The Moon in the Gutter

by David Goodis

  “You’re not so dirty. And I think you should have told her.”

  “Well maybe I wasn’t man enough.” Mooney turned and looked up at the picture on the wall.

  Kerrigan looked at Mooney and felt very sorry for him and couldn’t say anything.

  “Not man enough,” Mooney said. “Just a specialist in the art of wasting time and lousing things up. There was a time the critics had me ranked with the important names in water color. They said I’d soon be pushing Marin for the number-one spot on the list. Today I’m pushing the sale of window signs for butcher stores and tailor shops. My weekly income, according to latest reports, is anywhere from twelve to fifteen dollars. If the Treasury Department is interested, the current bankroll is a dollar and sixty-seven cents.”

  Mooney was telling it to the dead girl, speaking in a conversational tone, as though he thought she could actually hear what he was saying.

  “Comes a time,” he told the painted face on the wall, “when the battery runs down, the stamina gives out, and a man just don’t care any more. That happened long ago with this fine citizen. Not a damn thing I could have done for you, except lean on your shoulder and weigh you down. I’m a great leaner, one of the finest. I have a remarkable talent for making people tired.”

  Kerrigan figured it was time for him to say something. “You have a pretty fair talent for painting pictures.” He gazed at the portrait on the wall.

  “Thank you,” Mooney said quietly and formally, as though he were addressing an art critic. Then his tone became technical. “There was no live model. This work was painted from memory. There were more than thirty preliminary sketches. The portrait took three months to complete, and this is the first time it’s been exhibited.”

  Kerrigan nodded, although he was scarcely listening. He went on looking at the painted face that was framed there on the wall and gradually it became a living face as the gears of time shifted into reverse, taking him backward five years to a summer night when he stood with Catherine on the corner of Second and Vernon. He’d been walking up Second Street and he’d seen her leaning against the lamppost on the corner. Coming closer, he’d noticed that she was breathing heavily, as though she’d been running. He said, “What’s wrong?” and for some moments she didn’t answer, and then she smiled and shrugged and said, “It’s really nothing.” But he knew the smile was forced, and the shrug was an effort to hide something.

  He put his hands on Catherine’s shoulders. He said quietly, “Come on, tell me.”

  She tried to hold the smile, tried to shrug again. But somehow she couldn’t manage it. Her lips quivered. Her pale face became paler. All at once she gripped his arms, as though to keep herself from falling, and she said, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Catherine.” His voice was gentle. “Tell me what happened.”

  She hesitated. Then, whatever the issue was, she made an attempt to evade it. She said, “You look so tired and worn out. Work hard today?”

  “Overtime,” he replied. “They were short of men.” In the glow of the street lamp he saw the delicate line of her features, the fragility of her body. She always wore low-heeled shoes and loose-waisted schoolgirl dresses and looked much younger than eighteen. The dress was cotton, plain drab gray, and it needed sewing here and there. But it was clean. She wouldn’t wear anything that wasn’t clean.

  She was smiling again and saying, “You really look knocked out. Let’s go somewhere and sit down.”

  She was always saying, “Let’s go somewhere,” as if there were anywhere to go except the candy store, which had a small fountain and a few battered stools.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll treat you to a soda.”

  She took his hand. He sensed she was anxious to get off the corner. They walked two blocks to the little candy store and went in and sat down at the fountain. She asked him what he wanted and he said, “Orange,” and she put a dime on the counter and ordered two bottles of orange pop.

  He took a few long gulps and his bottle was empty. She sipped hers from a straw. He watched her as she sat there taking tiny sips and enjoying the flavor of the soda. There was a look of pleasure on her face and he thought, It takes so little to please her.

  Suddenly he got off the stool and went to the magazine rack. She liked movie magazines and he stood there checking them to see if there was one that she hadn’t read yet. He was reaching for a magazine when the door opened and three young men came into the candy store. They sort of barged in, and he turned and looked at them. They were wearing torn shirts and ragged trousers and battered shoes. It was hard to tell which one of them was the ugliest, which face was most misshapen.

