The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  His fist struck painfully against the doorsill of the car. This was the time. The man had been asking for it, there on his knees with the damnation of the box in his hands, already disintegrating. And he had walked away from it. Why?

  But he knew the answer as he formed the question. To have walked in on Teller at that moment would have been, at even odds, to court disaster. The man was huge, overwrought. In a sudden hand-to-hand combat, Mickey could not count on winning. And if he had tried and lost, Margarita, torn from one accustomed, if dreary, way of life and now suspended short of the promise of the next, would have been a loser, too. There was an old rule about innocent bystanders.

  He did some more thinking after he had started the car and turned back toward Yuma. As he recovered from the disappointment of the empty box, Teller would begin to think. One of the things he might think would be that Wister had had an arrangement with Margarita to dispose of the incriminating evidence, or to turn it over to someone else. Thinking thus, a reasoning man, driven to the wall, would start looking for Margarita.

  Approaching the entrance to the Swallows Motel, he had to slow down from seventy miles an hour to make the turn. The DO NOT DISTURB sign hung as he had left it. He could hear nothing through the door as he searched his pockets for the key he had taken with him. He found it and made it work in the lock. He pushed inside, took one step and halted, then leaned back heavily, his shoulders pushing the door to. He was panting and choking a little, his throat caught between sobs and laughter. Because he could see Margarita now, through the open dressing-room door, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom floor.

  * * * *

  Later, he couldn’t remember getting across the room. But he remembered having arrived, being on his knees, the startled Margarita awkwardly sprawled in his arms, smelling of soap and water, while he murmured over and over, “Pobrecita, mi pobrecita—”

  And he could remember thinking, Where in hell did I pick up that “pobrecita”? I must have seen it in a movie.

  But Margarita was not celluloid. She was warm flesh and firm muscle and hard bone in his arms. He picked her up, carried her into the bedroom and put her down on one of the beds. He covered her with the spread from the other bed and, kneeling beside her, he explained about the scrubbing of floors. She listened passively, her large eyes veiled as he talked.

  When he finished there was a long silence and then she said, “But, Joe—w’at I do?”

  “Do! There’s plenty to do! You can—wash the dishes—fix things to eat—enchiladas, frijoles—”

  “Sí.”

  “You can—I don’t know—brush your hair, take a bath, get up, go to bed, go to the movies—”

  “Movies? Cine?”

  “You like the movies?”

  “Oh, Sí. But no movie in mi pueblo. I go one time in Nogales, with Señor Wister. And in Guadalajara.”

  “Who do you like best in the movies? Mas grande movie star?”

  She pondered seriously.

  “Hombre?” she said.

  “Sí. Hombre.”

  “Ah—Rock ’udson, I think?”

  “Okay. We’ll find a Rock Hudson movie.”

  She lay quietly, watching him. He kissed her and, as before, she responded slowly, but with growing warmth, grew restless, clinging, her body arching tautly in his arms. At length, with casual directness, leading him to a natural function uncomplicated by mystique, she took his hand and drew it beneath the thin cover.

  “Margarita—?”

  “Sí.”

  It was a hissing, urgent sound. Her eyes were closed and he saw her nostrils dilate, squeeze taut and dilate again in a rhythmic accompaniment to her breathing, that had a guttural quality in her throat. She was supple and active under him and he was with her a long time, mostly in silence, except at the start when, clutching him, she murmured, “Poco a poco, Joe, por favor—”

  And near the end, in a slow, low-pitched cry of mingled pain and ecstasy, “Ah—Joe!”

  CHAPTER 16

  It had taken most of the day to find a house. He had finally settled on a small, detached cottage near what appeared to be the Mexican quarter. It was one of a group of recently remodeled units around a court, but the one he had rented faced on the street and there was a small park across the way. One reason he had chosen it was that it could be rented by the week and he didn’t expect to stay long. Another good feature was the absence of a resident manager.

