The Secret Squad (Illustrated)

by David Goodis

  They tended Corey, knowing what to do about rat bite. It was a common occurrence in the Swamp. Some newly-distilled rotgut, over a hundred proof, went splashing onto the blood-gushing thigh. Then they tore the sheet and made a bandage. Inside of a week, the baby was out of bed and toddling around.

  And then, when the child was six years old, another rat came in. On that occasion the boy was awake and ready and knew what to do. His mother kept certain weapons within reaching distance, in case some alley prowler happened to venture in. He snatched the six-inch switchblade resting on the chair near the bed. As the rat leaped, there was a clicking sound and the blade opened. It was timed perfectly; his aim was exact. He tossed the dead rat onto the floor, not even bothering to wipe off the blade. He went back to sleep. An hour later, when his mother staggered in, her wine-glazed eyes saw the corpse of the rat and the red-stained blade. She called the boy and he woke up. She said, “What I oughta do is bust your goddam head open. Or maybe it’s my mistake. I never shoulda told ya about him—”

  She was referring to Corey’s father, who had died four months before he was born. A good man, she’d told the boy. The only really good man she’d ever known, and more than just a husband. So decent, so clean, so pure in his heart; it was a privilege just to be near him. Her man. Her Matthew.

  Matthew had been a policeman. “Not an ordinary policeman,” she had told her son, “even though he’d never been promoted, even though he was listed as just another cop who walked the beat. But I swear to you, Corey, your father was one of the specials. Sure as hell he was one in a thousand. You see, boy, he was an honest policeman.”

  “And I mean honest all the way. Too goddam honest for this crummy world, I guess. Something almost saintly about him, and just like they gave it to the saints they gave it to him. They played him for a sucker; they kicked him around and laughed at him. They mauled his body, slashed at his nerves, and hammered spikes into his spirit. They worked on him plenty, believe me.”

  “At the precinct station they had him on the receiving end of all them scummy underhanded deals that you never read about in the papers. Time after time he’d risk his neck to make the pinch, to put the cuffs on some hood caught red-handed, guilty in spades. But it’s one thing to bring them in and it’s another thing to see them walking out free as the breeze. So you know what he did?”

  “He went right on bringing them in. And what did it get him? Lemme tell you, boy, lemme tell you how it is down here in the Swamp. A policeman who works in the Swamp has one of two choices. He either goes along with the game and gets paid off to look the other way, or he gets the lumps and the bumps, the bleeding and the busted bones.”

  “I tell you there were so many mornings when he came home with a bandage around his head, other mornings it would be his arm in a sling, or both eyes swollen almost shut and just as purple as plums. Mornings when he staggered in, holding his belly, coughing up blood. ‘Hit with a crowbar,’ he’d say with a shrug. And then he smiled so I shouldn’t get gloomy. But I tell you, boy, it was hard to take, them certain mornings when he came home all smashed up.”

  “And then one morning he didn’t come home.”

  “It happened in an alley. He was trailing some thugs and others moved in with iron pipes and baseball bats. Before he had a chance to blow his whistle, they had him down and were doing him in. How it was explained to me, they left him there when they thought he was done. But the bloodspots showed he came out of it and tried to crawl. He didn’t get far, and he was too weak to blow the whistle. He was spilling a lot of blood and finally he sat back against a fence post. The blood kept spilling and after a while the smell of it reached the rats.”

  “That’s how it ended, boy. That’s what finally happened to your father, the good one, the clean one, the honest policeman. The rats got to him and he was meat for their bellies. You understand now why I gotta have the wine?”

  “But I never shoulda told ya,” she said to the boy whose face was expressionless, who sat there in the bed in the semi-dark room where the wet blade gleamed red and the dead rat stained the floor. “Honest policeman,” the woman mumbled, the wine in her head causing her to stumble as she headed for a chair. “They say it pays, honesty pays,” she said louder. And then, still louder, “I’ll tell you how it pays—I’m a goddam expert on that subject—” but she couldn’t go on with it and fell into the chair. She tried to talk again, but then the wine hit her and she passed out.