  The three of them were winking at each other as they moved toward Catherine. She was still sipping the soda and hadn’t yet seen them. Kerrigan was waiting to see what they’d do. He saw the shortest one, who looked like a middleweight, slide onto the seat next to Catherine. The middleweight grinned at her and said, “Well, whaddya know? We meet again.”

  Catherine was trembling slightly. Kerrigan had a fairly adequate notion as to why she’d been out of breath when he’d met her on the corner.

  The middleweight went on grinning at her. The other two were snickering. One of them was scar-faced and the other featured a yellowish complexion and crooked buck teeth that prevented him from closing his mouth. Scarface sat down so that Catherine was hemmed in between him and the middleweight. Then Scarface said something in low tones that Kerrigan couldn’t hear, and Catherine winced. She turned her head to see Kerrigan standing there at the magazine rack. He gave her a reassuring nod, as though to say, Don’t worry, I’m still here, I just want to see how far they’ll take it.

  The middleweight widened the grin. It became a grimace as he said to Catherine, “Why’d you run away?”

  Catherine didn’t answer. The aged candy-store proprietor was standing behind the counter and scowling at the three young men and saying, “Well? Well?”

  “Well what?” Scarface said.

  “This is a store. Whatcha wanna buy?”

  “We ain’t in no hurry,” the middleweight said. He turned to Catherine. “I like to take my time. It makes things more interesting.” He edged closer to her.

  “Please go away,” Catherine said.

  The proprietor was pointing to a sign on the wall behind the counter. “You read English?” he demanded of the three young men. “It says, ‘No Loafing.’ ”

  “We’re not loafing,” the middleweight said mildly. “We’re here to keep a date, that’s all.”

  Catherine started to get up from the stool. But she was crowded from all sides and they wouldn’t give her room. Kerrigan didn’t move. He told himself he would wait until one of them put a hand on her.

  The proprietor took another deep breath. “This is a store,” he repeated. “If you’re not here to buy something, get out.”

  “All right, Pop.” The middleweight reached into his pocket and took out a dollar bill. “Three root-beer floats.” He made a casual reach for the bottle in Catherine’s trembling hand. He took the bottle away from her and said to the proprietor, “Make it four.”

  Catherine looked at the middleweight. She wasn’t trembling now. There was just the slightest trace of a smile on her lips. It was a kind smile, something pitying in it. She said very softly, “I’m sorry I ran away from you and your friends. But you were talking sort of rough, and then when you came toward me—”

  “I wasn’t gonna hurt ya,” the middleweight said. He was frowning just a little; he seemed uncertain of what to say next. He aimed the frown at Scarface and Bucktooth, as though blaming them for something. Catherine went on smiling at the middleweight. Gradually his frown faded. “Damn, I shoulda known how it was from the way you walked. You didn’t swing it like them teasers do.”

  Catherine grinned. She looked down at her skinny body. She gave a little shrug and said, “I got nothing to swing.”

  The middleweight laughed, and the other two joined in. Kerrigan
told himself to relax. It was all right now. He saw Bucktooth sitting down beside Scarface and the proprietor placing four root-beer floats on the counter and he heard the middleweight saying, “Hey, look, my name is Mickey. And that’s Pete. And that’s Wally.”

  “I’m Catherine,” she said. She turned and beckoned to Kerrigan, and he came forward. “This is Bill,” she said. “My brother.”

  “Hi,” the middleweight said. He told the proprietor to mix another root-beer float.

  Kerrigan wasn’t thirsty now, but he decided to drink the float anyway. He thanked the middleweight and saw the pleased smile on Catherine’s face. She was happy because everyone was friendly.

  He sipped the root-beer float and listened to the soft voice of Catherine as she chatted with the three young hoodlums. Her voice was like a soothing touch. He looked at the face of his sister and saw the gentle radiance in her eyes.

  Then time shifted gears again and it was now, it was Mooney’s room again. He was sitting there on the mattress on the floor and staring up at the portrait on the wall.

