David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (4 page)

P
ARRY GOT
his head past the edge of the blanket. He said, “What’s the matter?”

“We’re at my place. It’s an apartment house. We’re on Geary, not far from the center of town. Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“You’re going to get out of the car. You’re going to stay at my place.”

“That’s no good.”

“Can you think of anything better?”

Parry tried to think of something better. He thought of the railroad station and he threw it away. He thought of hopping a freight and he knew they’d be watching the freight yards. They’d be watching every channel of possible getaway.

He said, “No.”

“Then get ready, Vincent. Count up to fifteen. By that time I’ll be in the apartment house and the elevator will be set to go up. When you reach fifteen get out of the car and walk fast but don’t run. And don’t be scared.”

“What’s there to be scared about?”

“Come on, Vincent. Don’t be scared. It’s all right now. We’ve reached home.”

“There’s no place like home,” Parry said.

“Start counting, Vincent,” she said and then she was out of the car and the door closed again and Parry was counting. When he reached fifteen he told himself that he couldn’t do it. He was shaking again. This wasn’t her apartment house. This was her way of getting rid of him. What did she need him for? What good could he do her? She had the keys to the car and now she was taking a stroll. When he got out of the car he would see there was no apartment house and no open door and nothing. He told himself that he couldn’t get out of the car and he couldn’t remain in the car.

He got out of the car and faced a six-story yellow brick apartment house. The front door was halfway open. He closed the
door of the Pontiac. Then he walked quickly across the pavement, up the steps of the apartment house.

Then they were in the elevator and it was going up. It stopped at the third floor. The corridor was done in dark yellow. The door of her apartment was green. The number on the door was 307. She opened the door and went in and he followed.

It was a small apartment. It was expensive. The general idea was grey-violet, with yellow here and there. Parry reached for a ball of yellow glass that had a lighter attachment on top. He lighted a cigarette and tossed the empty pack into a grey-violet wastebasket. He looked at a yellow-stained radio with a phonograph annex. Then he found himself glancing at the record albums grouped in a yellow case beside the yellow-stained cabinet.

“I see you go in for swing,” he said.

From another room she said, “Legitimate swing.”

He heard a door closing and knew she was in the bathroom. All he had to do now was open the door that faced the corridor. Then down the corridor and out by way of the fire escape. And then where?

Dragging at the cigarette he stooped over and began going through the record albums. When he came to Basie he frowned. There was a lot of Basie. The best Basie. The same Basie he liked. There was
Every Tub
and
Swinging the Blues
and
Texas Shuffle
. There was
John’s Idea
and
Lester Leaps In
and
Out the Window
. He took a glance at the window. He came back to the records and decided to play
Texas Shuffle
. He remembered that every time he played
Texas Shuffle
he got a picture of countless steers parading fast across an endless plain in Texas. He switched on the current and got the record under the needle.
Texas Shuffle
began to roll softly and it was very lovely. It clicked with the fact that he had a cigarette in his mouth, watching the smoke go up, and the police didn’t know he was here.

Texas Shuffle
was hitting its climax when she came out of the bathroom. Parry turned and looked at her. She smiled at him.

She said, “You like Basie?”

“I collect him. That is, I did.”

“
What else do you like?”

“Gin.”

“Straight?”

“Yes. With a drink of water after every three or four.”

She stopped smiling. She said, “There’s something odd about that.”

“Odd about what?”

“I also go for gin. The same way. The same chaser schedule.”

He said nothing. She went into another room. The record ended and Parry got Basie started with
John’s Idea
. The idea was well under way and Basie’s right hand was doing wonderful things on the keys and then she was coming in with a tray that had two glasses and two jiggers, a bottle of gin and a pitcher of water.

She poured the gin. Parry
watched her while he listened to the jumping music. She gave him some gin and he threw it down his throat while she was filling her jigger. He helped himself to a second jigger. He lit another cigarette. She put on another record, and sat down in a violet chair, leaning back and gazing at the ceiling.

“Light me a cigarette,” she said.

He usually smoked a bit wet but he lighted her cigarette dry. As she took it from him she leaned over to lift the needle from the finished record.