  There had been little time left for shopping, but they had been able to get her a few necessities before the stores closed. Then they had stopped at a huge supermarket and stocked up on groceries. Now, having eaten, he sat in a large, comfortable armchair in the living room, looking out through the big front window toward the park across the street.

  Margarita was in the bedroom, trying on her new clothes. Unlike Irene, she was shyly grateful, almost awed by them. Another difference was that Margarita required privacy for making changes. From time to time she would come in diffidently and let him look at a blouse-skirt ensemble, or show him how the new shoes looked.

  That night, he didn’t go to the inn. Despite his reasonable mental assertion that one more day wouldn’t make much difference, he felt as if he were shirking a hard duty and he was restless and wakeful most of the night.

  The next morning they finished the shopping. He got her a suitcase and, among other things, a garter belt, after he learned she had been trying to keep her stockings up by tying strings around her thighs.

  “If you need anything,” he explained, “you must ask me. I’m sorry I forgot about garters.”

  In an unusual display of her feelings, she framed his face in her hands and kissed him.

  “How about going on a picnic?” he said.

  “Que es—‘peek-neek’?”

  “It’s when you take food somewhere and eat it—out. Like in the desert or the woods.”

  She looked “out” and thought it over.

  “Sí,” she said. “Bueno.”

  He found a place where he could buy barbecued chicken and they drove into the Arizona countryside. He was surprised to find it so different from the vast, barren desert in California. Here there were steep canyons and rugged rock formations, but between one canyon and another stretched broad, irrigated valleys and there were many ranches.

  “It’s a beautiful country,” he said, as they were eating the chicken in a secluded canyon.

  “Sí,” she said. “Mi pueblo—my village in Mexico—is beautiful. Grande cerros—what you call?”

  She waved toward the high, distant rocks.

  “Rocks? Mountains?”

  “Sí, montañas. But not rock like here. Blanco.”

  “White?”

  “Sí.”

  “What is the name of your pueblo?”

  “Nuestro pueblo del cerro blanco.”

  “Our town by the white mountain. That’s a nice name. How many people in your village?”

  “Very small—hombres, cien—’undred. Mujeres, mas—” She shrugged. “Chicos, little ones, muchos. Señor Alvarez—big man, casa grande—el es espagnol.” She lifted her head, speaking with quiet pride. “Mi—I am espagnol, too, a little. But more India, you know?”

  He took her in his arms.

  “I know, Margarita,” he said. “Do you ever get homesick for your pueblo? You want to go home?”

  She looked away.

  “Sometime, maybe.”

  “You want to stay with me—with Joe?”

  “Sí. I stay, Joe.”

  He felt a strong urge to make love to her, but there was no place for her to lie on the rocky ground. On the way home he stopped at a sporting goods store and bought an air mattress. He made no comment, only stuffed it into the back seat, but she must have recognized it, because she sat very stiffly for some time and wouldn’t look back there.

  On the way home they passed a large intersection where the highway west curved off into the desert. He took that fork and drove to a turnout where he pulled
off the road. They sat in silence, watching the sun set over the rose-gold mountains.

  A battle raged in his divided mind. Unless he could bring himself to give the whole thing up, he would have to finish the job on Teller. He knew it would haunt him if he left it unfinished, but aside from that, it was a thing that had to be done. He was the only one who could do it now. With Roberts and Wister both dead, there was nothing on Teller except Mickey’s unsupported word. The case against Teller was inside the man himself, and no official authority could help drag it out of him. Only he alone, Mickey Phillips, could do it. It would mean resuming his nightly vigil at the inn. With luck, it would take only a few more days. But he would have to arrange something about Margarita, to avoid leaving her alone and frightened in the house.

  The solution came to him as they were eating dinner.

  He said nothing about it until they had finished and washed the dishes. Then, at eight-thirty, he sat down in the big chair and drew her onto his lap.

  “Margarita, chiquita,” he said, “would you like to go to the movies tonight? Rock Hudson?”

  “Oh sí!”

