David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (54 page)

Someone yelled, “Come on, Ruttman! Don’t take it. Go after him.”

“Get him, Ruttman!”

“Knock his brains out!”

As the stevedores shouted encouragement to Ruttman, it was
like a heavy weight falling on Kerrigan’s chest. Suddenly he realized he was fighting a man he had no right to fight. He was defeating the man and he hated the idea.

Because the adversary was not Ruttman. The true enemy was sitting there at the wheel of the parked car, her golden hair glimmering, her eyes taunting him.

It was as though she were saying, You’re afraid of me.

He could hear the grinding of his teeth as he realized it was true. He had the feeling of facing a high fence, much too high for him to climb. The fists of Ruttman were coming toward him but it wasn’t important, he didn’t care. He scarcely felt the knuckles that bashed his face. It wasn’t a fight any longer, it was just a mess, a loused-up comedy without any laughs.

Something crashed against his mouth. He tasted blood, but he wasn’t conscious of the taste, or the grinding pain.

He was thinking, You can’t handle her, you know you can’t.

A big fist hit him on the side of the head, sent him falling back. He saw Ruttman moving in for the follow-up, saw Ruttman’s arms coming in like pistons. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even bother to lift his hands.

His head jerked to the side as Ruttman’s right hand caught him on the jaw. Ruttman hit him in the midsection with a short ripping left that caused him to double up, then straightened him with a long left, then another right to the jaw, setting him up now, gauging him, sort of propping him there, and then winding it up and sending it in, a package of thunder that became a flashing, blinding streak of light going up from his chin to his brain. He sailed back and went down like a falling plank and rolled over on his face.

The onlookers stood motionless for several moments. Then a few stevedores moved forward to join Ruttman, who was bending over Kerrigan and muttering, “He’s out. He’s out cold.”

“Is he breathing?”

“He’s all right,” Ruttman said.

They turned Kerrigan over so that he rested on his back. For a few seconds they were silent, just staring at his face.

His eyes were closed, but the men weren’t looking at his eyes. They were watching his mouth.

“
He’s smiling,” one of them said. “Look at this crazy bastard. What’s he got to smile about?”

Kerrigan was deep in the soothing darkness and far away from everything, yet his blacked-out brain was speaking to him, smiling and saying derisively, You damn fool.

T
HEY LIFTED
Kerrigan and carried him into the pier office and put him on a battered leather sofa in the dusty back room that was used for infirmary purposes. They splashed water in his face and worked some whisky down his throat, and within a few minutes he was sitting up and accepting a cigarette from Ruttman. He took a long drag and smiled amiably at the dock foreman.

Ruttman smiled back. “Hurt much?” Kerrigan shrugged.

The other stevedores were slowly leaving the office. Ruttman waited until all of them were gone and then he said, “You gave me a damn nice tussle. For a while there you had me going. But all of a sudden you quit cold. Why?”

Kerrigan shrugged again. “Ran out of gas.”

“No, you didn’t. You were doing fine.” Ruttman’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, tell me why you quit.”

“I just lost interest. I got bored.”

Ruttman sighed. “Guess I’ll have to let it ride.” And then, deciding on a final try, “If you’ll open up, maybe I can help you.”

“Who needs help?”

“You do,” Ruttman said. “For one thing, you’re out of a job.”

Kerrigan tried to take it casually, but he felt the bite of genuine panic as he thought of the family’s financial condition. His weekly pay check was the only money coming into the house these days. Of course, there were Bella’s three nights a week as a hat-check girl, but she had the gambling habit, mostly horses, and she was always in the red. So here he was with five mouths to feed and no job and the picture was definitely unfunny.

He made an effort to cheer himself up. “This ain’t the only pier on the river. I’ll go see Ferraco on Nineteen. He’s always got a shortage.”

“No,” Ruttman said. “He won’t hire you. None of them’ll hire you.”

“Why not?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

“You’re blackballed,” Ruttman said. “It’s going down the line already.”

Kerrigan stared down at the uncarpeted floor. He took another drag at the cigarette and it tasted sour.

He heard Ruttman saying, “I’d like to go to bat, but you won’t give me anything to work on.”

He went on staring at the floor. “The hell with it.”

Ruttman let out a huge sigh. “I guess it ain’t no use,” he said aloud to himself. Then, looking at Kerrigan, “Better stay here and rest a while. When you come out, I’ll have your pay check ready.”

The dock foreman walked out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, feeling the dizziness coming again, starting to feel the full hurt of the big fists that had rammed his ribs and his belly and his face. Very slowly he pulled his legs onto the sofa and lay back. He closed his eyes and told himself to fade away for an hour or so.