“More?” she said.

“No. Let’s talk instead. Let’s talk about what’s going to be.”

“Do you have plans already?”

“No.”

“I do, Vincent. I think you should live here for a while. Live here until the excitement dies down and an opening presents itself.”

Parry picked himself up from the floor. He walked to the window and looked out. The street was almost empty. He saw smoke coming from a row of stacks beyond rooftops. He took himself away from the window and looked at a grey-violet wall.

He said, “If I had a lot of money I could understand it. The way it is now I don’t get it at all. There’s nothing in this for you. Nothing but aggravation and hardship.”

He heard her getting up from the chair, walking out of the room. From another room he heard a sound of a bureau drawer getting opened. Then she was coming back and saying, “I want to show you something.”

He turned and she handed him a clipping. He recognized the print. It was from the
Chronicle
. It was a letter to the editor.

There’s a great deal to be said in behalf of Vincent Parry, the man now on trial for the murder of his wife. I don’t expect you to print this letter, because the issue will be ultimately settled in court and from the looks of things it is a fair trial and Parry has his own lawyer. And yet the prosecution has steadily aimed at getting away from the technical aspects of the case and attempted to picture Parry as a combination of unfaithful husband, killer and draft dodger. I am not acquainted with Parry’s marital difficulties. As for the killer angle, the case is not yet completed and further testimony will no doubt bring up new facts that will decide the matter one way or another. However, I am certain that Vincent Parry is not a draft dodger. I happen to know that Parry made several attempts to enter the armed forces even though he had been rejected previously because of physical disability.

The letter was signed—Irene Janney.

Parry said, “Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not much of a letter. It hardly says anything.”

“It’s not the entire letter. The
Chronicle
couldn’t print all of it. They’d have to use a couple of columns. But they tried to be fair. They included that contradiction of the draft-dodging angle.”

“How did you know I tried to get in?”

She pressed her cigarette in a yellow glass ash tray. “I have a friend who works at your draft board. He told me. He said you were called up twice and rejected. He said you kept pestering the draft board for another chance to get in.”

“Is that what got you interested in the case?”

“No,” Irene said. “This friend knew I was interested. He called me up and told me what had happened at the draft board. He told me you really wanted to get in. It checked with the way I felt about the entire affair. Sometimes I get that way.
I get excited about something and I give it everything I have.”

“I think I’ll clear out,” Parry said.

“Sit down. Let’s keep talking. Let’s tell each other about ourselves. How’s the kidney trouble?”

“I’ve been feeling better,” Parry said. He lit another cigarette.

“It’s odd about the kidney trouble.”

“Why?”

“I have it also. Not serious, but it bothers me now and then.”

“Look, I think I’ll clear out. How’s the fire escape?”

“Stay here, Vincent.”

“What for?”

“Stay until it’s dark at least.”

He looked at the stained-yellow cabinet, the unmoving shining black record on the phonograph disc. He said, “It’s this way. I’ve got to keep moving. And moving fast. Like this it’s no good. The police will be working while I’m doing nothing. They’re running after me and if I don’t run I’ll be caught.”

“There’s a time to run.”

He was about to say something but just then the phone rang. It was a French phone, yellow. It was on a yellow table beside the grey-violet davenport. Irene picked up the phone.

“Hello—oh, hello Bob. How are you—yes, I’m fine—tonight? Oh, I’m sorry, Bob, but I won’t be able to make it tonight—no, no other commitments, but I just don’t feel like going out. —Oh yes, I’m quite all right, but I’m in the mood for a quiet evening and reading and the radio and so forth all by myself—no, I just feel that way—don’t be silly—oh, don’t be silly Bob—well, maybe tomorrow—oh, Bob don’t be silly—stop it, Bob, I don’t like to hear you talk that way. Call me tomorrow—yes, tomorrow about seven. —Of course not. How’s your work coming along—that’s fine—all right, Bob—yes, tomorrow at seven I’ll expect to hear from you. Good-by——”

Parry walked toward the door.