  “I have to go to the inn,” he said. “I will take you to the movie and when I get back from the inn, I will pick you up.”

  “Me alone?” she said.

  “Yes, but not for long. You won’t have to be alone in the house. Okay?”

  She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

  “Okay, Joe.”

  There was no Rock Hudson picture in town, but he finally found a large theater in a well-lighted district where, according to the marquee, a Rock Hudson movie would start the next night. Margarita was disappointed.

  “Jimmy Stewart,” he said, “bueno. Jimmy Stewart grande movie star.”

  “No Rock ’udson?” she said.

  “Mañana, Rock Hudson.”

  “Okay, Joe.”

  The theater was half full. He sat with her for a couple of minutes, then put his mouth to her ear.

  “I must go now,” he said. “You stay. You will be safe here. Do not go until I come back. Comprende?”

  “Sí, okay, Joe,” she whispered tensely.

  He saw that she wanted him to leave her undisturbed with the picture. He kissed her cheek quickly and went out. He checked the schedule and saw that the last show would end at twelve-forty-five. He walked to his car and drove away, heading for the inn.

  * * * *

  It was a slow night and Charley seemed glad to see him.

  “Whole joint’s a drag,” he said sourly.

  “No excitement?” Mickey said.

  “I don’t know what you call excitement, but that son of a bitch Teller has been on a big prod for anyway two days. Drivin’ everybody nuts. Like last night, I’m back here minding my own business, what there is of it, and Teller comes in and sits down at the bar. He glares at me for a while like he could kick my teeth in and then he says, ‘Make me a brandy Alexander.’ So I make him a goddamn brandy Alexander and then, having nothing else to do, I stand there watching him drink it. And all the time he’s giving me that damn eye, you know? Well, it got me sore. I surprised myself. I started looking back at him and pretty soon I said, ‘Mr. Teller, I don’t get a hell of a lot of call for brandy Alexanders, so if there’s anything wrong with that one, you have my permission to throw it in my face.’ Then I stood around shaking in my socks for the next two hours, waiting for him to throw me in my own face. But he didn’t and I guess I still got the lousy job.”

  “Maybe he’s upset about his ex-wife coming back to take over,” Mickey said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Anybody got any idea when she’s due?”

  “Not me. I think Homer Bridges knows, but he’s not telling. Not even Teller.”

  “Be interesting to see what will happen.”

  “You know what I think?” Charley leaned close over the bar. “I think if she would have turned up in the last couple of days, Teller wouldn’t have said a word. He would just have beat her to death with his bare hands.”

  “You’ve got me nervous,” Mickey said. “Maybe I better get out of here myself.”

  Charley laughed.

  “He won’t make trouble tonight,” he said. “He finally got a poker game going.”

  “How long will that go on?”

  “All night.”

  “Deputy sheriffs and all?”

  Charley nodded.

  He stayed in the bar for a couple of hours and finally gave up hope of seeing Teller that night. As the time dragged on, his loneliness for Margarita became nearly unbearable. At eleven-thirty he said good night to Charley and drove back to the theater.

  He found her where he had left her, in a nearly deserted auditorium. She was wide awake, watching the picture intently. He slid his arm across her shoulders. She moved against him, but would not abandon the movie. He tried to watch it with her, but the screen was extra large and the figures seemed overpowering. He fell asleep and woke to find her shaking him.

  At home she was animated and full of wonder. She told him the story of the movie as she understood it, in a mixture of pantomime and breathless Spanish. He gathered there had been a slinky girl who wore sweaters and was not very nice, and a handsome young man who sat around looking gloomy most of the time and somebody who from time to time got a little drunk. He didn’t dare laugh at her and finally he swept her into his arms and hugged her till she squealed to be released.

  “How did you like Jimmy Stewart?” he asked.

  “Jimmee Stewart?” she said. “Quien es—Jimmee Stewart?”

  He picked her up and took her to bed.

