David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (2 page)

It was getting awful in the barrel. Parry pushed the hate aside and replaced it with energy. He pushed at the side of the barrel. He made an inch. He made another inch and he had air again. The truck was traveling very fast and he wondered where it was going. He kept pushing at the side of the barrel. The truck hit another bump, hit a second bump, hit a third and a fourth. Parry figured there might be a fifth bump and he advised himself to be ready for it. The four bumps had pushed the
two barrels back the way he wanted them to go back. He had about five inches up there. When the fifth bump came he was prepared for it and he heaved hard, going along with the bump, getting the two barrels over to the side, increasing the gap to what he measured as nine inches. He thrust his arms up, pushed at the two barrels, made four more inches. And that was plenty.

Parry pulled himself out of the barrel. He saw the road going away from him, a dark grey stream sliding back between level pale green meadow, sliding toward the yellow horizon. On the left, bordering the pale green, he could see shaggy hills, not too high. He decided to make the hills.

Keeping his head low he weaved his way through the barrels. Then he was at the edge of the truck, figuring its speed at about fifty. It was going to be a rough fall and probably he would get hurt. But if he fell facing the truck, running with the truck, he would be playing along with the momentum and that would be something of a benefit.

He did it that way. He was running before he reached the road. He made a few yards and then went down flat on his face. Knowing he was hurt but not knowing where and not caring, he picked himself up quickly and raced for the side of the road. The pale green grass was fairly high and he threw himself at it and rested there, breathing hard, too frightened to look at the road. But he could hear the truck motor going away from him and he knew that he was all right as far as the truck was concerned. When he raised his head from the grass he saw an automobile passing by. He saw the people in the automobile and their faces were turned toward him and he waited for the automobile to stop.

The automobile didn’t stop. Parry stayed there another minute. Before he stood up he took off the grey shirt, the white undershirt. Stripped to the waist he felt the heat of the sun, the thick moisture of deep summer. It felt good. But something else felt bad and it was the pain in both arms, in the elbows. He had fallen on his elbows and the skin was ripped and there was considerable blood. He pulled at grass, kept digging at earth until there was something of a hole, a semblance of mud. He rubbed mud on his elbows and that stopped the blood and formed a protective cake. Then he put the shirt and the undershirt
in the hole. He replaced the clods of grass, covering the hole smoothly.

The sun was high, and Parry watched it as he started toward the hills. He guessed the time as somewhere around eleven, and it meant he had been on the truck for almost an hour. It also meant San Quentin had taken a long time to discover his exit. Again he was telling himself it had been too easy and it couldn’t last and then he heard the sound of motorcycles.

He threw himself at the grass, tried to insert himself in the ground. As yet he couldn’t see the motorcycles, although his eyes made a wide sweep of the road. That was all right. Probably they couldn’t see him either. They were coming around a gradual bend in the road. They made a lot of noise, a raging noise as they came nearer. Then he could see them, whizzing past. Two and three and five of them. Just as they passed him they began using sirens and he knew they were going after the truck.

He could picture it. The truck was say three miles down the road. Give them five minutes to search the barrels, to question the driver and helper. Give them another six minutes to come back here, because they would be going slowly, studying the road and the meadow at the sides of the road. All right, wait one more minute and let them make a mile and a third. Let it be two minutes, then take three or four minutes to get to those hills, and pray there wouldn’t be any more motorcycles tearing down the road.

W
HEN HE
was in the hills he sat down for a rest. He wondered if it would be feasible to stay here in the hills, give himself a few days here while the search radiated. But if the police couldn’t get any leads elsewhere, they’d come back to the road and chances were they’d sift the hills. The more he thought about it the more he understood the necessity for keeping on the move. And moving fast. That was it. Fast. Everything fast.