Just then he heard a footstep, the rustle of a dress. He opened his eyes and saw Loretta Channing looking down at him.

She stood there at the side of the sofa, her hands holding the camera. She wasn’t aiming it, and he saw that her fingers were manipulating a lever and getting the camera open and taking out a small roll of film.

Her face was expressionless as she extended her hand to offer him the film.

He grinned wryly and shook his head.

“Take it,” she said.

“What’ll I do with it?”

“Whatever you wish. You said you’d like to shove it down my throat.”

He went on grinning. “Did I really say that?”

She nodded. Then she stepped back a little, studying him. Her eyebrows were lifted slightly, as though she was seeing something she hadn’t expected to see. He knew she’d anticipated another bitter outburst from him, another display of uncontrollable rage.

He lowered his legs over the side of the sofa, then leaned back, comfortably relaxed. He watched her as she walked across the room and dropped the roll of film into a waste basket. Then she turned and looked at him and she was waiting for him to say something.

He saw the bruise on her lip, and he winced.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said. Then, with the feeling that he had to say more, he added, “I didn’t mean to do it. Just lost my head for a second.” He stood up and moved toward the window that looked out upon the sun-drenched river. His voice was very low, not much more than a husky whisper. “I’m really very sorry.”

It was quiet for a few moments. Then he heard her say, “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you did it.”

He turned and looked at her.

“Yes,” she
said. “I know I deserved it. I shouldn’t have come out there on the pier, and I certainly had no right to snap your picture.”

“Why did you do it?”

She opened her mouth to answer. Then she changed her mind and her lips shut tightly. He saw her face go red. She blinked a few times, then looked past him and said, “Whatever my reasons were, it was inexcusable, and I’m very much ashamed of myself.” With an effort she gazed directly at his face. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

For some strange reason he wasn’t able to meet her eyes. He looked at the floor and swallowed hard. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s forget it.”

“I can’t. I want you to know how badly I feel about this. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble. You took a bad beating out there on the dock. And now they tell me you’ve been fired.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that’s the way it goes. I was looking for grief, so they gave it to me.”

“But it’s all my fault,” she said. And then, in a lower tone, “Won’t you let me make it up to you?”

He looked at her. “How?”

“I know one of the pier owners. I’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll let you keep your job.”

His eyes hardened, and he could feel the cold anger coming. But as he stood there and looked at her, his gaze gradually narrowed and his thoughts became more reasonable. He was thinking, For God’s sake, take it easy. Don’t blow your top again.

She was saying, “All you need to do is say the word. I’ll arrange for an appointment right away.”

He was able to say easily, “You really think it’ll work?”

“
I’m sure it will.”

“Well,” he said, “whichever way it goes, it’s damn nice of you to try.”

“Not at all.” Her tone was level. “I’m only doing what I think is fair. All this was my fault and there’s no reason why you should suffer for it.”

He didn’t say anything. He had a relaxed feeling, an awareness that it was happening the way it should happen. Somehow it was as though they were meeting for the first time.

His smile was pleasant. “If I get my job back, it’ll take a load of worry off my chest. You’ll be doing me a big favor.”

She had moved toward a table near the window. She put the camera on the table, then turned slightly and gazed out the window and for a few moments she didn’t reply. Then, very quietly, “Maybe you’ll get a chance to repay it.”

He caught no special meaning from her statement, and he said lightly, “I hope so. It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Well,” she said, moving toward the door, “we probably won’t be seeing each other again.”

“I guess not.”

For a long moment she stood in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were intense, and it seemed she was trying to tell him something that she couldn’t put into words.

Then very slowly she turned and walked out of the room.

Kerrigan moved toward the leather sofa. He felt the weight of heavy fatigue and it had no connection with the battering he’d taken from Ruttman. Nor was it due to the fact that he’d had less than three hours’ sleep the night before. As he lowered himself to the sofa, he realized what an effort it had taken to control his anger and discuss matters calmly. It seemed to him that he’d never worked so hard in all his life. . . .

For hour after hour he slept heavily, oblivious of the loud voices of the stevedores on the pier, the clanging of chains, the thudding of crates against the planks. At a few minutes past five he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder, and he looked up and saw the grinning face of Ruttman.

“The front office just called,” Ruttman said. “They’re putting you back on the job.”

Kerrigan sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and dragging himself away from sleep.

Through a veil he heard Ruttman saying, “I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. That call came from the big boss himself.”

Kerrigan didn’t say anything.