  The boy leaned his head on the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He sat up and looked at the dead rat. He got off the bed and went to the sink and cleaned the blade. Then he tossed the rat out the window. In bed again, he heard the sounds in the alley and knew that other rats were swarming in to feed on the dead one. The sounds grew louder, they were fighting over the meat. And then the sounds were very loud and the six-year-old boy shut his eyes tightly in a painful grimace and let out a moan.

  ***

  Now, years later, walking east on Addison and passing the alley intersection and quickening his steps to get away from the sounds, he felt a slight twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. He told himself he was remembering something but he wasn’t at all sure what it was.

  He passed Third Street, went toward Second. At Second and Addison the lighted windows of the Hangout showed hectic activity inside. The Friday night drinkers were three-deep at the bar, and there was considerable jostling and scuffling. At the splintered loose-legged tables, most of the chairs were taken. Several women were skirmishing for possession of one of the tables. A hairy-chested, bulky-shouldered construction worker, wearing a sweat-stained undershirt and a yellow pith helmet, moved toward the women to break it up. One of the women knocked him down.

  As Corey walked in, a little man came sailing out, catapulted by the heavy foot of the female bouncer. The little man hit the pavement with expert agility, evidently well experienced at making belly landings. He came nimbly to his feet, his face solemn as he thumbed his nose at the female bouncer.

  She doubled her fist and took a step forward. The little man retreated lightly, daintily. As he stepped off the curb, he said quietly, solemnly, “There’s other places for me to go.”

  “I believe it,” the female bouncer said. She pointed to the sewer opening across the street. “Try that one.”

  “I’d be intruding,” the little man said. “Your parents live there.”

  “Do me a favor,” she said it almost sweetly. “Come here and let me hit you once. Just once.”

  The little man’s face remained solemn. He glanced at Corey, who was standing just inside the doorway. “She’s a mixture,” he said, pointing technically at the female bouncer as though she was something on exhibit. “She’s one-third Irish, one-third Cherokee, and one-third hippopotamus.”

  Inhaling slowly, she made a hissing noise. She said to the little man, “You’ll get it from me some day.”

  “Mechanically impossible,” he twisted the meaning around. And then, to Corey, “You ever see a rear end jutting out like that? We could use it for a two-handed game of pinochle—”

  She lunged toward the little man, whose name was Carp. He moved with reflex action far exceeding that of any sluggish fish. His one-twenty pounds made rapid transit across the street and around the corner. It was no use trying to pursue him; and she walked back to where Corey stood at the side of the doorway. She was muttering aloud to herself, referring to Carp’s unique character traits, his family background, and certain plans she had for his future.

  Then she looked up and saw Corey standing there. She glared at him, as though he was an accomplice in some Carp-inspired conspiracy against her. He gave her a soft smile, merely to let her know he was friendly. Her mouth tightened and she continued glaring at him.

  “And you,” she said. “You’re another one.”

  “I’m just a bystander, Nellie. An innocent bystander.”

  “’Innocent,’ he says.” She folded huge arms across forty-four-inch br
easts. The breasts were in proportion. She weighed a good two-forty, compressed into five feet six inches. There was no loose fat; it was all solid beef. It amounted to a living missile, braced and aimed, ready for any man who figured he could tamper with her and get away with it.

  Corey wasn’t tampering. He let the soft smile fade, so it wouldn’t be misinterpreted. He gestured casually in the direction Carp had taken. “What’s with Carp? What’d he do this time?”

  “What he’s always doin’,” Nellie muttered. “Stealin’ drinks off the bar.”

  Corey sighed. “Some people never learn.”

  Then he knew he shouldn’t have said that. It left him wide open for what was coming. Nellie looked him up and down. Her eyes narrowed with disdain. Her tightened lips twisted with contempt. “You got a right to talk,” she said. “As if you think it don’t show all over you.”

