Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  Chapter 12

  Mac spent the next two days running all over the city, trying to parlay his pitifully small stake into four thousand dollars before the people he owed could catch up with him. He hustled like he never had before, chasing down guys he hadn’t seen in months, scrounging every cent he could.

  They had a new home, a cockroach-ridden room behind a second-hand furniture store, and Johnny stayed there. He was restless and a little bewildered, but as always, he obeyed Mac’s orders unquestioningly. The last thing Mac needed was to have Johnny wandering the streets, easy prey for Frank and Al, the two gorillas.

  At the end of forty-eight hours, he’d managed to turn his pittance into three-hundred and seventy-five dollars. A tidy sum, yeah, but still a helluva long way from what he needed. It was nearly ten P.M. when he finally gave up and started home. He was very tired, a little drunk, feeling the almost unbearable loneliness of the deserted side street. The chilling wind cut through the heavy denim jacket he wore as if it were made of paper. He walked a little faster, wanting to be home, not wanting to be alone anymore.

  He was three blocks from the room when Frank and Al stepped out of an alley and stopped in front of him. Mac pulled his hands out of his pockets, tensing. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, there, Mr. McCarthy. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’ve been around.”

  “So we hear.”

  Mac ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. “You want something?”

  “Yeah, sir, we want something. In fact, we want four thousand somethings. And we want them now.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He reached toward his pocket. “I have three-hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he said. “You take it. Well, look, on second thought, take only three, why don’t you, and leave me the seventy-five for a stake, so I can—”

  He never finished the sentence. A fist, augmented by brass knuckles and backed by Frank’s well-over two-hundred pounds, crashed into his stomach. Grunting, Mac bent over. The same fist collided with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards. He collided with a brick wall.

  “See,” Al said kindly, “you don’t owe three-hundred. You owe four thousand. And on top of that, see, you ran out so we had to chase you all over the city.”

  “I. . . wasn’t trying . . . to run out,” Mac gasped. “I was only . . . trying to raise the cash.”

  “Yes, well, that’s fine and good. But you didn’t get it, did you? So now we have to collect the interest.” Al stepped aside.

  Mac tried to avoid the next blow from Frank. He sidestepped, shoving both arms into Frank’s mid-section. The fat man grunted a little. Before Mac could take advantage of that momentary victory, Al crashed what felt like the butt of a gun into the back of his head.

  Colored lights exploded in his skull. Mac sprawled onto the gritty concrete, tasting the hot blood that gushed from his nose, feeling the surface of his palms scraped raw. He rolled onto his back, hoping to be able to kick upwards and make his escape.

  Before he could move and put his plan, such as it was, into operation, a steel-tipped shoe was propelled into his side once, then again and again. The heel of another shoe was pressed slowly, deliberately, into his outstretched palm. All of this took place in an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of his own raspy breaths.

  Absently Mac kept a tally of the bruising kicks to his body. He could feel the bile rising up, threatening to choke him, and he turned his head, letting the hot liquid roll out the side of his mouth. It made him mad to realize that he might die here, amid the over-turned garbage cans, finished off by a couple of shitheads like these two. It also made him sad, although he didn’t know why. Life hadn’t been such a barrel of laughs that he should mind very much checking out a little early.

  The beating had stopped without Mac’s really being aware of it, and someone was pawing through his pockets. The hard-earned money was removed. “We’ll be around for the rest,” a voice said. “Understand?” Another kick. “Understand?”

  He managed to nod. They walked away, leaving him alone in the alley to die.

  A long time passed, and he didn’t move at all. It was kind of peaceful there, actually, just him and a couple of roving tomcats. Or maybe they were rats; he really couldn’t see too well. The flow of blood from his nose had slowed to a trickle. He wondered how long it took to die.

  “Oh, shit,” he mumbled suddenly. “I forgot about him.”

  So much for a nice quiet death here in the alley. Johnny was waiting for him in that terrible little room above the furniture store, and if he didn’t come back, that idiot would probably just sit there until he died of starvation or something.

