David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (58 page)

The sounds went on as he sat there on the floor and groaned and sighed and pressed his hands to his head. He heard the noise of the closet door, the rustling of fabrics as clothes were pulled from hangers. He was half sobered now, and he began to consider the feasibility of a fast exit from the room.

But before he could arrive at a decision, there was the click of a wall switch and the room was brightly lit. He blinked several times and then he looked up and saw the big woman who stood there wearing a nightgown. She had her hands on her hips, her eyes a pair of seething caldrons.

“What is this?” she demanded. “What the hell goes on here?”

He choked, gulped hard, choked again, then blurted, “It’s nothing, I just made a mistake.”

As he said it, he realized how stupid and crazy it sounded. He blinked again, gazing blankly at the face of his stepmother. But she was looking at the empty bed, focusing on the pillow that should have shown her husband’s face but showed only a question mark.

“Where is he?” she asked loudly. “Where’s your father?”

Kerrigan lifted himself from the floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He made a vague guess as to where his father was. Chances were that Tom was in the house of Rita Montanez.

Lola said, “He claimed he hadda go to the bathroom.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m gonna have a look,” she muttered grimly, “and he’d better be in there.”

She went out of the room. Kerrigan groped through the haze of his drunkenness and told himself to make a rapid trip to Rita’s house and drag Tom out of there. But as he lifted himself from the bed, the floor seemed to slant and he had trouble staying on his feet.

And as he moved toward the door, the whisky in his veins made it several doors instead of one. He was still trying to find the right door when Lola re-entered the room.

“He ain’t in the bathroom,” she announced through tightened lips. She glared at Kerrigan. She said accusingly, “What are you and him up to?”

He sat down very slowly and carefully on a chair that wasn’t there. Again he was on the floor, wondering what had happened to the chair.

Lola studied him for a long moment. “How many quarts did you drink?”

He shrugged kind of sadly. “I didn’t have much. Guess I can’t hold it.”

“The hell you can’t. From the looks of you, you’re holding a gallon.”

She took hold of his wrists, pulled him up from the floor, and put him in the chair that he hadn’t been able to find. “Now then,” she said, “I want some information. Where is he?”

Kerrigan stared dumbly at Tom’s wife and said, “Maybe he went for a walk.”

“At this time of night? Where would he walk?”

The whisky fog came drifting in. Kerrigan blinked several times and said, “Maybe he got lost.” He gazed longingly at the bed and thought how pleasant it would be to go back to sleep.

Lola studied him once more and saw he was in no condition to give sensible answers. She gestured disgustedly and turned her back to him.

Suddenly she snapped her fingers. Then her head turned from side to side as she made a hasty examination of the room.

“Sure enough,” she said. “His clothes ain’t here.”

She started to take deep breaths. Lola was about to lose her temper on a grand scale.

Despite his drunkenness, he managed to say, “No use getting sore about it. After all, it’s a helluva hot night. Maybe he went out for a bottle of beer. To cool himself off.”

“I’ll cool him off,” Lola said. “I’ll break his goddamn neck, that’s what I’ll do.”

She started to move around the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Kerrigan winced as he saw her lifting a thick glass ash tray, hefting it in her hand to test the weight of it. Apparently it wasn’t heavy enough. She slammed it to the floor, then darted to the open closet and reached in and pulled out a long-handled scrubbing brush. The business end of the brush was an inch of bristles and a two-inch thickness of wood.

Lola had a firm grip on the handle of the brush. She held it with both hands, aiming it at empty air and taking a few practice swipes. Then, wanting a better target, she looked around for
something solid. Kerrigan heard footsteps in the hall and he thought, It’s gonna be crowded in here.

The door opened and Tom walked in. An instant later there was a loud whacking noise and Tom yelled, “Ouch!” Then there was more whacking, more yelling, and considerable activity. Tom was trying to run in several directions at once. He collided with Kerrigan, bounced away, staggered sideways, and received a wallop from Lola that spun him around like a punching bag. He tried to crawl under the bed, but there wasn’t enough space between the springs and the floor. He was much too bulky to squeeze through. The flat side of the brush landed on him and in a frenzied effort to get away from the blows he gave a mighty heave with his shoulders, so that the bed was raised on two legs. He heaved again and the bed fell over on its side. Lola kept swinging the brush and Tom was asking her to wait just a minute so they could talk it over. Lola’s reply was another whack. The sound resembled a pistol shot. Tom looked at Kerrigan and shouted, “For God’s sake, make her stop.”

