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

He didn’t realize that she was returning his stare. Whatever her
reaction was, she did a nice job of hiding it. It lasted that way for a few minutes or so, then she was looking at her brother and saying, “All right, Newton. Finish your drink and let’s go home.”

Channing smiled at the whisky glass. “I ought to pay you a salary. What are nursemaids getting these days?”

“It isn’t that kind of job.” Her tone was quiet and amiable. “It isn’t a job at all. I don’t mind it in the least.”

Channing shrugged. “You might as well sit down and have a drink. I’m not ready to go yet. I still have some drinking to do.”

“How much have you had?”

“Very little, really.”

“That means you’ve had almost a quart.”

“It hasn’t hit me yet,” Channing said. “I’ve got to stay here until it hits me.”

“One of these nights it’ll really hit you and you’ll be carried out on a stretcher.” She was looking down at her brother as though examining a curious exhibit. “I’m absolutely certain you’ll wind up in a hospital. Is that what you want?”

“I want you to leave me alone.” He looked up at her, smiling faintly. “I hope it’s not asking too much, but I’d really be grateful if you’d leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “I’m much too fond of you.”

“That’s awfully sweet,” Channing said. He looked at Kerrigan. “Don’t you think that’s sweet? Wouldn’t you say I’m fortunate to have such a nice sister?”

Kerrigan was silent.

He heard her saying, “You’re not polite, Newton. You ought to introduce your friend.”

“By all means,” Channing said. Then, to no one in particular, “Please forgive my bad manners.” He half stood, and waited for Kerrigan to stand. But Kerrigan sat there. Channing shrugged, lowered himself to the seat, and poured more whisky into the glass. Then he went to work on the whisky.

“I’m still waiting,” she said. “I’m waiting for the introduction.”

“Oh, the hell with it.” Channing took a big gulp of whisky. “As a matter of fact, the hell with everything.”

She looked at Kerrigan. She said, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t really mean that. It’s just that he’s drunk.”

“
It’s all right.”

She studied Kerrigan’s face. “Please don’t be offended.”

He spoke a trifle louder. “I said it’s all right.”

“Sure it’s all right,” Channing said. “Why shouldn’t it be all right?”

She looked at Channing. “You be quiet,” she said. “Just sit there and drink your whisky and don’t say anything. You’re in no condition to say anything.”

Channing sat up stiffly. He stared off to the side, his eyes focused on nothing. “What do you know about my condition?”

She didn’t bother to answer. She turned to Kerrigan. “May I introduce myself? I’m Loretta Channing.”

“That means a lot to him,” Channing said. “It’s very important that he should know your name. Why don’t you give him your address? Tell him he’s welcome any time. Invite him to dinner.”

She went on looking at Kerrigan.

And Channing said, “He doesn’t think you mean it. You’ve got to make it more sincere. Don’t stand there looking down at him. Sit beside him.”

“I told you to be quiet.”

“Go on, sit beside him. Take hold of his hand.”

“Will you shut your mouth?”

Channing was laughing. “Prove it to him, let him know you’re on the level. Maybe you’ll convince him if you drink from his glass.”

“Maybe I’ll slap your face,” she told Channing. “You’re not too drunk to get your face slapped.”

Channing went on laughing. It was almost soundless laughter and gradually it subsided and became a series of little gasps, more like sobs. He made a grab for the glass and tossed more whisky down his throat. Then he turned so that he faced the wall. He sat there drinking and staring at the wall as though he were in a room alone with himself.

She was looking at Kerrigan, waiting for him to tell her his name.

He swallowed hard. “My name is Kerrigan.” He said it through his teeth. “William Kerrigan. I live right here on Vernon Street. The address is Five-twenty-seven.”

Then he got up from the table, and he was facing her and standing
close to her. There was a heaviness on his chest and it caused him to breathe hard.

He said, “Got it straight? It’s five-twenty-seven Vernon.” He was trying to say it calmly and softly, with velvety sarcasm, but his voice trembled. “You’re welcome to visit there any time. Come over some night for dinner.”

She winced and took a backward step. He moved past her and headed for the door and walked out.

As he hit the street he felt better, remembering the way she’d winced. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It offered a little satisfaction. But all at once she faded from his mind and everything faded except the things in front of his eyes, the rutted street and the gutter and the sagging doorsteps of decaying houses.

