by David Goodis
“An hour and a half,” Pertnoy corrected.
“You hear that?” Taggert said it very loudly, as though he stood on a platform facing a large audience. “He ain’t even ashamed.”
“What goes on here?” the Captain wanted to know. “What kind of talk is this?”
Whitey pointed toward the windshield. “Down there, Captain. You park near that street lamp.”
Pertnoy was saying, “In the final analysis we’re all in the same boat. We’re all ashamed of something.”
“That’s right, get witty again,” Taggert said. “Cover it up with a gag.”
“No gag, Taggert. It’s fundamental truth. With me it’s because I do the kind of work that makes a lot of people unhappy. Some of them don’t deserve it and that puts things off balance. So once a week I let her put me in the closet and maybe that gets it balanced. At any rate, it helps to—”
“You’re a liar,” Taggert interrupted. “That ain’t the reason. The reason is pleasure. That’s the only way you can get your pleasure.”
“And you?” Pertnoy purred. “What’s your weakness?”
“I—”
“You’ll answer him later,” the Captain said. He was switching off the ignition and pulling up on the brake. They were parked near the street lamp and the Captain opened the door on Whitey’s side and told Whitey to climb out. The Captain followed close behind him and then the two detectives joined them, the four of them walking now toward the street lamp, walking abreast on the cobblestones until they reached the alley.
Whitey pointed to the alley entrance on the right and they started down the alley with Whitey and the Captain in front, Whitey looking at the houses and telling himself he’d recognize the house when they came to it. He saw a flashlight in the Captain’s hand but it wasn’t lighted; there was enough moonlight here to let them see where they were going.
They were walking slowly in close formation, his shoulders rubbing against the Captain’s shoulders and the footsteps of the two detectives very close on his heels. There was no talk. But one of the detectives was beginning to breathe somewhat heavily. Whitey could hear it, and he thought: I’d like to turn and look at them and see which one it is, that heavy breathing puts the finger on him, he’s worried plenty right now and every step we take he gets worried more. Well, we’ll soon be there. We’re getting there, all right. What’s he gonna do when we get there? What can he do? Well, that’s his problem. It’s quite a problem. Maybe he’ll make a run for it before we arrive. But no, he wouldn’t do that. He knows he can’t run from bullets. He knows. But there’s your house, Captain, there it is with the cellar window with no glass in it, saying, Everybody welcome, come on in and get warm.
He touched the Captain’s arm and pointed to the house. Then he turned and looked at the two detectives. Whichever one of them had been breathing heavily, he had stopped now; they both breathed at the normal rate and their eyes showed nothing. They were watching the Captain, who was working on the rusty latch of the fence gate.
The Captain worked on it very carefully and it made hardly any noise as he pulled it free. The gate swung open and the four of them walked across the back yard.
And then they stood at the cellar window and the Captain was looking at Whitey.
“The guns,” the Captain said. “Where are they stashed?”
“On the floor. Near the furnace.”
The Captain turned to the two detectives. “This won’t take long,” he said. “All it needs is a look.”
“You going in alone?” It was Pertnoy.
The Captain nodded very slowly.
“Be careful,” Pertnoy said.
The Captain turned and faced the cellar window. He crouched low and began to climb through. He had a hard time getting through. At first it seemed that his thick body was too wide for the window frame. He twisted and squirmed and got one shoulder through, then squirmed some more and got stuck and they watched him reaching up above his head, trying to get a hold on something for leverage. He found it and went on squirming his way in. Altogether it took him more than a minute to get in. They could hear him moving around in there and they saw the reflected glow of his flashlight pouring out in tiny splashes of bright yellow. It went on that way for some moments and then there was no light at all, and Whitey knew that the Captain was on the other side of the coal bin.
He heard Pertnoy saying, “How do you feel?”
“Me?” He faced Pertnoy. “I feel all right.”
“You’re not worried?”
“No,” Whitey said.
“And you?” Pertnoy said to Taggert.
Taggert didn’t say anything. His lips were clamped tightly and he was staring at the cellar window.