  Mac tried to roll over, and on his third attempt, he made it. The effort brought tears to his eyes, but he didn’t take time to catch his breath before pushing himself to his knees. “Ohjesus he said. “Ohchrist.” Putting his hands against the side of the building, he managed slowly and excruciatingly to push himself to a standing position. He leaned his face against the cold surface of the bricks. It felt so good that he just wanted to stand there forever, but after a while he knew that it was time to move on.

  The first step nearly finished him. He shuffled about six inches and then stopped, doubled over in pain, throwing up again. “Help me,” he whispered to the emptiness. “Help me, Johnny.” Oh great, he thought, things were so bad that he needed help from the dumbass kid. His breath came in sharp, gravelly gasps that whistled every once in a while. With shaking fingers, he poked and probed until he came to the conclusion that no matter how much they hurt, all of his ribs were still somehow intact.

  Finally, by sliding his feet along the pavement, he managed to move. He kept both arms wrapped around his stomach, stopping every once in a while to catch his breath. Think about something else, he ordered himself. Shit, it was so damned cold. Almost Christmas. Yeah, think about Christmas.

  When he was ten, he spent the holiday with some minister’s family. What the hell was their name? Loomis, that was it. The Loomises were Episcopalians, but the nuns were so anxious to find a home for the gangly, solitary boy that they decided to forget liturgical differences and let him go. The minister was a nice man. Dumb, but nice. His wife baked cookies all the time. While the minister wrote his Christmas Eve sermon and the wife turned out seemingly endless pans of cookies, Mac spent time with their son. The boy was fifteen. Mac hadn’t thought about Brian Loomis in a long time. The minister’s son and the orphan boy hid in the cellar, where they smoked illicit cigarettes and looked at dirty pictures. Whenever Brian got a hard-on, he would make Mac jerk him off. That happened a couple times every day during his one-week stay.

  He wondered what had happened to Brian Loomis.

  Mac looked up and realized that he still had a block to go. Think some more. Christmas. Last year he and Johnny had humped down to the Salvation Army for a free meal. His luck had been on a bad streak then.

  He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

  Still, the meal hadn’t been so bad. Turkey and everything, and they even let Johnny have seconds on the pumpkin pie. Afterward, he treated Johnny to a double feature, both westerns. Johnny, shyness making him even more tongue-tied than usual, presented him with a carton of cigarettes.

  Hell, when he stopped to think about it, last Christmas had been pretty good. Better than most. Maybe even the best.

  He reached the corner. Just a little further, he thought, and I’ll be home. Then everything will be okay. That thought kept him moving, when all he really wanted to do was fall into the gutter and let blessed oblivion wash over him. But finally, finally, he dragged his weary body up the stairs and reached the door to their room. Without even enough strength left to knock, he lifted one hand and scratched feebly at the chipped painted surface. He waited a century or two, then scratched again.

  “Who’s there?” said a soft voice from within.

  “John,” he gasped out. “It’s me, Johnny.”

  The door flew open. He got one look at Johnny�
��s scared face before everything started to spin around, the blackness taking over at last, and he pitched forward into Johnny’s arms.

  His next awareness was of a dull, throbbing ache in his side, and then of a soft insistent whisper very close to his ear. “Mac? Hey, buddy? Please, Mac, don’t die.”

  He couldn’t even open his eyes yet. Instead, he lay very still and took a groggy inventory. The bloody clothes were gone, his body had been cleaned, and he was lying in bed, feeling warm and almost comfortable. It was nice and he was tempted to just drift away again.

  But there was that whisper. “Mac, please, wake up.”

  Allowing himself to be dragged back from the edge, he managed to move his hand a little, searching, until his fingers closed around Johnny’s wrist. He squeezed lightly. “S’okay,” he mumbled through swollen lips.

  “Mac?”

  Finally he opened his eyes. Johnny, pale and wearing a T-shirt that was caked with blood, sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes, wide blue pools behind the glasses, were panic-stricken. “Hey,” Mac said, “s’okay, really.”

  “Should I get a doctor or something?”

