David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (13 page)

“What?”

“What. What. What. Listen to her.”

Irene’s voice came into it, part confusion, yet somewhat firm. “Bob, please—don’t be a cad.”

“I want her to know, Irene. I want her to know I’m not the fool she thinks I am. She thinks I was in the dark all the time she was hiring someone to watch me.”

“I never did that,” Madge said.

“All right, you never did that. Except if I wanted to go to the trouble I could prove that you did. Because I got hold of the little rat you hired. And I asked him what you were paying. And I offered him double the amount to keep an eye on you. The very next day he made good. He came back and told me there was a man in your apartment the night before. He told me the man stayed about four hours.”

“He’s a liar, you’re a liar——”

“Everybody’s a liar,” Bob said. “But it’s amazing the way all these lies fit together and click, like a key opening a lock. Because he told me he followed the man from your apartment. He followed the man home. And home was the apartment house where the Parrys lived. If you want me to go further I’ll go further. He gave me a description of the man. I had never seen Parry but Gert told me what Parry looked like. And you know what I did? I put it down in black and white, with the date and the time and everything. And I had this little rat sign a statement, and if I wanted to I could have used that statement. But I didn’t and I’ll tell you why. I felt sorry for Parry. I even felt sorry for Gert.”

“You
kept that signed statement?” Irene asked.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you bring it up at the trial?” Irene asked. “Why didn’t you give it to Parry’s lawyer?”

“I don’t see what good it would have done,” Bob said. “It would have only made things worse for him. And it would have implicated me. I didn’t want any part of it. I knew Parry was guilty anyway and I knew he didn’t have a chance to prove otherwise.”

“It’s all a lie,” Madge said. “The whole thing is one big lie. Don’t fall for it, honey. He’s only trying to paint me bad.”

“Madge, you’re not bad,” Bob said. “You’re just a pest.”

Madge began to sob.

Irene said, “Bob, you shouldn’t say things like that.”

Madge said, “What he says doesn’t bother me. It’s just that I’m so scared.”

Irene said, “I think you ought to go now, Madge.”

“I won’t go home alone.”

“Take her home, Bob.”

“Not me. I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”

Madge was sobbing loudly.

Irene said, “Madge, I’m going to call a taxi.”

“All right,” Madge said, and she stopped sobbing. “Call a taxi. And after I’m gone you can turn on the phonograph.” Her voice was stiff now, with all the sobbing out of it, with something else in it that had the shape in sound of a blade. “Turn it on loud so you can hear it in the bedroom.”

Then everything was quiet. And everything was waiting.

It lasted for the better part of a minute.

Then Bob said, “Would you mind explaining that last remark?”

“Does it need explaining?” Madge said. She put something of a laugh into it.

“I think so,” Bob said. “Because I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Your memory can’t be that bad,” Madge said. “Don’t tell me you can’t remember back to yesterday afternoon.”

“What about yesterday afternoon?” Bob said.

“I came here to see Irene. I might as well get this out here and now. I came here to see her. She wouldn’t answer the buzzer. I knew
she was home. I was curious. So I used the fire-escape exit and came up here and knocked on the door. There wasn’t any answer and I was ready to think I had made a mistake and she wasn’t home after all. But I could hear the phonograph going. That meant she was in and she didn’t want to answer the door. She was in here with you. Yesterday afternoon.”

Everything was quiet again.

It lasted for a good ten seconds.

Then Bob said, “It wasn’t me, Madge.”

“Then it was someone else,” Madge said.

Bob laughed. It was a mild laugh yet it was sort of twisted. He said, “Of course it was someone else. You know that. You made sure of it yesterday afternoon when you called up the place where I work, when you asked to speak to me. You must have called from the drugstore on the corner, right after you left here. And as soon as I got on the phone and you heard my voice you hung up. I was wondering about that call. I’ve been wondering about it until now.”

“But someone was up here,” Madge said. “I heard the phonograph going.”

“That’s very true,” Irene said. “The phonograph was going and someone was in here with me.”