Kerrigan shrugged, as though to say there was no way to stop Lola once she got started. He grinned stupidly, drunkenly, and then he started toward the door. But again it was several doors, and it seemed as if the ceiling were coming down. He couldn’t stay on his legs. The floor came up and he was flat on his face. The dazed grin remained on his lips as he heard the continued uproar. Somehow the noise of the violence was softened in his whisky-drenched brain. It was strangely soothing, almost like a lullaby. For a hazy instant he tried to understand it. But the feeling was so pleasant, so comforting, it told him to fall asleep, just fall asleep. And as the blackness enveloped him, he sensed there was nothing strange about it, after all. It was merely the sound of the house where he lived. It was as though he’d been away and he’d come back, and it was nice to be home again.

I
N THE
darkness of the alcoholic sleep, he drifted through a glass-lined canal that had the labels of whisky bottles on its walls. The labels were varicolored and there were too many colors floating past his eyes. He told himself to stop looking at the labels, he’d soon be getting a headache. But then the glass became wood and there was no canal at all, just a dark alley and some moonlight showing the sides of the wooden shacks. He followed the path of the moonlight as it flowed onto the rutted paving and he saw the dried bloodstains.

“Goddamn it,” he said, waking up.

He could feel a pillow under his head, and he heard someone breathing beside him. Before he looked to see who it was, he sat up, groaning and holding his head and wishing he had an ice bag. He blinked hard several times, and suddenly his eyes were wide as he realized this was Bella’s room.

His head turned slowly. He looked at Bella. She was sound asleep, resting on her side. It was very hot and sticky in the room and she wasn’t wearing anything.

The window showed the dark gray-pink of early morning. On the dresser the hands of the alarm clock pointed to four-forty-five. He told himself to get out of bed and go into his own room. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was wearing only a pair of shorts. He glanced across the floor, searching for his clothes, and saw shirt and jacket and trousers draped carelessly over a chair, Bella’s dress on top of the heap.

Moving carefully, trying not to make any noise, he climbed out of bed and headed toward the chair. It seemed as if a ton of rocks was pressing down on him and crushing his skull. As he reached for his clothes, he stumbled forward, hit the chair, knocked it over, and went down with it.

He cursed without sound, getting up very slowly. Then he had his shoes in one hand, his shirt in the other, the jacket and trousers dangling from his arm as he walked unsteadily toward the door.

He was only a step away from the door when he heard Bella’s voice. “Just where d’ya think you’re going?”

“I got my own bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. He groped for the door handle. His hand closed on it.

“Listen, louse,” Bella said. She was off the bed and coming toward him. She gave him a shove that sent him away from the door. She pointed to the bed and said, “Get back in there.”

“You talkin’ to me?”

She put her weight on one leg and clapped a hand to her hip. Then, shifting slightly, so that she blocked his path to the door, she said, “You might as well make yourself comfortable. We’re gonna have a discussion.”

“Not now,” he said.

“Right now.” Her eyes dared him to make a move toward the door. “We’re gonna have it out here and now.”

“For God’s sake.” He pointed to the alarm clock. “Look what time it is. I gotta get some sleep. Gotta get rid of this hangover.”

“That’s what I want to talk about,” she said. “How come you got drunk last night?”

He didn’t reply. He dropped the shoes to the floor, flipped the clothes aside, and walked slowly to the bed. As he sat down on the edge of the mattress, his hands were pressed tightly to his temples, as though trying to squeeze the whisky fog from his brain.

Bella came around the side of the bed and stood facing him. “I know you’re not a drinker,” she said. “You musta had a reason for getting drunk. Come on, let’s have it. What happened last night?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll bet.” She snorted. And then, her eyes narrowed, “I found you stretched out in the hall outside Lola’s room. You were stiff as a board.”

“So what?”

“So it made me curious. You wouldn’t get loaded like that unless you had something on your mind. Something you couldn’t handle.”

He looked at her. “What gives you that idea?”

“
I just know, that’s all. I know you.”

His eyes were dull, gazing past her. “You think you know me.”

She stood there studying his face. She said, “I took the trouble to drag you in here and take your clothes off and put you in bed.”

“Thanks,” he said sourly. “Thanks a lot.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks. I did it so I’d be around when you come out of it. We got some things to talk about. I wanna know the score on this. I got a right to know.”