Pertnoy said, “You look plenty worried, Lieutenant.”
“Leave me alone,” Taggert said. He sounded as though he were talking to himself.
“You wanna spill it?” Pertnoy murmured.
Taggert glanced at Pertnoy and then at Whitey. He blinked a few times and let out a cough and followed it with a louder cough.
“You trying something?” Pertnoy asked gently, somewhat sadly. Then, with a gesture toward the house, “You’ll need more noise than that to tip them off.”
Whitey looked at the face of Detective Lieutenant Taggert. The eyes were glazed and it seemed the skin was stretched to the cracking point. He wondered if Taggert was really cracking up and in the next moment he was sure of it because he saw Taggert going for the shoulder holster.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Pertnoy said wearily.
Taggert had the revolver in his hand and it was pointed at Pertnoy’s chest.
“You freak bastard,” Taggert said, and Whitey knew it was sick talk, it was persecution stuff, the way they talk to the attendants and the visitors when they’re very sick. “I won’t let you laugh at me.”
“I only laugh when it’s funny,” Pertnoy said. There was real pity in his voice.
But it didn’t reach Taggert. It seemed that nothing could reach Taggert now. He began to sob like a child, and what came out of his mouth was a kindergarten complaint. “You—you’re always picking on me. Just—just because I get my shaves in barbershops. And get my suits custom-made. And wear expensive shoes. What’s—what’s wrong with that?”
Pertnoy didn’t reply. It was as though he realized he couldn’t make contact with Taggert.
“And,” Taggert choked on it, “that mirror I put up on the wall. In the office. That tickled you, didn’t it? You had a lot of fun with that mirror. You thought it was so comical I like to look at myself.”
“You need that mirror now,” Pertnoy said. His voice was like a dash of cold water, trying to bring Taggert out of it. “You ought to see yourself now.”
“I—” Taggert blinked several times. He turned his head slowly and looked at the house. He said very quietly, “How’d you know I was in with them?”
“Just a notion I had,” Pertnoy said. “I guess it was growing on me. A lot of little things, but I couldn’t put them together. You listening?”
Taggert nodded solemnly. He came a step closer to Pertnoy and he had the gun just a few inches away from Pertnoy’s chest.
Pertnoy wasn’t looking at the gun. He was saying, “In the car, when we were driving here. When you called me a pervert. As if you just had to get it out. As if you’d been holding it back for a long time and you had that one last chance to get it out.”
“But it didn’t hurt you.” Taggert was sobbing again. “It didn’t even move you.”
Pertnoy shrugged. He looked at Whitey and shrugged again.
“I wonder—” Taggert blubbered. “I wonder if this can move you,” and he pulled the trigger.
16
PERTNOY WENT down with a bullet in his lung and before he hit the ground another bullet went into his abdomen. Taggert walked toward him to shoot him again and Whitey came in from the side and made a grab for Taggert’s wrist. Taggert turned and shot at Whitey and missed. Then Taggert aimed again at Whitey but just
then a bullet came from the cellar window and went into Taggert’s shoulder.
Whitey had thrown himself to the ground, and as he rolled over he caught a glimpse of the cellar window. He saw Captain Kinnard pointing the gun at Taggert. He heard the Captain saying, “Here I am, Taggert. Right here.”
But as the Captain said it, a light was switched on in the cellar, and someone was shooting at the Captain. Then the Captain wasn’t there at the window and Whitey heard a lot of shooting going on in the cellar. He told himself to forget the cellar and concentrate on Taggert. As he turned his head, he saw Taggert clutching the injured shoulder with the arm hanging limply, the hand straining to hold onto the gun. Taggert was backing away from Pertnoy, who had pulled himself up to a sitting position and taken out his revolver. Pertnoy was biting hard on his lip, biting so hard that blood came seeping out. It was bright blood and it mixed with the frothy blood that welled up from his throat and gushed out of his mouth. The front of Pertnoy’s jacket was covered with blood pouring down from the wound in his chest, and from his punctured middle the blood spurted and streamed over his trousers. But the revolver in Pertnoy’s hand was fairly steady and he had it aimed at Taggert. Whitey saw Taggert lifting the bad arm and aiming at Pertnoy’s stomach. He heard Pertnoy saying, “This is silly.”