  “You look knocked out,” Mooney said. “Why don’t you roll over and go to sleep?”

  He gazed dully at Mooney. “Gotta be up early. There’s no alarm clock.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll wake you. Got a watch?”

  Kerrigan was already prone on the mattress and his eyes were closed as he took out the pocket watch and handed it to Mooney. “Get me up at six-thirty,” he whispered, and while sleep closed in on his brain he wondered what Mooney would be doing awake at that time. But before he could put the question into words, he was asleep.

  7

  AT TEN in the morning the sun was like a big muzzle shooting liquid fire onto the river. Near the docks the big ships glimmered in the sticky heat. On the piers the stevedores were stripped bare to the waist, and some of them had rags tied around their foreheads to keep the perspiration from running into their eyes.

  Alongside Pier 17 there was a freighter that had just come in from the West Indies with a cargo of pineapples, and the dock foremen were feverishly bawling orders, spurring the stevedores to work faster. There were some wholesale fruit merchants scurrying around, screaming that pineapples were rotting on the deck, melting away in the heat, while these goddamn loafers took their time and carried the crates as though they had lead in their pants.

  Kerrigan and two other workers were struggling with a six-hundred-pound crate when a little man wearing a straw hat came up and shrieked, “Lift it! For God’s sake, lift it!”

  They were trying to lift the crate onto a wheeled platform. But on this side of the pier there was a traffic problem. They were surrounded by a jam-up of crates and bales and huge boxes and they had insufficient space to get leverage.

  Stooped over, with the crate leaning against their backs, the two stevedores were panting and grimacing while Kerrigan knelt on the planks, his hands under the edge of the crate, trying to coax it onto the platform.

  “You morons!” the little man screeched. “That ain’t the way to do it.”

  The edge of the crate came onto the platform. The wheels of the platform moved just a little and the crate slipped off. Kerrigan’s hands were under the crate and he pulled them away just in time.

  “I told you,” the little man yelled. “You see?”

  One of the stevedores looked at the little man. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said, “All right, Bill. Let’s try it again.”

  The other stevedore was arching his back and rubbing his spine and saying, “We need more room here.”

  The little man shouted, “You need more brains, that’s what you need.”

  Kerrigan wiped sweat from his face. He took his position at the side of the crate, pushed a smaller box against the platform to keep it from rolling, and said to the stevedores, “Ready now?”

  “All set.”

  “Heave,” Kerrigan grunted, and the men braced their backs under the weight of the crate, while Kerrigan strained to work it onto the platform. Again he managed to lift it over the edge, but just then a sliver of rusty metal went stabbing into his fingernail and he lost his hold on the crate. “Goddamnit,” he muttered as the crate fell off the platform and slammed onto the planks of the pier. He stood up and put the injured finger in his mouth and sucked at the blood.

  “Go in deep?” one of the stevedores said.

  “It’s all right.” Kerrigan winced and took his finger out of his mouth and looked at the torn cuticle. He said, “I guess it’s all right.”

  “It don’t look good, Bill. You better have it bandaged.”

  “The hell with it,” Kerrigan said.

  The little man was hopping up and down and shouting, “What are you standing around for? What about the pineapples? Look at the pineapples. They’re rotting away in the sun.” He beckoned to a dock foreman on the other side of the pier. “Hey, Ruttman. Come here, I want you to see this.”

  The dock foreman made his way through a gap in the pile-up of pineapple crates. He was a very big man in his late thirties. His head was partially bald and he had a flattened nose and thick scarred lips and a lot of chin and jaw. His arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder and the hair on his chest was like a screen of foliage in front of the large tattoo, the purple-brown-black head of an African water buffalo.

  As Ruttman approached, the little man continued to hop up and down, yelling, “What kind of men you got working here? Take a look at this situation.”

  “Easy, Johnny, easy.” Ruttman had a deep, furry voice. He came up to the crate, glanced at the wheeled platform, and then looked at the three stevedores. He said, “What goes on here?”

  “We just can’t handle it,” one of them said. “We ain’t got enough space to work in.”

