David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (52 page)

I
T WAS
several minutes later and he was on Vernon Street, headed toward home. But as he came closer to the Kerrigan house, he thought of Bella and the battle that would undoubtedly flare up when he got there. She was probably sitting in the parlor waiting for him, and chances were she had some heavy object in her hand, all set to heave it at him the instant he opened the door. Momentarily there was something downright appetizing in the prospect of a clash with Bella. He wanted to hear some noise, and make some himself, and maybe hand her a clout or two. He sure was in the mood for hitting something.

He came to an abrupt stop under a street lamp. No, he told himself, he didn’t feel like fighting with Bella. The only thing he felt like hitting right now was his own face. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his work pants and jabbed one between his tightened lips and struck a match. He leaned against the post of the street lamp, gazing out at the street and taking deep drags of smoke.

A voice called, “Hey, man.”

He turned and looked at the window of the wooden shack and saw the long, glimmering earrings, the lacquered black hair, the coffee-and-cream face of Rita Montanez. In the Vernon Street market, which rarely ran as high as three dollars, she alone had the nerve to charge five. She got away with it because she was constructed along the lines that caused men to swallow hard when she passed them on the street. Rita was a mixture of African and Portuguese and she featured the finer physical characteristics of her
internationally-minded ancestors. Her onyx eyes were long-lashed and she had a finely shaped nose and medium-thick lips. She was in her early thirties and didn’t look a day over twenty.

Kerrigan smiled at Rita and walked toward the window. Although he was not a customer, he had a definite affection for her, going back to the days when they were kids playing in the streets.

“
Got another smoke?” Rita
asked.

He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

She winked at him, beckoned with her head, and said, “Wanna come inside?”

He laughed lightly. She laughed with him. They were always going through this routine and taking it just this far and no farther.

“What’s new?” she asked. “How’s my friend Thomas?”

Kerrigan shrugged. He wasn’t affected one way or another by the fact
that his father was one of Rita’s steady customers. Long ago he’d become accustomed to Tom’s dealings with the Vernon professionals.

Rita took an open-mouthed drag at the cigarette. She let the smoke come out slowly, and watched it climbing past her eyes. She said, “I like Thomas. He is much man.”

Kerrigan’s thoughts were only half focused on what she was saying. He said absently, “You better watch out for Lola.”

Rita narrowed her eyes. It was purely technical, an expression of business strategy. “You think Lola knows something?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what she knows. But sooner or later she’s gonna pay you a visit. You better be ready to run.”

“From her? She’s nothing but a lot of fat and a lot of noise.” Rita blew smoke away from her face. “Lola don’t worry me. No woman worries me.” She made a motion toward the back of her head, and her fingers came away holding the tiny black-beetle knob of a five-inch hatpin. “This here’s the equalizer,” she said. “One jab with this and they know who’s boss.”

He grinned. “You’re a hellcat, Rita.”

“Gotta be. This street is no place for softies.”

The grin faded. He stared at the splintered wall of the shack. He said, “You got something there.”

She studied his eyes. Suddenly she knew what he was thinking. She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t let it get you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Rita kept her hand on his arm. “I was good friends with your sister.”

He blinked. He looked at the painted face of the five-dollar woman.

Rita nodded. “Real good friends,” she said. “And I don’t make
friends easy. Especially women. But it was different with Catherine. She was strictly Grade A.”

He stared at Rita. He said, “I didn’t know she was friends with you.”

“She was friends with everybody.” Rita gazed past Kerrigan’s head. “I used to see her giving candy to the kids in the street. Giving pennies to the bums and the cripples. Always giving.”

His voice was thick. “She sure got paid back nice.”

“Don’t think about that.”

For some moments he didn’t speak. And then, very low in his throat, “It was my fault.”

She looked at him. She frowned.

He said, “I knew she didn’t belong here. I should have taken her away.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” he said. “Just to get her away from this mess. This goddamn street.”

“You don’t like the street?”

“Look at it.” He pointed to the rutted paving, the choked gutter, the littered doorsteps. “What’s there to like?”

“She liked it,” Rita said.

“She had no choice. She lived here all her life and she never knew anything better.”