“A man?” Bob said.

“Yes, Bob. It was a man.”

“Who was it?” Bob said. His voice was all twisted.

Seconds dragged through quiet. Then Irene said, “Vincent Parry.”

P
ARRY WAS
standing near the door. His eyes were taking his body through the door but his feet were staying where they were and pulling his body back. The itching under the bandage was a moist itching that made little pools of itching all over his face. And the little pools became jagged here and there and they had facets that contained more itching. He couldn’t feel air going through the hole in the bandage in front of his mouth and he couldn’t feel himself breathing. The quiet from the other room got through the door and shaped itself around him and began to crush him. He thought it was because he wasn’t breathing. He knew he could breathe if he wanted to but he didn’t want to because he knew, if any air came into his mouth and down into his lungs he was going to let it out in a shout. This thing happening now was what he had expected, what he had expected would happen sooner or later, when she finally realized she couldn’t keep it up, so sooner or later she must come out with it. So now she was out with it, taking herself away from it as it came out. And now he was alone again, and he couldn’t take himself away from it as she could. He was alone with it, and she was going away from it, and it was part of the quiet that crushed him now. And he was alone, crushed by it. And he knew as long as he was alone he mustn’t be alone here. Turning and staring at the window he could see the roof tops of San Francisco forming a high, jagged wall that stared back at him and solemnly dared him to get past, and telling him what a difficult time it would be, what a complex time, what a lonely time he would have of it. Sliding back at him now, coming back like a wheeled thing on greased rails, bouncing away from a cushioned barrier, was the memory of a night when Madge had almost captured him, when her arms were tight around his middle and he was standing there looking past her shoulder at the window and a San Francisco night beyond. And wanting to twist away from her but not being able to twist away, and he had to stand there and listen as she told him that he was not happy with Gert, he would
never be happy with Gert. With Gert his life amounted to one agony after another, with Gert he was only a tool that Gert picked up at widely spaced intervals, but with Madge he would be a permanent necessity and why couldn’t he understand that he was fortunate to be wanted so badly. While she talked he talked silently back to her, admitted to her that she was gradually selling him a carload of merchandise, talked to himself and asked himself what he was going to do with that merchandise once he had it. She talked on, throwing arguments at him, and they were sound arguments, anyway they sounded sound, and he was telling himself that he might as well go ahead and try it out, he didn’t have anything to lose. His life with Gert was one big headache, and if Madge lived up to a fraction of the things she was promising now, it might be a good idea to take the gamble and let her complete the sale. And then he wanted to get his hands free so he could light a cigarette, and as he pulled his arms away from Madge he heard a grinding gasp and it was Madge, gasping again, backing away from him, asking him why he had pulled away like that. He said he only wanted to light a cigarette. She hurled herself at a sofa, sobbing loudly, saying that a cigarette was more important to him than a woman who wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. She wriggled convulsively on the sofa and all at once she sat up and showed him a wet face and she wanted him to tell her why so many other things were more important to him than herself. He found himself trying to explain that these so many other things weren’t really more important, they were merely little conveniences that a man had to have every now and then. Every now and then a man had to take time out to light a cigarette or grab a drink of water or walk around the block or stand alone in a dark room.

Madge refused to accept that. Madge said it wasn’t fair for him to go for that cigarette just when they were about to put their two lives together and make one out of it. And just then he realized what a great mistake it would be to go along with Madge. They would never get in step because she would never allow him to follow his own plans. She had to be in on everything. She had to be the captain, and even if he went ahead and handed her the captaincy she would find something wrong with that. She would turn the captaincy over to him and when he
took it she would find something wrong with that and she would take a jump at the sofa and start that wriggling and sobbing. He told himself she really wasn’t such a bad person, she was just a pest, she was sticky, there was something misplaced in her make-up, something that kept her from fading clear of people when they wanted to be in the clear. He felt uncomfortable just looking at her there on the sofa. That was it precisely. In the same room with her he would never be comfortable.

