Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  He took a thoughtful sip of beer. At least the angry outbursts didn’t scare him so much anymore. He’d learned finally that Mac’s rages were not directed at him, but at the circumstances, and that though he might smash a glass or put his fist through the plasterboard wall of whatever cheap room they were in at any given moment, he would never turn the anger toward Johnny.

  Johnny frowned again. It was true that Mac said things sometimes, things that hurt more than a blow might have. Especially when he threatened to just take off and leave all of his problems behind. They both knew that he meant Johnny himself was the biggest problem. But Johnny also knew that Mac didn’t mean those things when he said them. And he always apologized when the outburst was over, not in words, maybe, but with a candy bar or just by hanging around the room a little longer than usual to keep Johnny company.

  The door to the back room opened suddenly and Mac came out. Johnny bit his lower lip, knowing from the expression on the tall man’s face that tonight’s luck hadn’t been any better than all the others lately. Mac stopped at the bar for a drink, paying for it with a handful of change, then came and slumped down across from Johnny.

  Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

  Johnny finally broke the silence. “Guess what?” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “I won thirty dollars.” He pushed the crumpled bills across the table. “Here.”

  Mac looked at the money for a moment. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, picking it up.

  “Playing darts. I won three games. Thirty dollars.” Johnny smiled, feeling proud.

  “Shit,” Mac said. “I just dropped two hundred dollars in there.” It was the last of the money from the pawn shop. The cassette player. Johnny’s gold watch. The cheap portable TV. Their possessions endured a nomadic existence, bouncing back and forth between them and the hock shop with regularity. “I just lost everything we had, kid. What good is thirty fucking dollars?” He threw the money back across the table at Johnny. The bills hit him in the face and fell, landing in a puddle of spilled beer. Mac downed the rest of his drink and got to his feet. “You coming?” He stalked toward the door, not waiting for an answer.

  Johnny carefully picked up the bills and put them into his shirt pocket, before hurrying to catch up.

  It was a fifteen minute walk to their fourth floor furnished room, a journey that passed in complete silence. Once inside, Mac took a lukewarm beer out of the haphazardly operative refrigerator, and sat down in front of the only window, apparently hoping for a breeze. He propped his feet on the sill and stared glumly out at the flashing neon sign across the street. ANCI G IRLS.

  Johnny stripped to his shorts in an effort to feel cooler and stretched out on the couch which doubled as his bed. He could hear the faint sound of a TV next door and listened until he could identify the show. “Mannix.” He couldn’t make out much of the action, but in a couple of minutes he’d heard enough to know that he’d already seen that episode. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes wearily.

  Mac cleared his throat finally. “You must be getting pretty good at throwing those darts.”

  Johnny shrugged.

  “Thirty dollars, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. I probably could’ve won more, but I was afraid of losing the thirty, so I quit.”

  Mac sighed. “That’s why you’re always gonna be a loser, Johnny. You’re too damned scared to take a chance. You have to live dangerously if you want to be a big winner.”

  “I guess you’re right, Mac.”

  “Sure as hell am, kid.” He was quiet for several moments. “Still, thirty dollars is pretty good.”

  “You think so?” Johnny got up from the couch, picking up his shirt from the floor. He pulled the money out and handed it to Mac. “Here.”

  Mac held the beer-damp bills tentatively. “You don’t have to give me this, you know.”

  Johnny was bewildered. “But you need a stake. I don’t need it for anything.”

  “You could get the TV out of hock.”

  Johnny thought about that for a moment; he sure missed having the small set around for company. Then he shrugged. “Ahh, hell,” he said. “Nothing on now but reruns anyway.”

  After a second, Mac grinned. “Yeah. Hey, you know what?”

  Johnny was smiling now, too, feeling good again. “What?”

  “This dough might just change my luck. And if it does, we could get a brand new set. A color one. Maybe before the new season starts. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Yeah, sure, Mac. I’d like a color set.”