It struck him full force, the unavoidable knowledge that he was riding through life on a fourth-class ticket.

He stared at the splintered front doors and unwashed windows and the endless obscene phrases inscribed with chalk on the tenement walls. For a moment he stopped and looked at the ageless two-word phrase, printed in yellow chalk by some nameless expert who’d put it there in precise Gothic lettering. It was Vernon Street’s favorite message to the world. And now, in Gothic print, its harsh and ugly meaning was tempered with a strange solemnity. He stood there and read it aloud.

The sound was somehow soothing. He managed to smile at himself. Then he shrugged, and turned away from the chalked wall, and went on walking down Vernon Street.

H
E WALKED
slowly, not with weariness, but only because he didn’t feel quite ready to go home and he wanted the walk to last as long as possible. From a small pocket in his work pants he took out a nickel-plated watch and the dial showed twenty past one. He wondered why he wasn’t sleepy. On the docks today he’d put in three hours’ overtime and he’d been up since five in the morning. He knew he should have been in bed long ago. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t tired.

He moved past the vacant lots on Fourth Street and walked parallel to a row of wooden shacks where the colored people lived. One of the shacks contained a still that manufactured corn whisky. The bootlegger’s neighbors were elderly churchgoing people who continually reported the bootlegger to the authorities, and were unable to understand why the bootlegger was never arrested. The bootlegger could have told them that he always handed his payoffs to the law when his neighbors were in church. It simplified matters all round.

Bordering the wooden shacks there was an alley, then another vacant lot, then a couple of two-storied brick tenements filled with Armenians,
Ukrainians, Norwegians, Portuguese, and various mixed breeds. They all got along fairly well except on week ends, when there was a lot of drinking, and then the only thing that could stop the commotion was the arrival of the Riot Squad.

Passing the tenements, he crossed another alley and arrived at the three-storied wooden house that was almost two hundred years old. It was owned by his father and it had been handed down through four generations of Kerrigans.

He stood there on the pavement and looked at the house and saw the loose slats and the broken shutters and the caved-in doorsteps. There was only a little paint clinging to the wooden walls and it was chipped and had long ago lost its color, so that the house was a drab, unadorned gray, a splintered and unsightly piece of run-down real estate, just like any other dump on Vernon Street.

The Kerrigans occupied only the first floor; the two upper floors were rented out to other families, who were always bringing in more relatives. There was really no way to determine how many tenants were upstairs. From the noise they usually made, it sometimes seemed to Kerrigan that he was living underneath a zoo crammed to the limit with wild animals. But he knew he had no right to complain. The first floor did all right for itself when it came to making noise.

He opened the front door and walked into a dimly lit parlor that featured a torn carpet, several sagging chairs, and an ancient sofa with most of the stuffing falling out of the upholstery. His father, Tom, was sound asleep on the sofa, but he awakened and sat up when Kerrigan was halfway across the room.

Tom Kerrigan was fifty-three, an extremely good-looking man with a carefully combed pure-white pompadour, a tall and heavy and muscular body, and absolutely no ambition. At various times in his life he had shown considerable promise as an Irish tenor, a heavyweight wrestler, a politician and a salesman and a real-estate agent. He might have attained the heights in any of these fields, but he was definitely a loafer, and the more he loafed, the happier he appeared to be. As he sometimes put it, “It’s a short life and there ain’t no sense in knocking yourself out.”

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Tom let out a tremendous yawn, and then he smiled amiably at his son. “Just coming in?”

Kerrigan nodded. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Tom shrugged. “I didn’t feel like sleeping anyway. This goddamn sofa was breaking my back.”

“What’s wrong with your bedroom?”

“Lola threw me out.”

“Again?”

Tom frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with that woman. She’s always been an evil-tempered hellcat, but lately she’s been carrying on something fierce. I swear, she tried to murder me tonight. Threw a table at me. If I hadn’t ducked, it would’ve knocked my brains out.”

Kerrigan sat down in a chair near the sofa. He sensed that his father was in a talkative mood, and he was perfectly willing to sit here and listen. Somehow he always felt relaxed and content when he was alone with Tom. He liked Tom.

“Let me tell you one thing,” Tom said. “It ain’t no cinch living with a woman like that. It’s like playing around with a stick of dynamite. The thing that beats the hell out of me is why I stay here and take it.” Tom shook his head slowly and sighed.

