had taken place earlier tonight. The car’s headlights put a bright polish on the asphalt ribboned with bloodstains.
Whitey sat beside the Captain. In the rear-view mirror he saw the two detectives in the back seat. Pertnoy was smoking a cigarette and Taggert was leaning back comfortably with his arms folded.
“Where do I turn?” the Captain asked.
“Next block. You go left,” Whitey said.
They hit one of the ash cans and it made a clatter as it rolled toward the curb. Whitey focused on the rear-view mirror and saw that Pertnoy was finished with the cigarette, and now he was busy with something else. Whatever it was, it sounded metallic. Then it made an efficient clicking sound and Whitey knew it was a revolver and Pertnoy was loading it. The rear-view mirror showed a vague smile on Pertnoy’s face.
Whitey turned and looked directly at Pertnoy. The detective went on smiling and inserting clips in the automatic. He saw Whitey looking at him and he widened the smile just a little and said, “You ever get hit with one of these?”
“No,” Whitey said.
“It don’t shoot water,” Pertnoy said.
“I guess not.” Whitey returned Pertnoy’s smile. Then it occurred to him that he was paying too much attention to Pertnoy. He got rid of the smile and looked at Taggert and said, “You better load up, too.”
“Mine’s loaded already,” Taggert said.
“Naturally,” Pertnoy murmured.
Taggert looked at Pertnoy. “What do you mean, naturally?”
Pertnoy pointed to Taggert and said to Whitey, “He’s a former boy scout. He’s always prepared.”
“And you’re always funny,” Taggert said. “You’re always very funny.”
“Cut it out,” the Captain told them.
“You ought to be in vaudeville,” Taggert said to Pertnoy. “You’d be a big hit.”
“I don’t think so,” Pertnoy said. “I don’t care much for the spotlight.”
“Meaning what?” Taggert’s voice was stiff.
“Meaning nothing,” Pertnoy said mildly. “Unless it means something to you. Does it mean something to you?”
“No,” Taggert said. “Why should it?”
Pertnoy shrugged. He didn’t say anything.
The squad car had turned left and it was moving very slowly on the narrow street. The street was extremely narrow and on both sides the tires scraped the curbs. The car bumped lightly on the cobblestones. Whitey was still facing the back seat and he saw Pertnoy replacing the loaded revolver in the shoulder holster. He was doing it very slowly and carefully, smiling while he did it. Taggert was watching him. There was no expression on Taggert’s face. But it seemed he was aching to say something to Pertnoy. His mouth opened and closed and opened again.
And then, not looking at Taggert, but letting the smile drift sideways toward him, Pertnoy said, “Go on, say it. I don’t mind if you say it.”
“I don’t like working with you,” Taggert said. “I never liked working with you.”
“When they feel that way,” Pertnoy said aloud to himself, “they oughta quit.�
��
“I been thinking,” Taggert said. “I have a definite desire to punch you in the mouth.”
“Now look,” the Captain said. “I won’t have this.” He was trying to concentrate on the wheel and the accelerator. The car was creeping along at five miles per hour and every few moments the front tires got jammed against the curbs and the Captain had to put it in reverse and straighten the wheels. Now it was quiet in the back seat but the quiet was colder and deeper than the talking and the Captain said to them, “I said stop it and I mean stop it. And you.” He spoke to Whitey. “You face front. You wanna look at something, look at the windshield.”
Whitey turned and faced the windshield and his eyes were aimed at the rear-view mirror. He saw Pertnoy lighting another cigarette. Taggert was sitting up straight and rigid, breathing somewhat heavily and looking at Pertnoy.
“Because I know,” Taggert blurted, and it was like someone throwing up curdled milk. “You think I don’t know, but I do. I got it from good authority you’re a long ways off center.”
“Really?” Pertnoy sipped lightly at the cigarette.
“Yes, really. The comedy is just a front. Actually you’re nothing but a freak.”
“Is that what they call it?” Pertnoy murmured.
“Yes. Because that’s what it is. You’re a freak, Pertnoy. You hear what I’m saying? You’re just a freak.”
“All right, if you want it that way,” Pertnoy said.
“You men gonna stop it?” the Captain shot at them.
“This one isn’t a man,” Taggert said. “This one belongs in a sideshow. I’m told he likes to be locked in dark closets. Once a week he gives a local whore ten dollars to tie his wrists and bind his eyes and put him in the closet for an hour.”
