Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  “Mac, it hurts,” Johnny said quietly.

  “I’m sorry.” He got up from the bed, carefully avoiding the pool of vomit on the floor, and went to sit next to Johnny. “God, kid, I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do it.”

  At last, he forced himself to look into Johnny’s eyes, seeing the unshed tears gathered there helplessly. “But it’s my fault.”

  Johnny just shook his head. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Damn, Mac, it hurts.”

  Mac tried to look at the arm without moving it, almost retching when he saw the swelling, discolored wrist. “Ohjesus, baby, this needs a doctor.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mac tried to remember his first aid training. Immobilize it, he thought, until we can get to the hospital. He stood, looking around the room for something to use as a splint.

  “Mac, why’d they do this? We don’t even know those guys.”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He picked up a copy of TV Guide, and yanked a tie out of the closet, then sat down again. His hand moved restlessly across Johnny’s shoulders, touching sweat-damp curls that clung to his neck. “Later, kid, I’ll explain. Later, okay? Right now, we have to get you to the hospital,” he whispered. What magic words he could say later that would make this all okay, he didn’t know, but there was no time now to wonder. He tucked the magazine around the wrist and secured it with the tie. Johnny didn’t make a sound during the procedure, although Mac knew it had to hurt like hell. “Think we can get some clothes on you?” He tried for a smile. “Don’t want you running around in your skivvies.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Mac pulled his own clothes on, then helped Johnny into blue jeans and sandals. He draped his windbreaker over Johnny’s bare shoulders. By this time, Johnny was a sick white color. Sweat poured down his face as he watched everything Mac did with two glazed eyes. “It hurts,” he kept saying. “It hurts, Mac.”

  “I know, I know,” Mac muttered, urging him out the door and down to the sidewalk. He managed to get a cab almost immediately and eased Johnny into the back seat carefully.

  By the time they walked into the emergency room, Johnny was trembling continuously, his flesh felt cold and clammy, and his eyes seemed unable to focus. But he wasn’t bleeding and his breathing, though shallow, showed no signs of stopping immediately. A skinny Spanish nurse waved them to the waiting room, which was already jammed. Mac managed to find some space on a plastic couch in one corner, and he lowered Johnny onto it, then sat next to him. He lit a cigarette and draped one arm lightly around Johnny’s shoulders. “How you doing, kiddo?”

  “ ‘Kay,” Johnny said thickly. “Killed my dog.”

  “What?”

  “He killed my dog.”

  Mac hunched closer to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, babe.”

  “Had a dog. Raffles. Nice dog. Mine. Dog loved me.”

  “Yeah, dogs’ll do that,” Mac agreed, massaging the back of Johnny’s neck.

  “I stole money from my mother’s purse. Five dollars.” He shivered. “Cold.” It must have been eighty-five degrees in the room. Mac gently tugged the windbreaker more closely around Johnny. “Took the money, you know, so I could buy candy. Thought the kids would like me, but it didn’t work. They took the candy and then they ran off. Then my father found out. He hit me. That was okay . . . deserved it.” Johnny turned his head and looked blindly at Mac. “But he didn’t have to kill my dog, did he?”

  “No, man. He shouldn’t have done that. It was mean.”

  “Yeah. He was mean.”

  Mac reached toward the ash tray and crushed out the cigarette. “But that was a long time ago, kid. Forget it, huh?”

  “Yeah, forget it. You’re my friend now, so everything is okay. You’re a good friend, Mac.”

  “Oh, sure thing,” he replied bitterly. “I’m a blue ribbon buddy, I am.”

  They didn’t talk anymore. Finally a door opened and a tired-looking black nurse stuck her head out. “Mr. Griffith?” she called out.

  Mac pulled Johnny to his feet and walked him over. The nurse nodded and took hold of Johnny’s good arm. “Wait here, please,” she said to Mac.

  “But can’t I just—”

  “Please, sir, we’re busy, and it’s very crowded back here. Just have a seat.”