  “Terrific. So we’ll just let that crummy little black-and-white stay where it is, and I’ll use this to get going again. I feel really lucky now, Johnny.”

  “Good.” It was terrific when Mac was up like this. Johnny went to the refrigerator and took out a Coke. He’d join Mac at the window and they could talk.

  But Mac had a familiar expression on his face, a sort of hungry look that Johnny knew well. “In fact, why wait until tomorrow, huh? If I’m feeling hot right now?” He shoved the money away and got to his feet. “You want to come back to the Cove with me?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Think I’ll just go to bed.”

  “Okay, kid.” Mac drained the beer can on the way to the door, then tossed it into the wastebasket, where it landed with a thud. “See? That’s a sign that my luck is changing.” He paused by the door. “Hey, that’s really great, you winning all this money, Johnny. Really great. I’m gonna have to watch you play sometime, okay?”

  Johnny felt his face grow hot with pride over the unexpected praise. “Sure, Mac,” he said shyly. “Anytime.”

  “Terrific.” Mac was keyed up, ready to go. “Good night,” he said.

  “‘Night, Mac.”

  The door closed. Alone, Johnny went to stand by the window and looked down at the sidewalk. He leaned against the wall, sipping soda, and listening to the end of “Mannix” from the next room, and watching until Mac disappeared around the corner.

  Chapter 9

  By the time fall arrived, they weren’t going to the Pirate’s Cove anymore. Mac explained it by saying that in his line of work “fluidity” was very important. A new game, new money, it was all crucial. Mac didn’t bother to explain that his line of credit at the Cove had been cut off and that a couple of people were beginning to get uptight about late payments. He figured that Johnny wouldn’t understand all that financial stuff anyway, so why bother him with it? All the kid really cared about was having his TV to watch and plenty of Coke to drink.

  So they moved to Brooklyn, to a small room over a pizzeria, and Mac found new games. Each beginning brought the same hopes of a break in his streak of bad luck, and in fact, there were enough wins to keep his hopes alive, though never quite enough to get him out of the hole. Johnny surprised the very hell out of him by getting a job washing dishes for the old dago downstairs. Mac didn’t like the idea very much, because Johnny was too smart to have to put up with a chickenshit job like that. But, of course, there wasn’t any way the rest of the world could know how smart he was when he was also too damned scared to open his mouth. Down there, he didn’t have to talk; all he had to do was wash the dishes and haul the garbage and keep the floor swept. He was invisible, as the people who do that kind of work always are, and he was content. Once a week he brought his pay envelope upstairs and gave it to Mac. The money, once they paid rent on the room, was hardly enough to keep Mac in cigarettes, but it was something, and it seemed very important to Johnny.

  And at least he had a job. Mac tried. He worked for three days in a shoe store, but he figured a week of that and he’d be as spaced-out as Johnny, so he quit. For awhile after that he read the classifieds every morning over breakfast, solemnly discussing the offerings with Johnny, but they never found anything that seemed suited to his particular talents. So he played cards and Johnny washed dishes for the dago and they got by.

  Chinese Eddie raked the chips across the table with both hi
s tiny hands. “Sorry about this, Mac,” he said cheerfully. “You been going through a cold streak lately, ain’t you?”

  Mac threw his cards down in disgust. “All my fucking life,” he mumbled. “Well, that finishes me. Unless you’ll take my marker?”

  But Eddie shook his head woefully, causing his several chins to jiggle. “No can do, man. I’m already getting static from upstairs.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  The other players had suddenly become very interested in their drinks; he and Eddie might have been alone in the dimly lit room. Eddie was slowly shuffling a new deck. “Have you totaled your markers lately?” he asked casually.

  “No, but—”

  “They come to almost four thousand dollars, Mac, between here and the Cove. That’s a lot of money.”