Kerrigan shifted his position in the chair. He settled back halfway against the wooden arm and flung both legs over the other arm.

Tom said, “It’s always something. Last week she claims I’m monkeying around with some woman lives upstairs. Now for God’s
sake, I ask you man to man, would I do a thing like that?”

“Of course not,” Kerrigan murmured, and checked it off as a lily-white lie. Tom had quite a reputation in the neighborhood.

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” Tom declared. “When I marry a woman, I stay faithful to her. If I say so myself, I think I’m one hell of a good husband. I was good to your mother and after she died I was loyal to her memory for three entire years. For three years, mind you, I wouldn’t let myself look at a skirt. Now that’s the truth.”

Kerrigan nodded solemnly.

“Come to think of it,” Tom said, “your mother wasn’t so easy to live with, either. But let her rest in peace. She was an awful nag, but she wasn’t so bad compared to these other wives I’ve had. Like that second one, that Hannah. I swear, that woman was completely out of her mind. And the next one I married, that Spanish woman. What was her name?”

“Conchita.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Conchita. She was one hot tomato, but I didn’t like that knife she carried. It bothers me when they carry a knife. That’s one thing I can say for Lola. She never reaches for a knife.”

“Why’d she heave the table at you?”

Tom sighed heavily. “We had a discussion about the rent. She claims the tenants upstairs are four months behind.”

“She’s right about that,” Kerrigan murmured. “It adds up to more than a hundred dollars.”

“I know,” Tom admitted. “And we sure can use the cash. But I just don’t have the heart to put the pressure on them. Can’t
squeeze money out of people when they don’t have it. Old Patrizzi ain’t worked for a year. And Cherenski’s wife is still in the hospital.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re all up the same creek. Last time I went upstairs to make collections, I heard so much grief it gave me the blues and I stayed drunk for three days.”

From one of the other rooms there was the sound of a door opening, then heavy footsteps approached through the hall. Kerrigan looked up to see Lola entering the parlor. She was a huge woman in her middle forties, with jet-black hair parted in the middle and pulled back tightly behind her ears. Weighing close to two hundred pounds, she had it distributed with emphasis high up front and in the rear, with an amazingly narrow waist and long legs that made her five feet nine seem much taller. She moved with a kind of challenge, as though flaunting her hips to the masculine gender and letting them know she was the kind of woman they had to fight for. The few who had dared had wound up with badly lacerated faces, for Lola was an accomplished mauler and she’d been employed as a bouncer in some of the roughest joints along the docks.

Her complexion was dark, and some Cherokee red showed distinctly when she was riled. Actually the Cherokee was mixed with French and Irish, with accent on the more explosive traits of each.

Lola moved toward the sofa, her hands on her hips, directing her full attention to Tom. Her booming lower-octave voice was like the thud of a heavy cudgel as she said, “You gonna go upstairs and collect that rent?”

“Now look, sweetheart. I told you—”

“I know what you told me. It’s for the birds, what you told me. You’re gonna get that money and you’re gonna get it tonight.”

“But they don’t have it. They swore to me—”

“They’re nothing but a bunch of goddamn liars,” Lola shouted. “I’d go up there myself and make them pay off or get the hell out, but that ain’t my department. You’re the owner of this house and it’s your job to deal with the tenants.”

“Well, after all, I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” Lola demanded. “Sitting on your rear all day and
drinking beer? That’s another thing I’m fed up with. Morning, noon, and night it’s beer, beer, beer. We got enough empty bottles in the back yard to start a glass factory.”

“The doctor says it’s good for my stomach.”

“What doctor? What are you giving me? When you been to see a doctor?”

“Well, I didn’t want to worry you.”

Lola moved closer to the sofa and pointed a thick finger in Tom’s face. “You’re so goddamn healthy it’s a downright disgrace. Why shouldn’t you be healthy? All you do is eat and sleep and drink beer. If it wasn’t for your son here bringing in the pay check, we’d all be living on relief.”

Tom assumed a hurt look. “Is it my fault if times are hard?”

“It ain’t the times, and you know it. If anyone came and offered you a job, you’d drop dead, you’d be so scared.” As though addressing a roomful of spectators, she indicated Tom with an extended palm and said, “I tell him to go upstairs and get the rent money and he claims it wouldn’t be charitable.” She whirled on Tom and yelled, “Where do you come off with that charity routine? You’re just too goddamn lazy to climb a couple flights of stairs.”