Taggert shot first, but before the bullet went in, Pertnoy was able to pull the trigger. A red-black hole showed on Taggert’s forehead and he was instantly dead. Pertnoy was sitting there and then sagging sideways, finally resting face down.
Whitey moved toward Pertnoy to see if he could do something for him. He knew it was a stupid thought, there really wasn’t anything he could do. As he knelt beside Pertnoy, he heard the sound of the back door. He turned and saw them coming out. It was Chop and Bertha and Gerardo. They came out running. Whitey saw a gun in Chop’s hand. Chop took a shot at Whitey and the bullet went into Pertnoy’s face. Whitey reached for Pertnoy’s revolver, telling himself he’d never handled one before, and wondering what he could do with it. He saw Chop taking aim at him and he decided the only thing to do with a gun was pull the trigger. He pulled it and the bullet went past Chop and past Bertha and hit Gerardo in the thigh. He pulled it again and saw Chop dropping the gun and hopping around, holding onto his hand.
Bertha went for the gun and Whitey shot at her and missed and caught Gerardo in the knee. Gerardo was sitting with his legs crossed and he was screeching. Chop was running back into the house. Bertha stood there frowning down at Chop’s gun on the ground. Then she frowned at Whitey, and then at the gun again. She was trying to make up her mind. Whitey aimed at her immense bulk and said, “You move and you’re dead.”
She looked at him and said quietly, “You mean you’d hit a lady?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. He saw her walking toward him. He told himself it was a female and he didn’t like the idea of hurting a female. He said to himself: How stupid can you get? She walked in closer and he knew it would be very stupid if he didn’t shoot her. Of course, both of them were acting stupid. The only thing that wasn’t stupid was the gun. It felt solid and capable in his hand and he told himself to use it. Now Bertha was in very close and he begged himself to shoot her. He shot at her and missed and knew he’d missed purposely.
“Sucker,” she said, and swung her right arm with all her weight behind it. Her big fist put the impact of more than three hundred pounds against his jaw. A few stars came down and flared in his eyes and through his eyes and then he was out of it.
*
In the station house the clock on the roll-room wall showed ten minutes past five. The roll room was crowded with policemen. The wino who’d been sleeping on the bench was still asleep. On the same bench Whitey sat leaning back with his head against the wall. He had an ice bag pressed to his jaw. He told himself the cops were very considerate to let him use the ice bag. It sure helped. But a drink would help more. He wished he had a drink in front of him.
“How you doing?”
He looked up. It was Captain Kinnard.
“I guess I’ll make it,” Whitey said. He took the ice bag away from his swollen jaw. He touched his jaw and winced slightly. Then he shrugged and placed the ice bag on the bench beside him.
“You wanna go now?” the Captain asked.
“Is it all right?”
The Captain nodded. “You’re clear. We got a confession from your friend Gerardo.”
Whitey stood up. For some moments he was quiet. And then, not looking at the Captain, “Only Gerardo?”
“The others got away.”
“What?”
“I said they got away. They had a car and they got away.”
“Oh,” Whitey said. He was staring at the floor.
“What’s the matter?” the Captain said.
He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”
“Well, anyway,” the Captain said, “we put them out of business. There won’t be no more riots, that’s for sure.”
Whitey wasn’t listening. He was thinking about her. In his mind he could see the gray-green eyes and the lighter-than-bronze hair, and he said to himself: You didn’t even get a chance to talk to her. And if you’d had the chance? What then? What could be said? Not a damn thing more than hello again and good-by again. Because she’d never leave Sharkey. She can’t leave Sharkey. If she tries to leave him, he puts the hook on her and drags her back. She knows she can’t skip out on him. So that’s the way it is. She’s hooked, that’s all. Maybe she wants to be hooked, whether she knows it or not. After all, that’s the only life she knows, and without it she’s nowhere. Like you’re nowhere without a drink. And sure as hell you need one now. All right, stop carrying on. At least you had another look at her. You had that, anyway. So you ought to be satisfied. All right, you’re satisfied. You feel great. But where can I get a drink?