  The amount stunned Mac a little, and he reached for a cigarette, trying not to let his fingers tremble as he lit it. “Well, yeah, I know it sounds like a lot. Hell, it is a lot, but—”

  Eddie carefully cut the deck, not even looking at him. “There are no ‘buts,’ Mac. The boys would like you to arrange some settlement for this account.”

  The atmosphere in the room had turned vaguely ominous. Mac took a couple of quick drags on the cigarette, then smiled. “Sure, look, I know how it is. But, see, I’ve got a couple of very hot prospects that ought to start paying off real soon.”

  Eddie smiled, beaming as if his fondest dreams had been realized. “I’m very glad about that, Mac, because I like you.” A faint, a very faint hint of worry crossed the vast expanse of his face. “I can only hope that these prospects start paying off within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Mac’s mouth was dry, but there wasn’t any whiskey left in his glass. “But that’s not enough time . . .” His voice dwindled off as he realized the futility of protest.

  Eddie spread his fingers helplessly. “I don’t make the rules, Mac.”

  “Sure, Eddie,” he said bitterly. He jerked his coat on and left the room.

  It was almost two a.m., time for Johnny to get off work, so instead of going up to the room, Mac pushed open the door of the pizzeria. The old dago was sitting bent over the racing form and he barely glanced up. “He’s in the alley taking the garbage,” he said, already studying the sheet again.

  Mac nodded and walked past him to the rear of the place.

  “Hi,” he began, pushing the back door open. He stopped. Johnny wasn’t alone.

  Two gorillas had him against the fence that lined the alley. One of the apes had both hands on Johnny’s shoulders. The glow from the streetlamp reflected off the lenses of Johnny’s glasses, hiding his eyes from view, but Mac knew what expression he would have seen there. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked quietly, recognizing both men from the Cove game.

  Frank, one of the tough guys, turned. “Why nothing’s going on, Mr. McCarthy,” he said. “We was only leaving a message with your friend here.” The massive fingers dug into Johnny’s shoulders and he winced visibly. The men were built like bull elephants stuffed into polyester suits. Johnny was six-one and Mac six-four, and while the other two may not have been any taller, they were considerably heavier. Not to mention the fact that beneath each shiny jacket could be seen the obvious outline of a holster. The fingers squeezed again. “You get that message straight, dummy?”

  Johnny nodded jerkily.

  “Good.” The hands released him, and Johnny slumped against the fence. Frank and his buddy Al grinned at Mac and disappeared down the alley.

  Mac moved, grabbing Johnny by one arm. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure, kid?”

  “Yeah, Mac, I’m okay.”

  He nodded, releasing his breath in a long sigh, then turned to look off into the darkness as they heard a car start up and drive away. “Bastards. They don’t have any business coming around here bothering you.”

  Johnny took several deep breaths. “They said to tell you twenty-four hours. What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing.” He realized that Johnny, in his shirt sleeves, was shivering as the sharp November wind hit him. “Get your coat and let’s go home.”

  Some home, he thought bitterly as they climbed the stairs. A room about four feet square, stinking all the time of tomato sauce and olive oil. Johnny stood in front of the space heater and tried to get rid of the chills that still wracked his body. Or maybe it was fear. Mac poured two slugs of dago red and handed one to him. “Drink it,” he ordered when Johnny made a face.

  “Mac, what’s happening?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But those guys—”

  “Shut up, Johnny,” Mac said sharply. “Drink your wine and shut up about it.”

  Johnny shut up and drank the wine.

  Mac sat down on his bed. “Ahh, Johnny,” he said after a long time. “I’ve really screwed things up.”

  Johnny shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Goddamnit, Johnny, listen to me for once, willya? I owe these people a lot of money. Four fucking thousand dollars.” He stared at the empty glass in his hand, then suddenly threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall. The room was quiet for a moment. “Oh, Christ, Johnny, I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

  Johnny came over and sat beside him. He patted Mac’s arm. “It’ll be okay.”

  “These people aren’t playing games, you idiot. They had guns.”

  Johnny’s face was pale, but his voice was steady. “You’ll take care of it.”