Ruttman was looking at him and waiting for an explanation and not getting any. The dock foreman turned away, started toward the door, then pivoted and stared at the table near the window.

Kerrigan stiffened as he saw what Ruttman was looking at. It was the camera.

“Well, whaddya know?” Ruttman breathed. “She give it to you for a gift?”

Kerrigan shook his head slowly, dazedly. “I didn’t know she left it here.”

Then it was quiet in the room while Ruttman walked slowly to the table and picked up the camera. He looked at it and murmured, “This ain’t no ordinary gadget. If it’s worth a dime, it’s worth fifty bucks. Not the kind of a thing you leave around on tables.”

Kerrigan’s lips tightened. “What are you getting at?”

Ruttman hefted the camera in his hand. He brought it to the sofa and let it drop into Kerrigan’s lap. “It’s like a game of checkers,” he said. “Now it’s your move. You find out where she lives and you take it back to her. That’s why she left it here.”

The anger was coming again and he tried to hold it back but it flamed in his eyes. “The hell with her,” he muttered. “I ain’t running no lost-and-found department.”

“You gotta take it back to her. Think it over and you’ll see what I mean. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be out of a job. Now you’re obligated.”

Ruttman turned and crossed the floor and went out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, his hands gripping the camera. It felt like a chunk of white-hot metal, scorching the skin of his palms.

H
E WALKED
slowly along Wharf, came onto Vernon Street, then walked west on Vernon toward home. The slimy water in the gutter was lit with pink fire from the evening sun, and he looked up and saw it big and very red up there, the flares shooting out from the blazing sphere, merging with the orange clouds, so that the sky was like a huge opal, the glowing colors floating and blending, and it was really something to look at. He thought, It’s tremendous. And he wondered if anyone else was looking up at it right now and thinking the same thing.

But as his gaze returned to the street he saw the dirty-faced kids playing in the gutter, he saw a drunk sprawled on a doorstep, and three middle-aged colored men sitting on the curb and drinking wine from a bottle wrapped in an old
newspaper.

Under the vermilion glory of the evening sun, the vast magnificence of an opal sky, the Vernon Street citizens had no idea of what was up there, they scarcely bothered to glance up and see. All they knew was that the sun was still high, and it would be one hell of a hot night. Already the older folks were coming out of shacks and tenements to sit on doorsteps with paper fans and pitchers of water. The families who were lucky enough to have ice in the house were holding chunks of it in their mouths and trying to beat the heat that way. And a few of them, just a very few, were giving nickels to their children, to purchase flavored ice on sticks. The kids shrieked with glee, but their happy sound was drowned in the greater noise, the humming noise that was one big groan and sigh, the noise that came from Vernon throats, yet seemed to
come from the street itself. It was as though the street had lungs and the only sounds it could make were the groan and the sigh, the weary acceptance of its fourth-class place in the world. High above it there was a wondrous sky, the fabulous colors in the orbit of the sun, but it just didn’t make sense to look up there and develop pretty thoughts and hopes and dreams.

The realization came to Kerrigan like the sudden blow of a hammer,
putting him down on solid ground where a spade was never anything but a spade. He looked at the torn leather of his workshoes, the calloused flesh of his hands. He thought, You better wise up to yourself and stay out of the clouds.

His mouth hardened. His hand moved toward the pants pocket where he had the camera. He asked himself what he was going to do with it.

All right, he thought, it ain’t no problem. All you gotta do is find out where she lives and mail it to her.

But he could visualize her face as she opened the package and saw the camera. He could see her lips curved in contempt, and almost hear her saying to herself, He’s afraid to come here and ring the doorbell.

He wondered what would happen if he went up there to the uptown street where she lived, and actually rang the doorbell. Hell, he thought, what’s there to be scared about? Nobody’s gonna bite you. But damn it, you’d be out of place up there.

Maybe it would be all right if he looked decent, if he was bathed and shaved and properly dressed. He needed a bath anyway, and it wasn’t as though he’d be using soap just to pass some sort of test. It wouldn’t hurt him to put on his Sunday clothes. There wasn’t any law that said he had to wear them only on Sunday.

Maybe it would really be all right, and these uptown characters wouldn’t give him any trouble. Maybe they wouldn’t notice that he was different, that he didn’t belong.

But no. In no time at all they’d have him sized up, they’d see him for what he was. Perhaps they’d try to be polite and not say anything, but he’d know what they were thinking. It would show in their eyes, no matter how they tried to hide it.

The thing to do, he told himself, was take this goddamn camera and throw it down a sewer or someplace. Just get rid of it.