  He wanted to protest further, but the nurse gave him no chance. She closed the door. He went back to the couch and lit another cigarette. Anger and pain and guilt were tearing up his insides, causing him to ache. He pressed a hand to his side. Goddamn, the world was a rotten place. People. Motherfucking people, anyway. Why the hell did they have to hurt somebody like Johnny? It wasn’t fair. He stared across the aisle, watching distantly as an old black woman pressed a bloody towel to a young boy’s shoulder.

  “Sir?”

  The voice sounded impatient, as if it had been speaking to him for some time. He turned. “Yeah?”

  Another nurse. “We need some information for the records. Please come to the desk.”

  “You know how long it’s gonna take back there?” he asked, as they both sat at the desk.

  “No, sir. What is the patient’s full name?”

  “John Paul Griffith.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Address?”

  The door to the treatment rooms opened and Mac answered absently, his eyes on the people coming out, but Johnny wasn’t among them.

  “Is the patient covered by Blue Cross?”

  Mac managed not to laugh. “No. He doesn’t have any insurance.”

  She frowned. “How will the bill be taken care of?”

  Send it to Tedesco, he wanted to say. Better yet, I’ll take it personally and shove it up his ass. “I’ll pay it,” was what he said aloud.

  “Your name?”

  “Alex McCarthy. Same address. Look, could you maybe just check and make sure he’s okay? He gets kind of upset sometimes and—”

  “How did the injury occur?”

  Mac slid down in the chair. Bitch. Cold-hearted cunt. Thought nurses were supposed to be nice, to care about people. All she cares about are the frigging forms. “He fell on the steps.”

  “Name of his next of kin?”

  “He doesn’t have any family.” Just one fucked-up friend. Poor John Paul Griffith. No family. No Blue Cross. Just me.

  “Will you make a preliminary payment now?”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  He sighed, but handed her the money. After a couple more questions that seemed to have very little to do with a broken wrist, she sent him back to the couch to wait some more.

  He had time to smoke three more cigarettes, read three very old issues of Time, and count the other people waiting several times before Johnny appeared in the doorway, a short cast gleaming on his forearm. He stood still, his eyes darting wildly around the room, until he spotted Mac and hurried toward him.

  Mac stood, carefully gripping Johnny by both shoulders. “You okay?” he asked softly.

  Johnny nodded.

  They stood in the awkward half-embrace a moment longer, then Mac led Johnny out of the place. “They gave me a shot, Mac, so it doesn’t hurt so much,” he said, keeping a tight grip on Mac’s arm, just as he used to do when they were walking through the jungles of Nam.

  “I’m glad, kid.” They walked for a couple more minutes, then Mac spotted an all-night coffeeshop. “You want to get something?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Once they were sitting in a booth and Johnny had ordered a Coke and a jelly doughnut, and Mac coffee, they sat in silence for a long time. Mac still found it hard to meet Johnny’s eyes. He stared, instead, at the cast. “It seems like I just keep getting us in deeper and deeper,” he said finally.

  Johnny was examining the doughnut. “I don’t understand.”

  “What happened tonight—Tedesco did it.”

  “I sort of figured that,” Johnny said thoughtfu
lly. “But why? Did I do something wrong, Mac?”

  “No, of course not.” Mac took a quick gulp of coffee. “It’s me. He wants me to do something and I told him no. This is his way of getting me to change my mind.” He set the cup down with a crash. “That bastard. That goddamned motherfucking bastard. He could have come after me.”

  “Hey, Mac, it’s okay. Don’t get mad, please.”

  Mac didn’t say anything.

  Johnny licked sugar from his fingers. “What’s he want you to do?”

  “Kill a man,” Mac said flatly.

  “Oh.” Johnny’s face didn’t change. He shook his head. “I wish that we had never got mixed up with Tedesco.”

  “Yeah, well, you can thank me for that piece of luck, too, can’t you?” Mac said. He pushed himself out of the booth suddenly. “Man, I’ve been screwing things up for a long time. You’d have been better off never meeting me. You think I’m a friend? Well, the joke’s on you, dummy. I’m just a fucked-up loser, so why don’t I do us both a favor and get lost for good?” He turned and walked out, his back stiff.