“But she liked it. She was happy here. That’s what you gotta remember.”

“I can only remember one thing: I could have taken her out of this fouled-up rut and I didn’t do it.”

“Quit blaming yourself,” Rita said.

“There’s no one else to blame.”

“Yes, there is. But there’s no way to point at him, you don’t know his name. Maybe you’ll never know. After all, it happened almost a year ago. Best thing for you to do is forget about it.”

He wanted to say something, to disagree with Rita’s viewpoint, but as he searched for a way it was like groping in a dark closet that had no walls. He shook his head slowly, futilely, and finally he murmured, “Good night, Rita,” and walked away.

At the corner of Fourth and Vernon he took out his pocket watch. The hands pointed to twenty past three. He had to be up very early and it hardly paid to go home and get in bed. And now the prospect of a battle with Bella was not at all appetizing.
He winced at the thought that she’d still be sitting up, preparing to greet him with a flood of curses. Suddenly he was thinking of the railway ticket office, the bus depot, the freighters docked at the piers. But that had nothing to do with Bella. He just felt like taking off, that was all. He just wanted a long trip that would carry him far away from Vernon Street.

Skip it, he told himself. Think about it later.

He shrugged. But it was more than a casual effort. His shoulders felt strangely heavy. And then, trying to shake off the weighted feeling, he began to walk fast. But suddenly he came to an abrupt halt. He turned his head slowly and looked at the dark alley, where moonlight fell on a broken bottle, a crushed tin can, and the dried bloodstains of his sister.

He moved toward the alley. Then he was in the alley, looking down at the bloodstains. He wondered why his eyes felt cold. Quit it, he told himself. Get out of here. Go home. But he stood there looking down at the crimson stains on the rutted paving. A minute passed, another minute, and then all at once he had the feeling that someone was watching him.

He turned very slowly. He saw the carrot-colored hair and thick neck and sloping shoulders of Mooney. The sign painter had his head slanted and his arms folded and seemed to be appraising Kerrigan as though lining him up for a charcoal sketch.

Kerrigan smiled uncertainly. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Just happened to see you,” Mooney said. He shifted his position, leaning against the wall of the shack at the edge of the alley. His hair was damp and shiny.

“Enjoy your swim? Cool you off any?” Kerrigan asked.

Mooney had a look of grumbling displeasure. “That goddamn river. Cooled me off, hell. Only thing it did, it almost drowned me.”

Kerrigan grinned. “Was Nick there to see it?”

Mooney nodded. He said offhandedly, “Reached me just in time. I went down twice before he dived in.”

Kerrigan was still grinning. “Where’s Nick now?”

“Went home. That’s what I oughta do.” He shrugged again. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said quietly, “Making progress?”

“What?” Kerrigan said. “What are you talking about?”

“
This situation here,” Mooney murmured. He was looking down at the bloodstains. “I’ve seen you in this alley more times than I can count. Of course, it ain’t none of my business—”

“All right, let’s drop it.”

“You won’t drop it.”

“I’m dropping it now. It’s a dead issue.”

“The hell it is. You’ll come here again. You’ll keep coming here.”

“If I do, I’m a damn fool,” Kerrigan said.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Mooney spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper. “I’ve never had you checked off as a damn fool.”

For a long moment they stood there looking at each other. Then Mooney said, “You come here to investigate.”

“There’s nothing to investigate,” Kerrigan said. But while he said it, he was making a careful study of Mooney’s face, especially the eyes. He went on, trying to speak casually. “She did away with herself. There’s no question about that. She picked up a rusty blade and cut her throat and then she laid down to die. So the point is, she did it with her own hands. I’m not trying to take it past that.”

“It goes a long way past that,” Mooney said. “She did it because she was ruined and she couldn’t stand the pain or the grief or whatever it was. There’s never been any secret about that. You weren’t here when it happened, but there was a big commotion and the entire neighborhood was looking for the man who did it. You see, everybody liked her. I liked her very much.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” Mooney said. “Very much.”

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with her.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mooney said.

“What’s the matter?” Kerrigan said gently.

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.” Mooney’s face was expressionless. “Don’t jockey with me. I’m talking straight.”