She stood up and stepped between Parry and the door. She said, “Please, Vincent——”

“I’m going,” he said. “That phone call did it.”

“But I didn’t want to see him anyway.”

“
All right, but there will be times when you’ll want to see him. And times when you want to be at certain places. Doing certain things. And you won’t be able to, because you’ll be stuck with me.”

“But I said only for tonight.”

“Tonight will be a beginning. And if we let it begin it will keep on going. You’re trying to help me but you won’t be helping me. And I certainly won’t be helping you any. We’ll only get in each other’s way. I’m going.”

“Just until tonight, Vincent. Until it gets dark.”

“Dark. They won’t see me when it’s dark.” He stood there staring at the door as she stepped away from him and went into another room. He didn’t know what she was doing in the other room. When she came back she had a tape measure in her hand. He looked at the tape measure and then he looked at her face.

She said, “I’m going to buy you some clothes.”

“When?”

“Right now. I want the exact measurements. I want the fit to be perfect. And it’s got to be expensive clothes. I know a place near here——”

She took his measurements. He didn’t say anything. She took the measurements and then she made notes in a small memo book. He watched her going into another room. Again he heard the sound of a bureau drawer getting opened. As she came out again she was counting a roll of bills. A thick roll.

“No,” Parry said. “Let’s forget about it. I’m going now——”

“You’re staying,” she said. “I’m going. And I’ll be back soon. While you wait here you can be doing things. Like getting rid of those rags you’re wearing. All of them, even the shoes. Take them into the kitchen. You’ll find wrapping paper there. Make a bundle and throw it into the incinerator. Then go into the bathroom and treat yourself to a hot shower. Nice and hot and plenty of soap. And you need a shave.” A little laugh got out before she could stop it.

“What’s the laugh for?”

“I was thinking you could use his razor. It’s a Swedish hollow-ground safety razor. I used to be married and I gave it to
my husband for a Christmas present. He didn’t like it. I used it every now and then when I went to the beach. I stopped using it when someone told me depilatory cream was better.”

“What happened to your husband?”

“He took a walk.”

“When was this?”

“Long, long ago. I was twenty-three when we married and it lasted sixteen months and two weeks and three days. He told me I was too easy to get along with and it was getting dull. I just remembered there’s no shaving soap. But I’ve got some skin cream. You can rub that in and then use the ordinary soap and you won’t cut yourself. The incinerator is next to the sink. Don’t forget to get every stitch of those clothes into the bundle. Maybe you better make two bundles so you’ll be sure they get down.”

“All right, I’ll make two bundles.”

She was at the door now. She said, “I’ll be back soon. Is there anything special you want?”

“No.”

“Will you do me a favor, Vincent?”

“What?”

“Will you be here when I come back?”

“Maybe.”

“I want to know, Vincent.”

“All right, I’ll be here.”

“What colors do you like?”

“Grey,” he said. “Grey and violet.” He wanted to laugh. He didn’t laugh. “Sometimes a bit of yellow here and there.”

She opened the door and left the apartment. Parry stood a few feet away from the door and looked at the door for several minutes. Then he walked back to the tray where the gin was and he poured himself two shots and got them down fast. He took a drink of water, went into the kitchen and found the wrapping paper. He undressed, slowly at first, then gradually faster as he realized he was getting rid of Studebaker’s clothes and they were dirty clothes. For the first time he was aware that they had a smell and they were itchy. It was a pleasure to take them off and throw them away. Now he was naked and he was making two bundles. He got a ball of string from the kitchen cabinet, tied the bundles securely, then let them go down
the incinerator. He heard the swishing noise as the bundles dropped, the vague thud that told him they had reached bottom. Knowing that Studebaker’s clothes and the prison shoes were going to burn and become ashes he felt slightly happy.

He walked into the bathroom. It was yellow tile, all of it. There was a glassed-in shower and he got it started and used a rectangle of lavender soap. He made the shower very hot, then soaped himself well, got the hot water on again, switched to full cold, let it hit him for the better part of a minute. Then he was out of the shower, using a thick yellow towel that he could have used as a cape.