He told her that. He put the blame on his own shoulders, saying he was one of these selfish specimens and he could never give her the attention she was looking for. She came leaping from the sofa, crying loudly he was all wrong, they would really click, they really would, and let them have the courage to take a shot at it, and please, Vincent, please, and she had her arms around him again, and his resistance was flowing away. If she wanted him that badly maybe he ought to give it a try despite all the reasons against it. He wanted to smoke a cigarette and think it over and again he tried to get free of her arms and the feel of her arms was like a chain and frantically he wanted to get away.

His head turned and again he was looking at the window. He knew he had to take a chance with that window. He moved toward it.

He heard Bob Rapf saying, “You’re very funny, Irene.”

Irene said, “What’s funny about it?”

Madge said, “What was Vincent Parry doing here?”

“He came here to kill me,” Irene said.

“Hilarious,” Bob said.

“Well,” Madge said, “what happened?”

“I talked him out of it,” Irene said.

“Aw,” Bob said, “for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m afraid to be alone,” Madge said.

“Keep quiet, Madge.” Again Bob’s voice was twisted. “Listen, Irene, I think before I go you should tell me who was really here yesterday.”

“I told you.”

“All right,” Bob said. “I think I understand. This is the final stop, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Irene said. “I should have told you before. But
I didn’t think it was serious with him. Yesterday he said it was serious. I don’t know yet how it is with me. But I keep thinking about it and at least that’s something. I think I ought to give it a chance.”

“Who is he?” Bob said.

“Just another man. Nothing extraordinary.”

“What does he do?” Bob said.

“He’s a clerk in an investment security house.”

“That’s what Parry was,” Madge said.

“Madge, why don’t you keep quiet?” Bob said. “Irene, I want you to know I valued our friendship. I valued it highly. I hope things work out nicely for you.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

“Good-by, Irene.”

“Are you going to call a taxi?” Madge said.

“No,” Bob said. “We’ll get a taxi outside. Where’s your car?”

“It’s getting fixed,” Madge said. “Maybe we won’t see a taxi.”

“Keep quiet,” Bob said. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Good night, honey.” Madge was starting to sob again. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“I’m going to be rather busy,” Irene said.

“When should I call you?” Madge said.

“Well,” Irene said, “I’m going to be rather busy from now on.”

“Oh,” Madge said. “Well, I’ll get in touch with you in a couple of days. Or maybe I’ll call you up tomorrow night.”

Bob said, “I’ll tell you what to do, Irene. You pick up the sofa and throw it at her. Maybe that would make her understand. Come on, Madge.”

The door opened and closed. The place was quiet. Parry leaned against a wall and looked at the floor. Minutes were sliding past and he was waiting for the bedroom door to open. He heard the sound of his breathing and it was a heavy sound. He was trying to get it lighter and he couldn’t bring it down from the heaviness.

The bedroom door opened. Irene came in and walked to the window. She said, “They’re going down the street. They’ll probably go to the traffic light intersection and get a taxi there.” She turned and looked at Parry. She said, “Well?”

He shook his head slowly.

“
If you were in there,” Irene said, “if you had seen their faces, you’d know I handled it right. I had to be funny. I couldn’t work on Madge alone. And I had to be delicate with Bob. Now he won’t bother me and he won’t let her bother me.”

He kept on shaking his head. And he was waiting for the buzzer to sound again. He was waiting to hear the voice of Bob Rapf, demanding to see the bedroom, to search the place. He was waiting for Studebaker and the police. He was waiting to hear the voice of Madge Rapf, asking if it was really Parry who had been here yesterday afternoon.

Then yesterday was yesterday no longer. Yesterday was two days ago.

And yesterday was three days ago. He went through four magazines and dreadful itching under the bandage and waiting for her to come in, and taking the food through the glass straws. And smoking up pack after pack of cigarettes.