He heard the Captain saying, “You look knocked out. If you want to, you can sleep here.”
“No,” he said. “But I could use a bracer. I’m kinda thirsty.”
The Captain nodded toward the corridor. “Go in my office. It’s on the desk. Take it with you.”
Whitey smiled. “Thanks, Captain.”
“No,” the Captain said. He didn’t smile. “I’m saying thanks. Thanks a million, mister.”
Whitey walked across the roll room and down the corridor and into the Captain’s office. It was there on the desk, the whisky bottle three quarters full. He picked it up and held it under his coat as he walked out the side door of the station house.
It was very cold outside and he walked fast to get some circulation in his legs. After a while he stopped and uncapped the bottle and drank, and a few minutes later he drank again. It felt fine going down. On River Street, headed north toward Skid Row, he stopped and took a big drink. Then he looked at the bottle. It was about half filled. He wondered where he could find Bones and Phillips. They ought to be somewhere around.
Then he was on Skid Row and he found them in the all-night eatery across the street from the flophouse. They were seated at the counter near the window. Of course, they weren’t eating anything; the hash house never handed out free meals. They were just sitting there at the counter.
Whitey tapped on the window. Bones and Phillips looked up. They came hurrying out of the hash house and Phillips said loudly, “We been worried to death. Where the hell you been?”
“I took a walk,” Whitey said.
“He took a walk,” Bones told Phillips. “He keeps us sitting up all night and he says he just took a walk.”
“Look at his face,” Phillips said. “He’s all banged up.”
Whitey shrugged and didn’t say anything. Bones came in close to Whitey and sniffed a few times. Then Bones looked sideways at Phillips and said quietly, “I’ll be a sonofabitch, he scored for the booze.”
Whitey smiled and reached under his coat and took out the bottle.
The three of them walked across the street. They sat down on the pavement with their backs against the wa
ll of the flophouse. The pavement was terribly cold and the wet wind from the river came blasting into their faces. But it didn’t bother them. They sat there passing the bottle around, and there was nothing that could bother them, nothing at all.
Chronology
1917
Born David Loeb Goodis in Philadelphia on March 2, the oldest child of William Goodis, co-owner of a news dealership on the southeast corner of 2nd and Chestnut Streets, and Mollie (Halpern) Goodis. (William Goodis was born in Russia in 1882, emigrating with his mother, Rebecca, around 1890. He will later become a cotton yarn salesman, working for Globe Dye Works and the William Goodis Co. Mollie was born in Pennsylvania in 1895 of Russian émigré parents.) At time of Goodis’s birth, family resides with William’s mother at 870 North 6th Street, but will live for most of his childhood and adolescence at 4758 North 10th Street, in the middle-class Logan neighborhood.
1920
Brother Jerome Goodis born (exact date of birth unknown). He will die from meningitis around age three.
1923
Brother Herbert Goodis born.
1923–29
Attends General David Bell Birney Elementary School.
1929–31
Attends Jay Cooke Jr. Middle School, where he meets Paul Garabedian, who will remain a lifelong friend.
1935
Graduates from Simon Gratz High School in Philadelphia, where he edits the student newspaper, Spotlight, joins the track and swimming teams, and serves as President of Gratz Student Association. Gives valedictorian speech, “Youth Looks at Peace.”
1938
Graduates from Temple University with degree in Journalism, and works briefly for a Philadelphia advertising agency. At Temple, Goodis writes for student paper, News, and contributes cartoons to student magazine, The Owl. (Will later claim he worked during this period on an unpublished, lost novel, The Ignited, though existence of this book may be one of the deadpan fabrications in which Goodis occasionally indulged in interviews or author notes: “The title was prophetic. Eventually I threw it in the furnace.”)