He frowned at her. “You got one hell of a crust, that’s what you got. I didn’t ask you to put me in this room.”

“It ain’t the first time you been here. You been in this room a lotta times. More times than I can count. And I never dragged you in, either. You always come in on your own two feet.”

He took a deep breath. He started to get up from the bed and she pushed him back. She did it roughly and he bounced on the mattress. He made another attempt to get up and she pushed him again, harder this time. His head went back against the pillow. It felt like iron banging his skull. He told himself to close his eyes and go to sleep. His benumbed brain said, Forget about her, forget about everything, just go to sleep.

But then she was leaning over him, shaking him. She said, “Come on, come out of it.”

“Goddamnit, leave me alone.”

He shut his eyes tightly and tried to roll over on his side but she pulled at his shoulder and wouldn’t let him do it. He mumbled an oath and reached out blindly to shove her away, and as his hand made contact with Bella, a current passed through him from her to him, from him to her, and he was aching to hold on, hold her tighter, pull her to him and find her lips and taste her mouth. But just then he heard the soundless voice that said, No.

It was a blast of icy realization that sliced through the heat of his senses and the thick mist of the hangover. He moved spasmodically to the other side of the bed, then sat up stiffly, staring at her. Ice was in his eyes as he said, “Keep away from me.”

She sat there on the other side of the bed. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him.

He said, “And put something on.”

She smiled thinly. “Does it bother you?”

He clamped his lips tightly. He turned his head so he wouldn’t see her.

Her voice was a light jab, flicking at him. “It excites you, don’t it? You don’t want it to excite you.”

“Listen, Bella—”

“Yes?”

But he couldn’t take it from there. He swallowed hard.

She said, “Well, go on. I’m listening.”

He told himself he’d have to say it sooner or later. He might as well say it now and get it over with. For a moment his eyes were closed and he was trying to find the words. And then, gazing straight ahead and seeing the wall on the other side of the room, he said, “It’s all finished. We gotta call it quits.”

He waited for her to say something.

Long moments passed. There was no sound in the room.

He went on gazing at the opposite wall. Finally he said, “Last night I got married.”

“You what?”

“Got married.”

“You joking?”

“No.”

There was another long pause. When she spoke again, her voice sounded queer, sort of strangled. “Where’d you pull this caper?”

“At the Greek’s place,” he said. He spoke tonelessly. “Bought a license. She signed her name to it. I signed my name. I put a ring on her finger.”

“The girl I seen you with? That floozie from uptown?”

“Yeah.” He sighed heavily. He wondered if there was anything else to say.

He heard Bella saying, “Tell me how it happened.”

“It happened, that’s all. It just happened.”

“You know what you’re saying?”

He nodded again.

Bella said, “Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m hearing things.” She stood up. She sat down. She stood up again. She began to walk back and forth along the length of the bed. Finally she stopped, and with both hands she gripped the bedpost, as though to steady herself. Then, biting her lip, her eyes shut tightly,
she made a sound as though she were feeling intense physical pain.

He rubbed his knuckles across his brow. He wondered what caused him to stay in this room when there was every reason to walk out.

“Can’t believe
it,” Bella said aloud to herself. “It just ain’t possible.” And then her tone changed, there was pleading in her voice. “Didja know what you were doing? You couldn’t have known. After all, you were drunk.”

“No,” he said gruffly. “I got drunk later.”

“With her?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We were celebrating.”

“Where?” Her hands tightened on the bedpost.

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m askin’ you something. Where’d you do the celebrating? Was it in a hotel room?”

He shook his head. Again he gave a heavy sigh. He said, “We went to Dugan’s Den.”

“Then where’d you go?”

His jaw hardened. “All right,” he muttered, “let’s drop the questions.”

“You’ll sit there and answer them. You’ll tell me where you went after you left Dugan’s Den.”

He turned and frowned at her. “What’re you getting at?”

She wasn’t looking at him. Her voice was a grinding whisper. “You know what I’m getting at. You’ve told me about the license and the ring. And the celebration. Now I want to hear the rest of it. I want to know all about the wedding night.”

He aimed the frown at the floor. “We didn’t do anything, if that’s what you mean.”

She let go of the bedpost. She breathed in and out and it was almost like a sigh of relief. The corners of her mouth moved up just a trifle, starting to build a smile.