  “Uh-uh. Hurts like hell, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”

  Johnny released his breath in a long sigh.

  “Thanks for patching me up.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Johnny grinned. “Maybe I should’ve been a doctor, right?” The smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. He stood and walked a few steps away from the bed, not looking at Mac. “I was so damned scared,” he said hoarsely. “I thought you were—” He broke off.

  “I must’ve looked like death warmed over,” Mac said, trying to speak lightly.

  Johnny whirled around to face him. “I was so scared, Mac. I’m sorry to be so scared all the time. I don’t like being a coward.”

  Mac tried to lift his head, but immediately gave it up as a bad idea. “That’s a stupid thing to say. You’re not a coward.”

  Johnny shivered a little. “Yeah, Mac, I am, and that’s no good. I hate myself sometimes and you must hate me, too.”

  “Stop it,” Mac said wearily. “Just knock off the crap, willya? I’m really not up to it right now. I don’t hate you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, kid, I know.” Every inch of his body hurt. “Shit. We have any booze?”

  Johnny got an almost empty bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and brought it to him. “Who did this to you?”

  “Al and Frank, of course. That shouldn’t surprise you.”

  “Because of the money?”

  “Yeah, because of the money.” In one long drink, Mac drained the bottle. “Took my fucking three-seventy-five, too.”

  Johnny kept wiping his hands on his blue jeans, as if he were still trying to get rid of the blood. “They almost killed you.”

  He handed the empty bottle back. “Yeah, well, that was an oversight I’m sure they’ll correct the next time.” He leaned back and closed his eyes as the alcohol began to work on his system. “Gotta sleep, babe,” he mumbled. “Ev’rythin’ be okay, ya’know.”

  “I know.”

  Johnny’s voice sounded faint and far away as Mac finally let the warm darkness wash over him and sweep him away.

  Chapter 13

  He watched Mac sleep for a long time.

  When at last he was convinced that the reassuring up-and-down movements of the other man’s chest would continue, Johnny stood, stretching his cramped muscles. The bloody T-shirt stuck to his body unpleasantly, and he grimaced a little, pulling the offending garment over his head and tossing it into the trash.

  He washed away the last traces of Mac’s blood and put on an old khaki shirt that was a little too large. After checking on Mac again, Johnny went to the battered dresser and quietly slid the top drawer open. Inside the drawer there was a jumble of Mac’s things, all dumped there indiscriminately. It was the way they lived, from one cheap room to another, an existence that made objects more of an annoyance than anything else. A thing that had no value at the pawnshop meant nothing. The drawer held socks and underwear, mostly G.I. Discharge papers for both men. Lieutenant’s bars. Old matchbooks. A couple back issues of Playboy. Johnny scooted all the junk aside, reaching beneath the clutter until his fingers closed around the grip of the Army issue .45. The one item of value that never went to the pawnshop.

  Johnny pulled the gun out, frowning a little. The feel of the cold metal in his hand reminded him fleetingly of something, but the memory was lost in that void he had in his past. Fragments came back once in a while, mostly at night, causing him to wake up trembling and drenched in sweat. At times like that, he would wake Mac, and Mac would talk to him, quietly and calmly, not about the dreams or what caused them, but about other things. Like the trip to Hollywood they were going to take soon. Or he told stories about some of the funny things that had happened to him back at the orphanage. It didn’t matter what he said anyway; it was just the sound of the deep voice that drove away the demons.

  Johnny shook off the thoughts and went back to the chair, holding the gun easily in one hand. Just as he sat down, Mac stirred restlessly, mumbling something Johnny couldn’t understand. He reached out with his free hand and pulled the blanket up, tucking it more tightly around the sleeping man. “S’okay,” he soothed. “I’m not scared now.”

  He checked the gun, saw that there was a full clip inside, and tucked the weapon into his waistband. Like Steve McGarrett, he thought. Or Matt Dillon. Leaning forward a little, he spoke again, his fingers resting lightly on Mac’s arm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, buddy,” he said softly.