And there it was again, the stabbing thought that he didn’t have the guts to face the situation squarely. He was frightened, that was all.

He walked on down Vernon Street, wondering what to do with the camera.

Arriving at the Kerrigan house, he opened the front door and walked into the parlor. He glanced at the sofa, where Tom was
snoring loudly, holding a half-empty beer bottle, the picture of utter contentment.

The only sound in the parlor was the noise coming from the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the loud voices of Lola and Bella. At first he paid no attention to what they were saying, and his thoughts played idly with the idea that he ought to go in there and get some supper. He wondered if there was anything warm on the stove.

He started across the parlor, headed toward the kitchen, and then he heard Bella yelling, “Just wait till I see that two-timing sneak. Wait till I get my hands on him.”

“You’ll leave him alone,” Lola shouted at her daughter. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t start anything.”

“It’s already started,” Bella raged. “What do I look like, an idiot or something? You think I’ll let him push me around and make a fool of me? I warned him what would happen if he messed around. I’m gonna show that louse I mean what I say.”

“Not in this house you won’t,” Lola shouted.

“The hell I won’t,” Bella blazed. “And you won’t stop me, neither.”

There was the smacking sound of a hand against a face. He heard Bella screaming. Then another smack. And Bella screamed again.

He heard Lola say, “Talk back again and I’ll slap you so hard you’ll go through the wall.”

Then it was quiet in the kitchen. Kerrigan decided to wait just a little while longer before having supper, and perhaps Bella would be cooled off entirely by the time he was ready to eat.

He walked down the hall and into his room and took off his clothes. Then he went into the bathroom, filled the tub, and climbed in and soaped his body. In his room again, he put on a clean shirt and shorts and socks, opened the closet door and took a gray worsted suit off the hanger. It was his Sunday suit, the only suit he owned, and it needed pressing, some sewing here and there, and one of the buttons was missing. As he stood before the mirror, pulling at the lapels and trying to stretch the fabric to get rid of the wrinkles, he wished he had a better suit to wear. And while the thought ran through his mind, he was slowly lowering the camera into the jacket pocket.

He slipped a tie under his collar, knotted it three times before he was satisfied, then leaned close to the mirror and gave his wet combed hair a few final pats with his palms. Stepping back from the mirror, he studied himself from various angles, frowned appraisingly, then shrugged and decided that it would have to do.

Coming into the kitchen, he saw Lola arranging the dishes on a shelf. Bella was at the sink with a towel in her hands. The moment she saw him, her face darkened and reddened and fire came into her eyes. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to say something. But from the other side of the room she saw her mother watching her. She took another deep breath and shut her mouth tightly and closed her eyes, grimly trying to control her temper.

Lola was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “Want something to eat?”

He nodded and sat down at the splintered table, which had several match books under one leg to keep it balanced. Bella had turned back to the sink as if she had no idea he was in the room. But he could hear her breathing heavily and he knew she was having a hard time holding back the rage that strained to break loose.

Lola picked up a large spoon and moved majestically toward the stove. She was an excellent cook, extremely proud of it, and always anxious to prove it. She bent over the stove, studied the contents of a huge pot and a couple of smaller ones, and murmured, “It’ll take just a minute to warm up.”

“No hurry,” Kerrigan said. He lit a cigarette and leaned back.

Lola was stirring the spoon in the pots, lifting the spoon to her mouth, testing the flavor of the beef stew and the rice and the summer squash.

“Needs pepper,” Lola murmured. She looked at Bella and said, “Get me the pepper.”

“Let him get it.” Bella spaced the words distinctly.

“I told you to get it,” Lola said.

Bella sucked air in between her teeth. She moved away from the sink, opened the kitchen cabinet, and grabbed at the pepper shaker. She brought it to the table and slammed it down in front of Kerrigan.

“
Not there,” Lola said. “I told you to bring it here. To me. And bring your face here so I can smack it again.”

Bella swallowed hard. She was afraid to move. Kerrigan reached for the pepper shaker and handed it to Lola, who took it without looking at it. Lola aimed a dim but dangerous smile at her daughter.

“You’re gonna get it,” Lola said. “I can see you’re itching for it, and before the night’s over you’re gonna get it like you never got it before. I’m telling you, girl, you got a rotten evil temper and I’m gonna knock it out of you if I have to break every bone in your body.”

Bella’s lips were trembling. She started toward the doorway leading out of the kitchen. Lola caught her arm, pulled her away from the doorway, then shoved her back to the sink.