“I hope so,” Kerrigan said. “How well were you acquainted? I never saw you talking to her.”

“We talked many times,” Mooney said. “Someone told her I used to paint pictures. She liked to talk about painting. She wanted to learn about it. One time I showed her some of my water colors.”

“
Where? In your room?”

“Sure.”

Kerrigan looked at Mooney’s thick neck. He said, “She wouldn’t go into a man’s room.”

“She would if she trusted the man.”

“How do you know she trusted you?”

“She told me,” Mooney said.

“Can you prove it?”

“Prove what?”

“That you’re on the level.”

Mooney frowned slightly. “I’m sorry I started this,” he said to himself. Then, gazing directly at Kerrigan, “You’re suspicious of everybody, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” Kerrigan said. “I’m just doing a lot of thinking, that’s all.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Mooney was nodding slowly. “You’re doing a hell of a lot of thinking.”

Kerrigan took a slow deep breath. Then he said very quietly, “I’d like you and me to take a little walk.”

“Where?”

“To your room.”

“What for?” Mooney asked. “What’s in my room?”

“The water-color paintings,” Kerrigan said. He smiled dimly and added, “Or maybe there’s no paintings at all. Maybe there’s just a bed. I’d like to have a look and make sure.”

Mooney’s face was blank. “You’re checking on me?”

“Sure,” Kerrigan said, and he widened the smile.

For some moments Mooney didn’t move. Finally he shrugged and backed out of the alley and Kerrigan moved up beside him. They walked down Vernon Street toward Third. Near the corner of Third and Vernon they turned down another alley. It was very narrow and there were no lights in the windows of the wooden shacks. Mooney was walking slowly and Kerrigan followed him and watched him very carefully. Mooney’s shoulders were sort of hunched, his arms bent just a little and held away from his sides, and he seemed to be bracing himself for something.

“You there?” Mooney asked.

“Right behind you.”

Mooney slowed to a stop. He started to turn his head.

“
Keep moving,” Kerrigan said.

“Listen, Bill—”

“No,” Kerrigan cut in. “You can’t stall now. You’re taking me to your room.”

“I only want to say—”

“You’ll say it later. Keep moving.”

Mooney walked on. Kerrigan followed him and they went halfway down the alley and arrived at a two-story shack that had no doorstep and no glass in the front windows. Mooney went up to the door and then he stopped again and started to move his head to get a look at Kerrigan.

“Inside,” Kerrigan said.

“Bill, you’ve known me all your life.”

“I wonder,” Kerrigan murmured. Then, through his teeth, “Go on, get inside. Get the hell inside.”

Mooney opened the door. They came into a room where a lot of people were sleeping. There weren’t enough beds and the floor was a jumble of sleeping grownups and children. Kerrigan stayed close behind Mooney, treading carefully to avoid stepping on the sleepers on the floor. They made their way across the room and went into another room where there were more sleepers. For an instant Kerrigan forgot about Mooney and he was wondering how many families lived in this dump. Goddamn them, he thought, they don’t hafta live like this. At least they can keep the place clean. But then his mind aimed again at Mooney as he saw the sign painter turning toward the stairway. And he thought, Be careful now, it might happen when we’re halfway up the stairs.

But nothing happened. Mooney didn’t even look back. They came up on the second floor and went down a very narrow hall. The ceiling was low and there wasn’t much air. It seemed there was hardly any air at all.

He followed Mooney into a room. It was a tiny room and there was no furniture. The only thing he saw was a mattress on the floor. But then Mooney switched on the light, and other objects came into view.

There was a large vase, almost four feet high. It was some kind of glazed stone and was cracked in many places and looked very old. Kerrigan looked to see what was in it and he saw it was filled with cigarette stubs and ashes. Next to the vase there was a stack of large rough-surfaced paper used for water-color
paintings. And then he saw the jars of paint, the little tubes, and the brushes. Paint brushes of various sizes were scattered all over the room. He figured there must be at least a hundred brushes in here. He came closer to the stack of papers and lifted the edges and saw that some of the sheets hadn’t been used. But the others were all water-color landscapes and still lifes and a few portraits. And that was what he had come here to see. It was the tangible proof that Mooney hadn’t been lying.