  Shrugging into his dark blue ski jacket, he turned off the overhead light, leaving a small lamp on, and went out of the room. The air outside smelled of approaching snow. Johnny shoved both hands into his pockets, ducking his head against the bite of the wind as he walked quickly toward the subway.

  There was only one other person waiting for the train, a middle-aged black woman carrying a brown paper shopping bag. They eyed one another with mutual suspicion, before Johnny smiled blankly and moved several yards away.

  It was nearly five minutes before the train roared to a stop. The car was crowded with a noisy bunch of teenagers, all of whom seemed to be high. They pushed and shoved up and down the aisle, singing, laughing, exuding an excitement that hovered on the near edge of violence. Johnny huddled in a seat by the door, careful not to look at any of the kids, afraid, terrified that they would notice him and . . . and what? He didn’t really know what they might do, but the fear was so strong that he could taste it, metallic and bitter in his mouth. Only the thought that Mac was counting on him kept Johnny from fleeing the train at the next stop.

  The fifteen minutes it took to reach his stop seemed endless, but at last Johnny could scurry out of the car and up the steps, emerging onto a crowded sidewalk. Despite the late hour and the cold, there were still plenty of people out and about. Hustlers, night wanderers, funseekers, moving in and out of the bars, massage parlors, and bookstores that lined the street. Surrounded by a universe of threatening strangers, Johnny drew further into himself, edging cautiously through the crowd, one hand resting on the gun. The lump of steel dug into his belly, but rather than being an annoyance, the presence of the weapon, Mac’s gun, was reassuring. Almost like having Mac himself there.

  Johnny’s feelings were as jumbled as had been the contents of the drawer earlier. Fear, certainly. But not of the moment, itself, or even of what he intended to do. Only fear, as always, of the people swirling around him, watching him. Two hookers, one female and one male, approached him in the space of half a block. He ignored their graphic invitations.

  Even the fear, though, was over-shadowed by his sense of purpose. It was the first time that he could ever remember feeling really important. Except maybe for the time he made the speech at graduation. The whole auditorium listened to him that night. He could still remember the speech. “As we the class of 1960 embark upon the great adventure of life
,” he whispered into the knife-edged wind, “we are strengthened and emboldened by the lessons learned here. The road we are about to set foot upon will not be easy. The dangers are many, but we face them unafraid. No one knows what the future may hold, but I am confident. I look into the next decade with all its promises and all its problems, and I feel a great sense of exhilaration.”

  They all applauded and cheered when he finished. Of course, it was maybe a little bit because they felt sorry for him, his parents being just dead and all. But still it was a good speech.

  So now here he was, finally doing something, finally taking action. This was almost like those holy missions his parents used to go on. They went to save souls from the Devil. Well, Al and Frank were like devils. They were evil and cruel, and it was his duty to save Mac’s soul from them, to save Mac. The wages of sin is death, and they had sinned by the terrible thing they had done to Mac. And they might do worse unless he stopped them. Their evil could not be allowed to triumph over Mac’s goodness.

  When he reached the Pirate’s Cove, Johnny didn’t go in. Instead, he ducked into the alley and walked to the rear of the building. Loud rock music from bars on either side of the Cove filled the air. He hunched down behind some empty packing crates and leaned against the side of the building to wait.

  It was getting colder. He blew on his fingers every couple of minutes to warm them a little. Hope this doesn’t take too long, he fretted. Mac shouldn’t be by himself, in case he needs me.

  And, the thought came, what will Mac say about this?

  Johnny chewed on his chapped lower lip. I gotta do everything just right, or he’ll get mad at me. I hate it worse than anything when Mac is mad at me.

  He sighed and gripped the gun more tightly. Where the hell were Al and Frank? They always turned up sooner or later at the Cove; it was a part of their routine. Johnny’s knowledge of what went on around him would have startled even Mac, who was fully aware that he wasn’t nearly as spaced out as everybody else thought. But even Mac had no idea how completely Johnny assimilated his surroundings. The vague blue eyes missed nothing. No one knew Johnny; he knew everyone.