  Mac walked around the block slowly, smoking a cigarette. He passed a dancehall and paused awhile to watch the crowd milling restlessly on the sidewalk. Couples shared cigarettes and necked in the shadows. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. Nobody else was alone.

  He didn’t like being alone. Finally he sighed and walked back to the coffeeshop. He sat down in the booth, once again avoiding Johnny’s eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” Johnny said very quietly. “Don’t you ever run out on me like that.”

  Mac reached for the Coke and took a swallow. “You knew damned well I’d be back,” he muttered.

  “Yeah?” Johnny thought about that for a moment. “Well, maybe I did, but that doesn’t matter. It isn’t fair for you to do that to me.”

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry.” He was. “I won’t do it again.”

  “Promise?”

  The blue eyes gleamed. Shit, what a preacher the kid woulda made if he’d followed in the footsteps of his folks. “I promise.”

  Johnny nodded then, forgiving with the ease of a child.

  “Come on,” Mac said, leaving a quarter tip, “let’s go home.”

  They left the coffeeshop and started walking slowly, halfheartedly looking for a taxi, but really content just to walk. “Who are we supposed to kill?” Johnny asked after a couple of minutes.

  “Some guy named Danata. He’s trying to muscle in on Tedesco’s territory.” Mac kicked at an empty beer can. “But let’s not fool ourselves. This would only be the beginning.”

  “Tedesco still has an ‘or else,’ right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Breaking a bone or two is just for openers.”

  Johnny stopped walking and fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a white envelope. He put two tiny yellow pills on his tongue. “It’s starting to hurt again,” he explained as they walked some more. “We have to do it, don’t we?”

  Mac took a deep breath. “Unless we want to risk Tedesco’s ‘or else.’ And I don’t know if we’re ready for that.” He reached out and touched the cast with a fleeting fingertip. “I’m not ready, at least. I don’t have that much strength.”

  Johnny was frowning. “He might hurt you.”

  I guess.

  Johnny shrugged. “Then we don’t have any choice, do we?”

  “I guess not.” They were quiet for awhile. Mac finally cleared his throat. “It’s a helluva thing for a fifteen-year Army man to admit, but I’m not much of a shot.” Self-hatred filled him, waves of it washing over him. At that moment, he hated himself more than he had ever hated anyone in his life, even Tedesco. Instead of looking at Johnny, Mac stared at the empty beer cans, cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, and other less identifiable pieces of litter that filled the sidewalk. People were such slobs.

  “That’s all right,” Johnny said wearily. “I’ll do it.”

  They looked at one another. “Thank you,” Mac said softly.

  Johnny shrugged. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” he asked suddenly.

  “Sure.”

  “That’ll be okay, then. There’s a cab. I’m tired.”

  Mac nodded and raised his arm to summon the taxi.

  Chapter 19

  The messenger, a skinny kid in an ill-fitting suit, handed a box to Mac and then was gone again immediately. Mac brought the package in and set it on the table. Involuntarily, he wiped both hands on the front of his dark green T-shirt.

  Johnny was awkwardly trying to manipulate a shirt on over his cast. He looked up curiously. “What’s that?”

  “Tedesco sent it over,” Mac replied shortly. “Must be the gun.”

  “We have a gun already.”

  “No good. He wants us to use this one. It’s new. Clean. No way to trace it to anyone.”

  “Oh.” Johnny finally got the shirt on and began to button it with one hand. “Open it,” he ordered suddenly. “I want to see the gun.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

  Mac looked at him, a little bewildered by the edge in his voice. “Yeah, it’s yours,” he muttered. With a quick jerk, he snapped the string and then ripped away the brown paper. He took off the lid and pulled aside the cotton wadding. A shiver ran the length of his spine as he stared at the blue-steel monster, with its eight-inch barrel. He shoved the box across the table toward Johnny. “There. Your toy.”

  Apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in the words, Johnny lifted the gun out with his right hand, hefting its weight thoughtfully. Some emotion Mac couldn’t quite read flickered through the blue eyes. “Mac?” he said faintly.