Kerrigan went on frowning. He heard himself saying, “The way it happened, we walked out of Dugan’s and she had her car parked outside and we climbed in. She drove me back here and she helped me into the house. Then she was sitting on the sofa and I was moving around, I didn’t know where the hell I was going. Went down the hall and got the rooms mixed up and landed in the wrong bed.”

“
You weren’t as mixed up as you thought you were,” Bella said. She had the smile fully glowing in her eyes. “You were on your way to the right bed. You’re in it now.”

He stared at her. She was moving toward him, coming slowly across the room. He told himself to get up but somehow he couldn’t lift his limbs. As he watched Bella approaching, it was like a wall closing in on him.

She was saying, “Don’t you see the way it is? Last night was just a joke, it wasn’t for real, and you know it. Whatever it was that made you do it, we’ll check that off, it ain’t important. Only one thing matters. You’re here with me.”

“No,” he said. “No.”

Her smile widened and brightened and she said, “You don’t mean that. You mean yes.”

“Now wait.” And his hand was lifted, telling her to stay away.

She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He fell back with her weight pressing against him. Her eyes were wild and her lips found his mouth and he could feel the flame rising in his body, the red-black flame that curled and swept in wide arcs, and he held her tightly, his heart pounding. But just then he heard the soundless voice of his brain saying, You damn fool, you’re falling into a trap, get out, get out.

He tried to push her away. She wouldn’t let go of him. He seized her wrists and twisted hard, then gave her a violent shove that sent her to the floor. He stood up quickly, lunged across the room, and picked up his shoes and the shirt and the jacket and trousers. He started toward the door. Then abruptly he came to a stop. He glared at her. He said, “I oughta push your face in for trying a trick like that.”

It seemed she was speaking to the bed. “Well, I tried.”

“Damn right you did. And you saw what it got you. You’re lucky it didn’t get you a broken jaw.”

She looked at him. “I’m still here, if you feel like slugging me.”

“It ain’t worth the effort,” he said. Then he braced himself, expecting that she’d leap at him with clawing fingernails.

For some moments she didn’t move. Then very slowly she got up from the floor. She walked across the room, picked up a robe, and put it on. He watched her as she reached into a pocket,
took out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Her voice was oddly
matter-of-fact as she said, “Want one?”

He shook his head. Her eyes were blank, puzzled.

She was lighting a cigarette. “You sure you don’t want one?”

He breathed hard. “Only thing I want from you is a definite understanding. From here on in you’re gonna leave me alone. You’ll hafta get it through your head I’m a married man.”

“By the way,” she murmured casually, “where is she?”

He blinked a few times.

She took a slow easy drag at the cigarette. “Well?” She watched the smoke drifting away from her lips. “Come on, tell me. Where’s the bride?”

His mouth was opened loosely. He went on blinking.

“I’ll tell you where she is,” Bella said. “She’s sound asleep in a nice clean bed. In a nice clean house. In a nice respectable neighborhood.”

He swallowed hard. He couldn’t say anything.

Bella said, “It stands to reason she wouldn’t stay here. She’d be a damn fool to spend the night in this dump.”

“All right,” he muttered. “That’s enough.”

Bella looked at the cigarette held loosely in her fingers. She spoke to the cigarette. “Sure, the bride took a run-out. And who can blame her? The groom brings her to a house with the plaster chipping off the walls and the furniture coming apart and empty beer bottles all over the floor. It’s a wonder she let herself sit on the sofa. This afternoon she’ll be taking her dress to the cleaners, you can bet on that and your money’s safe. Another thing she’ll do, she’ll go to the beauty parlor and have her hair washed, an extra soaping just to make sure. After all, in these Vernon rat traps you never know, you can pick up anything. What she really oughta do is spray herself with DDT.”

“Shut up,” he said. “You better shut up.”

Bella shrugged. “Well, anyway, she’s breathing easier now. That cleaner, fresher air uptown.”

He stood motionless. The quiet in the room was unbearable, and he knew he had to say something. His mouth was tight as he said, “You don’t get the point. All she did was walk out of the house. She didn’t walk out on me.”

“That ain’t what I’m saying.” Bella spoke very quietly. But now the cigarette trembled in her fingers. “Cantcha see what I’m
trying to tell ya? No matter how much she wants you, she can’t get away from uptown. And sure as hell you can’t get away from here.”