  “You’re a liar,” the little man shrieked. “There’s plenty of space. You’re just goofing, that’s all, you’re trying to kill time.”

  Ruttman told the little man to go away. The little man started to yelp, claiming that he had a lot of money invested in these pineapples and he’d be damned if he was going to let them get spoiled. Ruttman said the pineapples wouldn’t get spoiled and it would help matters if the little man went away. The little man folded his arms and shouted he was going to stay right here. Ruttman sighed wearily and took a slow step toward the little man. The little man scampered away.

  The three stevedores moved toward the crate and Ruttman shook his head, waving them back and saying, “This ain’t no good. We gotta do it another way.” He looked at Kerrigan. “Bring me a chain and a crowbar.”

  Kerrigan turned and walked down along the length of the pier, wiping sweat from his face. In the tool shed he found a roll of adhesive tape, and he cut off a strip and slipped it around his torn finger. He came out of the shed carrying the heavy chain and the crowbar. He took a few steps and stopped short and the crowbar fell out of his hand, the chain slipped away from his fingers. He stood motionless, staring at Loretta Channing.

  She was sitting at the wheel of the MG. The car was parked on the pier. A few men wearing Panama hats and tropical-weave suits were leaning against the car and it was evident she’d got special permission to come onto the pier.

  As Kerrigan stood there, unable to breathe, Loretta waved to him. He could feel the heavy awkwardness of the moment as the men in Panama hats turned to look at him, their faces showing vaguely puzzled smiles.

  He told himself to pick up the chain and crowbar and get out of here. But as he reached down, he stiffened again. He was staring at an object in Loretta’s hands. It was a small camera. She had it focused on him.

  He straightened, breathing air that seemed to burn. His arms were away from his sides, his hands were clenched, and he didn’t realize he was showing his teeth.

  The camera made a clicking sound. It was a very small noise, but in his brain it was amplified. It cracked like a lash hitting him in the face.

  He moved toward the MG. He walked very slowly. His head jutted like an aimed weapon. A fruit clerk wearing
an apron came into his path and he pushed the man aside, not hearing the whine of protest. The men in Panama hats were moving uneasily as they detected the menace in his approach. Instinctively they got out of his way. But Loretta didn’t move. Loretta sat there at the wheel, smiling at him, waiting for him, the camera held loosely in her hand.

  He came up to the door of the MG and pointed to the camera and said, “Give it to me.”

  Loretta widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You want it for a gift?”

  “All I want is the film.”

  The mockery remained on her face. “What will you do with it?”

  “I’d like to shove it down your throat.”

  The men in Panama hats were swallowing hard and looking at each other. One of them braced himself and tapped Kerrigan on the shoulder and murmured, “No need to take offense, fellow. All the lady did was take your picture.”

  “You keep out of it,” Kerrigan said.

  The man said, “Now look here, I’m one of the owners of this pier.”

  Ignoring the man, Kerrigan reached out toward the camera. But Loretta was faster. She opened the panel of the glove compartment, slid the camera in, and closed the panel.

  Kerrigan gripped the door, leaned across the steering wheel, and moved his hand toward the glove compartment. The pier owner grabbed his arm and said, “Just a moment here. Just a moment.”

  In the next instant the Panama hat was falling off the pier owner’s head. He was shoved backward, with Kerrigan’s flat hand covering his face. He tripped over a loose plank and sat down very hard and stared up at Kerrigan with his mouth opened wide.

  Loretta hadn’t moved. She was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “I can’t understand why you’re so upset. All I did was take your picture.”

  His voice was low and even but it whipped at her. “You want it for a souvenir. You’ll show it to your uptown friends. Picture of a man, stripped almost naked, like something on exhibit in a cage.”

  Again he reached for the glove compartment. Loretta sat there quietly, making no move to stop him as his finger found the chromium button. He pressed the button, the panel swung open, and he groped for the camera. His hand closed on it and he pulled it out and at that moment he felt the iron pressure coming down on his arm, gripping him above the elbow and causing him to blink.