  * * * *

  The next evening, having left Margarita to enjoy the Rock Hudson movie, he decided he couldn’t wait indefinitely for the “right moment,” with Teller. He would have to create the moment, make it happen. He worked it out carefully in his mind. He had mentioned to Teller that he was moving to Yuma. He would force a conversation with him. He would tell him, casually, as if by the way, that he had run into the Mexican girl who had worked for Wister. He would say he had talked to her and she had shown him this envelope she had found among her things after she had left. She thought it belonged to Señor Wister and she didn’t know what to do with it. He would then say that he had offered to relieve her of it and deliver it to Mr. Teller, who would know what to do about it. So she had let him have it, but unfortunately he had forgotten to pick it up before coming to the inn this evening. He would try to remember it the next time; or, if Teller should happen to be in Yuma, he could drop by at Mickey’s place and pick it up. He would give Teller the address of the chiquita casa. It would be safe enough, because he would be there to welcome him. Once he had Teller alone, off home base, he could handle him all right.

  He went over the plan step by step, word by word, and could find no flaw in it. By the time he reached the inn he had the good, taut, ready feeling on which he had depended in the past and which he thought he had lost in the frustration over Wister’s untimely death. Although there was no more business than on other nights, as he went into the bar, he noticed a different mood among the help. There was a sense of relaxation. Even Charley was whistling quietly when Mickey sat down and ordered his whisky and water.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Somebody get promoted?”

  Charley winked sardonically.

  “The cat’s away,” he said. “The big boss, he is gone.”

  Mickey’s hand caressed the cold glass stiffly.

  “Mr. Teller?” he said.

  “Who else?”

  Then Charley was called away and Mickey sat with the new frustration, his throat squeezed too tight to drink, listening to the sly jokes passing among the few off-the-street guests and the help.

  “Yeah,” Charley said happily, returning. “Said he was going all the way to Los Angeles.”

  “Oh,” Mickey said carefully. “Then he’ll be back.”

  “Sure. But not tonight, friend. Tomorrow.”

  Mickey drew a long breath
. It could have been worse. Teller might have taken off for good.

  Charley brought him another drink before he had half finished the first.

  “On the house,” Charley said. “That is—” he pointed—“on Mr. Bridges.”

  “Hey, Mr. Marine!” a voice called behind him.

  He turned on the stool and the little manager was half standing in one of the big booths beckoning him. He got down from the bar and went over there. Homer beamed up at him.

  “You’re the steadiest customer we’ve had here for a month,” he said. “Sit down and have a drink.”

  “Thanks,” Mickey said, sitting down in the booth. “I’m still working on one Charley gave me—on you.”

  “Good old Charley,” Homer said.

  A nice little guy, Mickey thought. In spite of his short, spare frame and his mannerisms around the place, he was a nice little guy when you sat down with him.

  “I suppose Charley told you the reason for this—uh—relaxation, too,” he said.

  “He mentioned Mr. Teller had gone away.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to think,” the little man said, clearing his throat, “we do this every day. Have to admit, though, it’s a relief.”

  His eyes grew thoughtful, reminiscent.

  “Mr. Marine,” he said, “I’ve been with this place ever since it opened, more than three years ago. The Tellers—that is, Mrs. Teller actually—took over a run-down, jinxed desert hotel and made it go!”

  After a while Mickey said, “I heard Mrs. Teller is due back here any day.”

  Bridges looked around carefully.

  “You heard about the divorce, I take it,” he said.

  “A little.”

  “Horrible,” he muttered. “It was like living in hell here for a few weeks. But it was the only thing they could do. You talk about a mismatched couple—they had nothing in common. Nothing!” He cleared his throat lightly. “I happened to be present one evening in a group of hilarious guests, all of whom were friends of Mrs. Teller’s, and one of them asked, ‘Honey, how did you ever come to take up with a son of a bitch like Fred Teller?’ Her reply, as I recall, was, ‘Honey, I was young and a little on the cocky side. I saw this guy and made a bet with myself. I bet I could tame that big bear. I lost.’”