He got up and started moving in the direction he had first taken. The hills seemed to move along with him. After a while he was tired again but he was thinking in terms of speed and he refused to take another rest. The weariness went away for a time but after some minutes it came back and it was accompanied by thirst and a desire for a cigarette. He couldn’t do anything about the thirst but there was an almost empty pack of cigarettes in his trousers pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips and then he searched for a match. He didn’t have a match. He looked around, as if he thought there might be a place where he could buy a book of matches. He puffed at the cigarette, trying to imagine that it was lit and he was drawing smoke. He didn’t have any matches. He began to think of the things he didn’t have.

He didn’t have clothes. He didn’t have money. He didn’t have friends. No, he was wrong there. He had a few friends and one friend in particular. And it was a cinch that Fellsinger would go to bat for him. But Fellsinger was in Frisco and Frisco was going to be a very hot place aside from the heat of August. Nevertheless it was practical for him to see Fellsinger. The next move was Frisco. The police wouldn’t watch Fellsinger. Or maybe they would. Or wouldn’t.

As an hour passed the hills gave way to another stretch of pale green. There were no roads, there were no houses, nothing. Parry negotiated the pale green, moved toward dark green. It was heavily wooded area and he tried to guess what was on the other side. He looked back, knowing that the division
of terrain would be a decent sort of guide, preventing him from traveling in a circle. He entered the woods.

He was in the woods for more than an hour. He was moving fast. Then he could see a lot of bright yellow breaking through the dark green. It meant that he was about to come out on the other side of the woods. Already he could see a band of white-yellow out there and he knew it was a road.

At the side of the road he leaned against a tree, waiting. He wanted to see a truck or an automobile and at the same time he was afraid to see anything of that sort. He kept sucking at the unlighted cigarette. He looked at the other side of the road and saw a continuation of the woods. All right, let an automobile come by. Let something happen.

Nothing happened for about forty minutes. Then Parry heard a sound coming down the road and it belonged to an automobile. There was an instant of animal fright and he was turning to dart back into the woods. A spurt of gambling spirit pushed aside the fright and Parry ran out to the center of the road. He saw the automobile coming toward him. It was a Nash, a 36 or 37, he wasn’t sure but he didn’t particularly care either. It was something that might take him to Frisco, if it was going to Frisco. He was out there in the center of the road, waving his arms beseechingly. The Nash was going rather fast and it didn’t look as if it was going to stop. It increased speed as it closed in on Parry. There was only one person in the car and it was a man. It was a very pleasant man who was using this method to tell Parry that he would either get out of the way or get hit.

Parry got out of the way and the Nash went ripping down the road. Another fifteen minutes came in and went out again. Parry was leaning against the same tree. He wanted a match badly. He wanted water badly. He wanted a lift badly. He wished it wasn’t August. He wished he had been born somewhere up in the Arctic Circle where these things didn’t happen to a man. He heard another automobile.

This was a Studebaker. It was from way back. It was doing about thirty and Parry had an idea it couldn’t do any more no matter how hard it tried. Again he was out in the center of the road, waving his arms.

The Studebaker stopped. Its only occupant was the driver, a man in
old clothes, a man who looked Parry up and down and finally opened the door.

Parry stepped in. He closed the door and the man put the car in gear and got it up to thirty again. Parry had already noticed that the Studebaker was a coupé and the man was about forty or so and he was about five eight and he didn’t weigh much. He wore a felt hat that had been dead for years.

For a few minutes there was no talk. Then the man half looked at Parry and said, “Where you going?”

“San Francisco.”

The man looked at him directly. Parry looked straight ahead. He was thinking that approximately four hours had passed since he had stepped into the barrel. Perhaps by this time it was already in the papers. Perhaps the man had already seen a paper. Perhaps the man wasn’t going to San Francisco. Perhaps anything.

“Whereabouts in Frisco?” the man said. He pushed the hat back an inch or so.

Parry was about to say Civic Center. Then he changed his mind. Then he took another look at the man and he came back to Civic Center. It really didn’t make much difference what he said, because he was going to get rid of this man and he was going to take the car.