And yesterday was four days ago and the itching was unbearable and the waiting was without time, without measurement. There were no calls. There were no visitors, no buzzing, nothing, only the food through the glass straws and the itching, the endless itching, and his wrists tied to the bedposts at night, and orange juice through the glass straws in the morning, and the waiting, and alone in the afternoon waiting for her to arrive with the food and the magazines and the cigarettes and the papers. In the papers, it was no longer on the front page. The column was shrinking. The headline was in smaller face type now, and they were saying they were still looking for him but that was all. And she had a new dress. And he wondered why there was no buzzing, why there were no visitors. He wondered what happened to Studebaker. He couldn’t see any car out there now. He wondered why he was still afraid of Studebaker when there was no Studebaker out there now.

Then yesterday was five days ago.

It was raining again.

It was raining very hard, and he heard the rain before he opened his eyes. As he knocked his fist against the side of the bed to bring her in so she could untie his wrists, he was turning his head and looking at the rain coming down. The door opened and she was in the doorway, saying good morning and asking
him if he had slept well, then putting a cigarette in the holder, lighting a match for him.

The itching under the bandage was a soggy itching, and it remained that way all through the day, and in the early evening it was a flat itching, without the burning, as if it was going away, as if it was smoothing out and going away from itself. The bandage felt very loose, getting looser every hour, and it was as if the bandage was telling him now it was ready to come off, now he didn’t need it any more.

He was glad the time had come to take the bandage off, he was afraid to take the bandage off, he was anxious to take the bandage off, he sensed the itching going away finally and completely, actually felt it walking away as he sat there on the sofa a few hours after dinner, as he sat there with a cigarette in the holder and the holder in his mouth, as he looked at Irene sitting across the room. She was reading a magazine, and she looked up and looked at him. He looked at his wrist watch. It said ten twenty. Coley had said five days. And at four thirty it would be exactly five days. He had six hours to go until it would be five days. He was sitting there wearing the grey worsted suit with the suggestion of violet in it and he was waiting for another hour to go by. Then the hour was behind him and it was five hours to go until it was five days. Under the bandage his face felt dry and flat and smooth. He picked up a magazine. It was a picture magazine and it showed him a girl in a bathing suit, on tiptoe with her arms flung out toward the sea, with the waves rolling in toward the smooth beach where she stood, and his face felt smooth like the beach looked, and the girl wore a flower in her hair which was blond, very blond though not as blond as the hair Irene wore sort of long so that it sprayed her shoulders, where it was very yellow against the yellow upholstery of the chair on the other side of the room. The girl in the bathing suit was slim but not as thin as Irene, who was very thin there on the other side of the room where she sat wearing a yellow dress, light and loose, and yet not as light and loose as the bandages on his face.

He closed his eyes. He let his head sag, let the magazine slide from his fingers, and he knew he was going to stride halfway toward sleep and stay there, dangling at the halfway point,
and she couldn’t wake him up. She would let him stay there, half asleep until it was four thirty, until it was time to get the bandage off. Now he could feel his face separated from the bandage, knowing it was new and ready under the bandage, all ready with the bandage so loose and air in there and everything dry and fresh and ready. And clean, like the clean shirt he wore, and new, like the new tie, and ready as his body was ready, ready to get moving and go away. And he thought of Patavilca, and he thought of George Fellsinger and he thought of the money remaining in the pocket of the grey worsted suit. Almost eight hundred dollars, and it was enough, very much enough. It was enough for food and lodging and railroad tickets. Down through Mexico, down through Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica. Down through Panama. Or perhaps he could fly. It would be better to fly. It would be swift and luxurious. Down through Mexico. Past them all and down through Colombia and Ecuador. Down to Peru, landing in Lima, then going up to Patavilca, staying in Patavilca, staying there for always. And the things he had seen in the travel folder were spreading out, going out very wide, and now immense, and moving in all the dimensions, the water purplish out there away from the bright white beach, the water moving, the waves coming in, smooth under the sun, smooth as his face was smooth, smooth under the bandage.

He wondered who had killed George Fellsinger.