  He shrugged, turned away and started through the entrance of the taproom.

  But Nellie wasn’t quite finished with him. Her thick fingers gripped his arm. She turned him, forcing him to face her.

  She said, “Lemme tell you somethin’, Bradford—”

  “Drop it,” he cut in mildly. “You’ve told me before.”

  “And I feel like tellin’ you again.” She held onto his arm. He moved to get away, and she moved with him. It brought them into the taproom. Again he tried to pull free, but she held on. Her grip was very tight; it was hurting him.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he said. Again he tried to get away from her.

  She held on. “You’re gonna listen,” she said loudly, and some drinkers at the tables turned and looked. “You can all listen,” she said to them. “I wantcha to hear this—”

  And then, facing her audience, “I want it to sink in, I want you to list it and check it and remember. This bastard used the badge to steal bread from people’s mouths. They hadda hand it over; they had no choice. Pay him off or get busted; that was the way it went. And who does he do it to? His neighbors, his friends, the very folks he knows from way back, all the way back to when he was a kid. Can you top that for underhanded dealing? I got more respect for a second-story man. Even for a purse snatcher—”

  “Say it, Nellie,” a skinny white-haired crone sang out. “Say it like it is, girl.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ meaner or rottener than a shakedown,” Nellie said it with white-hot rage. “And get this ticket—he was always so nice and sweet about it. Knocks so softly on the door and then comes on with that greasy smile. One hand pats you on the shoulder and the other hand is out, palm open. The miserable creep; he even had them thinkin’ he was doin’ them a favor—”

  “Disgraceful,” a whiskey-thick voice commented.

  “Believe it,” Nellie nodded in agreement. She looked sideways at Corey and kept tightening her grip on his arm. Her face twisted in a grimace of disgust as she said to the assemblage, “You know how this makes me feel? It makes me feel like I need soap and water.”

  “Then why don’t you let go of him?” someone inquired quietly, calmly. “What are you holdin’ onto him for?”

  It was the little man, Carp. He stood in the side entrance, his arms folded, his head inclined, his manner that of an official observer.

  “You here again?” Nellie roared at him.

  “I guess we could put it that way,” Carp said. He sent a thirsty glance toward the bar, then unfolded his arms and pointed stiffly at Nellie and said to all the drinkers, “You see what’s happening there? You get the drift? She won’t let go of him because she can’t let go. It’s what we call a dynamic situation, the outward manifestations are utterly superficial.”

  “Talk English,” someone hollered.

  “I’ll be glad to,” Carp said politely. “In plain English, my friends, she’s hot for the man.”

  Nellie let out an animal growl, let go of Corey and made a beeline for Carp. The little man played it with fox-like strategy. He waited until Nellie was just a few feet away, her hands reaching out to grab him. Then with neatness and precision he used his foot to tip over a chair. As Nellie collided with the falling chair, Carp started a circular route that took him swiftly in the direction of the bar. Knowing what was coming, the regulars at the bar reached quickly for their shot glasses and grimly held on. Others weren’t quick enough. As Carp flashed past the bar, his arm functioned with the speed of a piston. Before he reached the far end of the bar, he’d snatched and downed a double rye and a single of California brandy. Then he headed for the front door and scampered out.

  Corey strolled to the bar. His hand was in his trousers pocket, cupping the combined weight of paper and metal, the three sixty-five. He took out a quarter, put it on the bar. It bought him a single shot of gin. He drank the gin, immediately wanted another, but decided it could wait. As he turned away from the bar, the thirst gave way to what was more important at the moment, the hunger for the poker-table, for delicious aces coming his way.

  He moved toward the door that led to the back room. Passing the crowded tables, he was ignored like any casual table passer. They’d forgotten Nellie’s tirade and were concentrating on their drinks. But as he neared the door, he had the feeling that a certain pair of eyes were aiming at him. He stopped for a moment, wincing slightly, then continued toward the door. As he reached for the doorknob, something forced him to turn his head.