He said, “Civic Center.”

“I’ll get you there,” the man said. “I’m taking Van Ness to Market. How come you’re using this road?”

“Fellow gave me a lift. He said it was a short cut.”

“How come he left you off back there?”

“We had an argument,” Parry said.

“What about?”

“Politics.”

“What are you?”

“Well,” Parry said, “I’m non-partisan. But this fellow seemed to be against everything. He couldn’t get me to agree with him and finally he stopped the car and told me to get out.”

The man looked at Parry’s bare ribs. The man said, “What did he do—steal your shirt?”

“No, I always dress this way in summer. I like to be comfortable. You got a match?”

The man fished in a coat pocket and two fingers came out holding a book of matches.

“Want a cigarette?” Parry said as he scratched a match.

“I don’t smoke. Mighty funny looking pants you got there.”

“I know. But they’re comfortable.”

“You like to be comfortable,” the man said, and then he laughed, and he kept on looking at the grey cotton pants.

“Yes,” Parry said. “I like to be comfortable.”

“You can keep the matches,” the man said. He kept on looking at the grey cotton pants. He dragged the Studebaker back to twenty-five, then to twenty. His eyes went down to Parry’s heavy shoes.

Parry said, “How come you got matches if you don’t smoke?”

The man didn’t answer. Parry kept his face frontward but his gaze was sideways and he could see the man’s weather-darkened features and the short thin nose and the long chin. He got his gaze a little more to the side and he could see the ear and the mixture of black and white hair beneath the rippling brim of the felt hat. The right temple, he was thinking. Or maybe just under the right ear. He had heard somewhere that just under the ear was the best place.

“Where you from?” the man said.

“Arizona.”

“Whereabouts in Arizona?”

“Maricopa,” Parry said truthfully.

“Hitched all the way from Maricopa, eh?”

“That’s right,” Parry said. He eyed the rear-view mirror. The road back there was empty. He got ready. His right hand formed a fist and he tightened it, making it hard. His right arm quivered.

The man said, “Why Frisco?”

“What?”

“I said why are you going to Frisco?”

Parry rubbed the fist against his thigh. He turned his body and leaned against the door as he looked at the man. He said, “Mister, you get on my nerves with all these questions. I don’t need to be bothered with you. I can get another ride.”

The man frowned, deepened it and then let it break and shape
itself into a weak grin. He said, “What you getting excited about? All I did was——”

“Forget it,” Parry said angrily. “I’ll pick up the kind of a ride where I don’t have to tell my life history. How far am I from Frisco?”

“No more than fifteen miles,” the man said. “But you’re being foolish. I’m trying to help you out and you’re——”

“Stop the car, mister. And thanks for taking me this far.”

The man shrugged. He lifted a foot from the accelerator, brought it over to the brake. The car moved to the side of the road and as it came to a stop Parry leaned forward and sent his right arm toward the man’s head. His fist landed on the upper part of the man’s jaw, just under the ear. The aim was all right, but Parry didn’t have much of a punch and the man let out a yell and clutched Parry’s arm as the fist went forward again. Parry squirmed and tried to use his left. The man was stronger than Parry had supposed, and mingled fear and desperation increased the strength and tripled Parry’s trouble. The man brought up a knee and tried to put it against Parry’s groin. Parry managed to send a straight left into the man’s face and the man let out another yell. The knee made another try at Parry’s groin. Parry tried to stand up, but the knee was in his way. The man began to shout for help. Parry put another left in the man’s face, followed it with a straight right that landed against the man’s temple. The man was all fear now and he stopped shouting and he began to plead. As Parry hit him again he begged Parry to lay off. He said he didn’t have much money on him but he’d hand it over if Parry would only leave him alone and allow him to go on his way. Parry again banged him on the temple, banged him on the jaw and on the temple again. The man’s head went back and Parry punched him under the right ear and knocked him out.