  “What?”

  “I killed a lot of people in the war, didn’t I?”

  Mac began crumpling the brown paper. “What difference does it make now? That was a long time ago.”

  “I was just wondering. I did, didn’t I?”

  “You did the same as everybody else.” Mac wondered, not for the first time, just what had happened at Tan Pret. What had turned John Griffith, high school valedictorian, into the shattered child he’d met? The child he was apparently stuck with for good. Well, he’d probably never know. Not that it mattered much now.

  Johnny was squinting down the barrel of the gun.

  “Be careful, willya? That fucker might be loaded.”

  “I know. When you’re in a war, it’s okay to kill, I guess.”

  Mac was clearing away the breakfast dishes. “I guess it is.”

  Johnny put the gun down and tried to scratch inside the cast. His face was thoughtful. A danger sign. When Johnny starting thinking, things usually started to get weird. “That’s because you have to get them before they get you,” he announced seriously.

  “Yeah,” Mac said heavily. “That’s right, but why talk about it now?”

  Johnny picked up the gun again. “Because that’s what we’re doing here, too, isn’t it?”

  Mac nodded.

  Johnny thought for another moment. “I understand now.”

  He ran hot water into the sink. “You understand what, kid?”

  “That you don’t have to be brave to be a good soldier. You just have to be scared enough.” He sighed and bent his attention to the gun once again.

  Mac crashed the silverware into the sink.

  Mac was enjoying the feel of the car beneath his hands as he guided the rented Camero over the Jersey roads. “We oughta get us a car,” he said enthusiastically. “I had an old Dodge once that was great.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny agreed. “This is fun.” He had the radio blaring and the window rolled down so that the sun-drenched wind blew across his face. “When I was a kid, we never had a car.”

  “Well, we’re gonna get one,” Mac decided.

  “Could you teach me how to drive?”

  “Don’t you know? Shit, I didn’t think there was anyone who couldn’t drive.”

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny said.

  “What for? If you
don’t know, you don’t know. I’ll teach you. Then we won’t be so tied to the frigging city.”

  Johnny grinned. “Could we get a blue car?”

  “Sure, whatever kind you want.”

  He finally found what he was looking for, a wooded area isolated from the main road. He parked the car behind some trees, and they got out, Johnny carrying the gun box with his good arm. They walked until the trees thinned out a little. Mac used a thumbtack to attach the centerfold from an old Playboy to a tree, then paced off about fifty feet. “Come here,” he ordered.

  Johnny walked over, eyeing the picture curiously. “You want me to hit that?”

  “Yeah, boy, that’s the general idea. Hit it.”

  He took the gun out of the box. “Who is she?”

  “What the hell difference does that make? Miss April or something.”

  Johnny smiled faintly as he took position. “It’s almost like throwing darts, huh?”

  Mac nodded. “Something like that, yeah.”

  He lined up the shot, squinting a little, hesitated for a moment, then squeezed the trigger. The powerful gun exploded, startling him with its force, knocking him off balance. He straightened and watched eagerly as Mac walked back to the tree. “How’d I do?”

  “You did good,” Mac said after a moment. “Right through the middle. Damn good, kid.”

  Johnny beamed with pleasure at the praise. “It was easy, Mac.”

  Mac ripped that page down and put up another target, this one a magazine cover displaying the face of Richard Nixon. “Come closer this time,” he ordered. “Pretend like you just knocked on the door, and this guy opened it. Be fast, because he probably has a gun, too. Understand?”

  “Uh-huh.” Johnny’s face was a study in concentration as he acted out the scene as Mac had directed. He walked closer to the tree, raised his hand as if to knock, waited a moment, then lifted the gun and, without seeming to aim at all, fired again. The top of Nixon’s head vanished. Johnny looked around, his face anxious. “Was it okay, Mac?”

  Mac looked away for a moment, trying to swallow the bitter bile that threatened to gag him, then he managed to smile at Johnny. “That’s good, kiddo. You’re a damned good shot.”