  He saw her.

  She was sitting alone at the table near the wall. On the table there was a half-full quart-size bottle of beer. There was an empty glass. Now she reached slowly for the bottle and poured some beer into the glass. While she did it, she looked directly at him.

  “Hello, Lil,” he said.

  Not saying anything, she lifted the glass to her mouth and sipped at the beer. She went on looking at him.

  He blinked a few times. He said, “How’s it going?”

  She didn’t answer. She just sat there and sipped more beer and kept looking at him.

  “I ain’t seen you around,” he mumbled. “It’s been months now—almost a year, I guess. Or maybe longer than that, I don’t know. Where you been?”

  She lowered the glass, leaned back in the chair and didn’t say anything.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Can’t you talk?”

  “Not to you.” Her voice was toneless. There was no particular expression on her face. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  He blinked again. Then he started to turn away but for some reason his legs wouldn’t move.

  “You don’t have to stand there,” she said. “You said hello and that’s it. That’s all it calls for, just a hello.”

  He stood and gazed at her. This ain’t easy, he thought. It’s like playing checkers with someone who knows all your moves before you make them. She won’t give you no openings at all.

  And what makes it tougher, he told himself, she’s still got it, all of it. That face. That body. She’s something, all right. But there’s nothing you can do about it. All you can do is stand here like a goddam idiot and give yourself a bad time.

  Lillian had dark brown hair, medium brown eyes. Somewhat heavy in the breasts and hips, her body was nonetheless enticing, wasp-waisted and solidly put together. She was an exceptionally good-looking woman.

  Lil was twenty-six. Some five years ago she was married to Corey Bradford. They hadn’t stayed married long. It lasted a little over a year. The split-up was caused by his drinking. At that time he’d been wearing the blue of a beat-walking policeman, and for some reason that he couldn’t understand he was drinking very heavily. She begged him to stop, then she warned him to stop. And finally one night when he went over the edge with the rams, she chased him down Addison as he dashed toward the river, intending to jump in. He didn’t jump in. What stopped him was the sound behind him, the thud as she hit the ground. She suffered a bruised knee, a severely twisted ankle, and a miscarriage. It was a serious miscarriage. There was considerable pain and some complications and it almost did her in. On his knees beside the bed he held
her hand and made a sacred vow that he’d stop the drinking. A month later he was crazy drunk again. That ended it.

  He watched her now as she poured more beer into the glass. He frowned slightly, at first not knowing why. Then gradually it came to him. There was something out of kilter in this picture.

  He said to her, “What’s this with beer?”

  She didn’t reply. She sipped at the foam, then took a long drink.

  “I never saw you drinkin’ beer before,” he said.

  Lillian put the glass down. She gave him a look that said, So what?

  “All I ever seen you drink was a lemon pop or a milk shake or just plain water,” he said. “How come you’ve switched to alcohol?”

  She shrugged, looking away from him. As if he wasn’t there, and as though she was talking aloud to herself, she said, “It gets to a point where it just don’t matter.”

  His frown deepened. “What kind of an answer is that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and then she looked at him. “I honestly don’t know.”

  He gave her a side glance. “Come on, Lil. Tell me—”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut her lips tightly. Again she looked away from him.

  He leaned toward her. “Tell me, Lil. Let it out. It’s better when you let it out.”

  “Is it?” And then her eyes aimed directly at him. “How would you know?”

  He winced slightly. He had no idea what she meant by that, but whatever she meant, it went in deep. It cut like a blade.

  He backed away, and mumbled clumsily, “Is that all you’re gonna tell me?”

  “That’s all,” Lillian said.

  There was a heaviness in his throat. He tried to swallow it. He said, “I hate to see you sitting here alone.”

  “I’m sitting here alone because I want some privacy,” she said. She shifted in the chair, turning away from him. For a moment her hands rested limply on the tabletop. In that moment he noticed something. It glimmered bright yellow on her finger. It was a wedding ring.