Parry was very tired. He blew air out of his mouth and rested his head back against torn upholstery. Through the sound of the idling Studebaker he could hear another sound, the sound of an automobile coming down the road. It was coming from the Frisco direction. Straight ahead down the road it was a shining grey convertible coupé that was growing too quickly. Parry wanted to throw the whole thing away. He wanted to open the door and leap out into the woods and keep going. He
called that a bright idea and told himself that another bright idea was to try hiding on the floor of the Studebaker. They were wonderful, these bright ideas. He saw smoke coming up from the floor, coming from the half-smoked cigarette. He reached down, picked up the cigarette, brought it toward the face of the unconscious man. He had his hands cupped around the end of the cigarette. He had his eyes on the grey convertible coupé coming down the road. Let them think there had been three in the Studebaker and the Studebaker was stopping here so that one of them could go into the woods for something and the other two were waiting here and having a smoke.

The grey convertible rushed in and went past. Parry blew more air out of his mouth. There would soon be another car coming down the road. Now the road seemed to average a car every four or five minutes. Let the next car think there was only one in the Studebaker, and the Studebaker was parked here while the driver went into the woods for something. Parry opened the door, pulled the unconscious man out of the car and quickly dragged him into the woods. He undressed the man and he was putting on the man’s clothes when the man opened his eyes and started to open a bleeding mouth. Parry bent low and chopped a right to the side of the head. The man went out again and Parry went back to his dressing.

It wasn’t a bad fit. The felt hat was the best item. It had a fairly wide brim that would shadow his face to a great extent. There was a dirty checkered shirt and a purple tie with orange circles on it. There was a dark-brown coat patched in half a dozen places and a pair of navy-blue trousers rounding out their first decade.

He had the clothes on and he was going back to the Studebaker. Nearing the edge of the woods he stopped and put fingers to his chin. He saw the Studebaker and the grey convertible coupé parked directly behind the Studebaker. The grey convertible was a Pontiac. He saw grey-violet behind the wheel. Grey-violet of a blouse belonging to a girl with blonde hair. She was sitting there behind the wheel, waiting for Parry to come out of the woods. He decided to go back into the woods and keep on going. As he turned, he saw the girl open the door and step out of the Pontiac.

She saw him. She beckoned to him. There was authority in the beckoning and Parry was very frightened. He completed the turn and he started to run.

It was hard going. There were a lot of trees and twigs in his way. He could hear footsteps back there, the breaking of foliage, and he knew the girl was coming after him. Once he looked back and he saw her. She was about twenty yards behind him and she was doing her best. The snake came gliding into the pool. He would get her about fifty yards deep in the woods and then he would knock her unconscious and go back and grab the Studebaker. The snake made a turn and started gliding out of the pool. He didn’t need to knock her unconscious. He didn’t need to be afraid. The whole thing was very simple. The girl was lost on the road. Her Pontiac had passed the Studebaker and gone down the road maybe a half mile and when she knew she was lost she made a U-turn. She remembered the parked Studebaker and she came back to ask directions. That was all. He had only imagined the authority in that beckoning. It was curiosity and perhaps a stubborn decision to get her bearings that made her chase him through the woods.

Anyway he was now fifty yards deep in the woods and either way there was nothing to worry about. He stopped and turned and waited for her.

She came running up to him. The grey-violet blouse was supplemented by a dark grey-violet skirt. She was little. She was about five two and not more than a hundred. The blonde hair was very blonde but it wasn’t peroxide. And there was a minimum of paint. A trace of orange-ish lipstick that went nicely with genuine grey eyes. She was something just a bit deeper than pretty, although she couldn’t be called pretty. Her face was too thin.

He said, “What’s on your mind?”

“I had a look at the fuel gauge. It shows almost empty.” Her voice harmonized with the grey eyes and the lack of peroxide in her hair.