“Now look, sweetheart—”

Lola cut in with another burst of condemnation, spicing it with oaths and four-letter words. The walls of the parlor seemed to vibrate with the force of her loud harangue. Kerrigan knew from past experience that it would go on like this for the better part of the night. He walked out of the parlor and moved slowly down the narrow hallway leading to the small bedroom he shared with Frank. But all at once he stopped. He was looking at the door of another room. It was an empty room and no one lived in it now and he wondered what caused him to stare at the door.

He tried to drag his eyes away from the door, but even while making the effort he was putting his hand on the knob. He opened the door very slowly and went in and flicked the wall switch that lit the single bulb in the ceiling. He closed the door behind him and stood looking at the walls and the floor, the bed and the chair, the small dresser and tiny table. He was thinking of the girl who had lived here, the girl who’d been dead for seven months.

Without sound he spoke her name. Catherine, he said. And then he was frowning, annoyed with himself. It didn’t make sense to sustain the sorrow. All right, she’d been his sister, his own flesh and blood, she’d been a fine sweet tenderhearted creature, but now she was gone and there was no way to bring her back. He tried to shrug it off and walk out of the room. But something held him there. It was almost as though he were waiting to hear a voice.

Then suddenly he heard it, but it wasn’t a voice. It was the door. He turned slowly and saw Frank coming into the room.

They looked at each other. Frank’s mouth was twitching. The eyes were very shiny, the arms hanging stiffly and the hands slanted out at an odd angle with the fingers stretched rigid. Then Frank was staring at the wall behind Kerrigan’s head and saying quietly, “What goes on here?”

Kerrigan didn’t reply.

“I’m asking you something,” Frank said. “Whatcha doing in this room?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a liar,” Frank said.

“All right, I’m a liar.” He made a move toward the door. Frank wouldn’t get out of the way.

“I want to know what you’re up to,” Frank said. He blinked a few times. “We might as well get it straight here and now.”

“Get what straight?” Kerrigan’s eyes were drilling the face in front of him and trying to see what was going on in Frank’s mind.

Frank began to breathe very fast. Again he was staring at the wall. He said, “You’re not fooling me. You got a long way to go before you can fool me.”

Kerrigan made a weary gesture. “For God’s sake,” he said. “Why don’t you knock it off ? Quit looking for trouble.”

Frank blinked again, and then for a moment his eyes were tightly shut as though he were trying to erase something from his mind. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t go away, and the weight of it seemed to push down on him, causing his skinny shoulders to sag. His head was bent low, and light from the ceiling bulb put a soft glow on his white hair. There was something gloomy in the way the light fell on him. It was like an eye looking down at him, feeling sorry for him.

It occurred to Kerrigan that he ought to show kindness toward Frank. He sensed that Frank was headed toward a breakdown, the total result of too many bad habits, especially alcohol. He thought,
Poor devil looks all washed out, just about ready to drop.

He smiled softly and reached out and put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank hopped backward as though he’d been jabbed with a hot needle. And then he went on moving backward, crouching and breathing fast with his mouth opened so that his teeth showed. His trembling lips released the choked whisper, “Keep your hands off me.”

“I’m only trying—”

“You’re trying to ruin me,” Frank gasped. “You won’t be satisfied until I’m all smashed up, done for, finished. But I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you.” His voice went up to a thin wail that twisted and snapped and then he was staring at floor and walls and ceiling, like a trapped creature frantically seeking escape.

“Want a cigarette?” Kerrigan said.

Frank didn’t seem to hear. His lips were moving without sound and it appeared he was talking to himself.

Kerrigan lit a cigarette for himself and stood there watching as Frank sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered his head into his arms. Kerrigan thought, It ain’t that he’s afraid of me, it’s got nothing to do with me, he’s afraid of the world, he’s finally got to the point where he can’t face the world.

He heard Frank saying dully, “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’m not bothering you, Frank. Seems to me it’s the other way around.”

“Just lay off. That’s all I ask.”

“Sure, Frank.” His voice was as soft and gentle as he could make it. “That’s what I’ve been doing all along. I’ve never stood in your way. Whatever you do is your own affair.”