  Mac sneered. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll take care of it. Superman lives, right? You gotta stop watching so goddamned much TV; it’s rotting away what few brains you have left.” He felt so tired. All he wanted to do was get out of this lousy room, away from the hassles, away from those damned blue eyes that were always watching him. Trusting him. God, he didn’t want to be trusted anymore, not anymore. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. Almost desperately he reached for his jacket and pulled it on again. “I gotta go out for awhile,” he mumbled.

  “But, Mac . . .”

  “Don’t worry.” He opened the door, then paused. “I’ll be back, Johnny. I’ll be back, but I just have to get out for a while, okay?” He left before Johnny could speak again.

  He walked for a long time, rode the subway for awhile, and ended up in the New Amsterdam Theater on Forty-second Street. His was the only white face in the crowd. He made his way up the aisle, which was sticky with spilled soda, cigarette butts, and discarded hot dogs, and found a seat in the last row of the balcony. Lighting a cigarette, he propped both feet on the back of the seat in front of him and stared at the screen.

  He had no idea what movie was playing, but it didn’t matter.

  Half-asleep, he watched the flickering images on the screen until his eyes grew tired of staring at the garish pictures, then tipped his head back to gaze at the vast, vaulted ceiling overhead.

  He dozed, waking once to find a hand on his thigh, edging upwards toward his crotch. Without opening his eyes, he spoke. “Get away from me, you mother-fucking fag bastard,” he said very softly, “or I’ll ram this chair up your ass.”

  The hand vanished. Mac scrunched further down in the seat and watched the movie.

  Chapter 10

  Johnny sat in the room for a long time after Mac left. He was trying to think about what to do. Mac needed help and Johnny wanted desperately to help him. Finally, he got up and left the room.

  He knew all about the faulty lock on the back door of the pizzeria. It took him only a couple of minutes to snap it free and push the door open. As he stepped inside, his father’s voice rang clearly in his mind, sounding as if the old man were standing there next to him. “Thou shalt not steal,” the harsh voice said.

  Johnny brushed the words away impatiently. This wasn’t stealing. The old man had money. Mac needed money. It was as simple as that, really. You didn’t need a whole religion and lots of rules to know right from wrong, he decided. Things just were what they
were, and the only thing to do was make the best of it.

  Carefully he made his way through the kitchen, into the small cubicle that served as an office. A narrow sliver of light leaked in from outside. He started opening desk drawers at random, until he reached the bottom drawer, which was locked. He pulled out his pocket knife again and started to work. This one took a little longer than the lock on the door had, but finally it, too, snapped open. A small steel box sat there. Now he had to get that open. He knew that it would have been easier to just take the box along, but that wouldn’t be fair. He didn’t want all the dago’s money, just four thousand dollars, the amount that Mac needed. So he began a studied attack on the padlock securing the box. His breathing was quick and raspy as he worked, but his fingers were steady.

  Blinding white light suddenly exploded in the room. Johnny looked up, surprised, blinking against the sudden invasion of brightness. A massive black cop stood in the doorway, his gun leveled at Johnny. “Freeze.”

  Johnny froze. “Don’t shoot,” he whispered. “Please, don’t shoot me.”

  “I’m not going to shoot, if you do what you’re told. Just put the knife down on the desk and stand up slowly.”

  He dropped the penknife and stood.

  Another cop slipped into the room, coming forward to frisk him quickly and efficiently. “What’s your name?”

  Johnny’s head turned toward him. “Huh?”

  “Your name, buddy, what is it?”

  Johnny’s hands were still in the air. “John Paul Griffith,” he said hoarsely.

  “Okay, Griffith, you’re under arrest.” The cop pulled a worn card out of his pocket and glanced at it. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right—”

  The voice faded away slowly until, although he could still see the man’s lips moving, Johnny couldn’t hear any of the words. He stared dumbly at the moving lips as the terror filled him, consumed him.