“You ain’t finished here yet,” Lola said. “You gotta do them knives and forks. And when he’s through eating, you’ll have his plates to do.”

Bella seemed to be choking. “Me do his plates? I gotta clean up after him?”

“You heard me,” Lola said.

Kerrigan squirmed in his chair. “I can wash my own dishes.”

“I said she’s gonna wash them,” Lola said loudly and firmly.

Kerrigan shrugged. He knew there was no use arguing with Lola.

She heaped his plate with the beef stew and the rice and the squash. She put six slices of bread on the plate, poured coffee into a thick cup, then backed away from the table and watched him tackle the meal.

Kerrigan ate slowly, chewing thoroughy, savoring each mouthful. As he sat there enjoying the meal, the kitchen was quiet except for the busy noise of his knife and fork on the plate. He completely forgot the presence of Bella, whose eyes alternated between raging glares at him and wary glances at her mother.

His plate was empty now, and Lola said, “Ready for more?”

He nodded, pushing bread into his mouth.

Lola looked at Bella and said, “Don’t stand there. Pick up his plate.”

Bella swallowed hard. Her voice cracked slightly as she stared pleadingly at her mother
and said, “It ain’t bad enough I gotta wash his dishes. Now you want me to bring him his meal. Like a servant.”

Lola’s eyes softened just a little. She shook her head slowly. “No,” she murmured. “Not like a servant. After all, you’re his woman, ain’t you?”

Kerrigan winced. He looked up and studied Lola’s face and all at once he knew what was in her mind. In her own blunt way she was saying to her daughter, If you want him for a husband, I’ll show you how to get him.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He had a strange feeling that the walls were closing in on him and he itched to get out of the house. Until now it hadn’t occurred to him that Lola wanted him for a son-in-law. But as he noticed how Lola was nodding approvingly, he realized there was a plan in action, and for a fearful moment he could see himself married to Bella.

But then, as the steaming food was placed before him and he saw the smooth richness of Bella’s skin, he said to himself, Why not?

He watched her as she turned away from the table, and saw how her hips moved. The construction was there, the face was there, and all he had to do was buy her a ring and he’d have all that for keeps.

Another thing. He’d soon be thirty-five and it was high time he got married. What the hell was he waiting for?

He pictured himself putting the ring on Bella’s finger. He had the feeling it would settle a lot of questions that clouded his brain and circled around in there, a vague merry-go-round of issues that he just couldn’t figure out. Since last night he’d been walking back and forth in a fog, doing things he didn’t want to do, operating way off the beam and wondering what in God’s name it was all about. Things had happened much too fast, making him dizzy, taking his feet off the ground. But there was a fast way to fix all that.

There’d be no problem in finding the right person to perform a quick ceremony. On Third Street, off Vernon, a little old Greek was capable of legally tying the knot in a matter of seconds. The Greek’s son worked in City Hall, in the Marriage Bureau, and was faced with no trouble at all when it came to stealing
licenses. The father and son were extremely popular in the neighborhood, for when Vernon men decided to make it legal, they didn’t like to wait.

A blunt voice cut in on his thoughts. He heard Bella saying, “More coffee?”

He looked up. She was standing at the stove. He glanced around the kitchen, but Lola wasn’t there and he wondered when she’d walked out of the room. Then he gazed down at his plate and saw that it was empty and he couldn’t remember having finished the second helping.

“Come out of it,” Bella said, and he knew she’d been watching him for some time. “I asked you if you want more coffee.”

He nodded. But it wasn’t for the coffee. It was just to make a reply.

Bella brought the percolator to the table and poured coffee into his cup. She poured a cup for herself and sat down across from him. Then she put cigarettes on the table and asked him if he wanted one. He nodded again, looking at her intently and trying to establish contact with her. As he leaned forward to get the light from the match she offered, he wondered what the hell was wrong here. He had the downright uncanny feeling that he wasn’t here in the kitchen with Bella, he was someplace else.

“What is it?” Bella said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I had a rough day.”

“You look it,” she murmured. “Who slugged you?”

“It happened on the pier. It didn’t last long.”

“They carry him away?”

“No,” he said. “They carried me.”

She gave him a side glance. “How come? Lose your punch?”

He didn’t say anything. He sipped at the coffee and took long drags at the cigarette and tried not to look at her. But he was focusing on her face, and seeing a parade of questions coming out of her eyes. He compared her present mood with the explosive anger of minutes ago, and realized that she’d calmed down considerably, almost to the point of passivity. He’d never seen her like this, and it made him uneasy. His throat felt tight and he worked his head from side to side, trying to loosen his collar.