Jordan stopped. He could see it lying there, crabbed out with arms and legs the way they always do. He would now have to touch it.
His scalp moved on his skull, and he thought he could feel his skull tight and hard over the inside of his head. He had an upsetting image—all of him curled soft into the inside of the skull. But it’s the second time. This is not the first . . . He started to sweat, thin and quick, when he saw that it was worse now and not easier.
Then he moved because it became impossible to do nothing.
Jordan bent down and touched. He thought about the time after this time, all done with this, never again this, and so registered very little of what he was doing or what the body was doing, but the worst moments came through.
He touched the jacket high up and yanked. A dead arm swung around and hit Jordan’s ankle. After his gasp the breath came out of Jordan’s throat, shocking him with the sound because it was like a giggle. But his throat felt all right after that, without the strain in it.
I won’t drag him down, I’ll roll him down. I’ll do that and between now and the moment when I touch it again a headlight will swing around the far bend, and I’ll have to let all this go and just run, just run.
But he only thought this and suddenly scratched his head where sweat tickled him and for a moment he was just scratching—nothing else—and after that he had his feelingless calm again, out of nowhere, but the way he was used to it. He only worried for one split second about the quick switches that went on inside him, but that thought never got anywhere because then he touched again.
He dragged like a dog worrying a bone. When the body was over the edge Jordan let go with a quick jerk of his hand and kept jerking his hand like that, through the air, a little bit like a conductor with temperament. Because the body wasn’t rolling. But the quick pizzicato beat kept up Jordan’s speed. The dead arms and legs made contrary motions; Jordan kept worrying the thing like a bone, down the bank, through the weeds, feeling intent and all right about it because all the worry was in his hands. What he touched, how much he touched, where. And when he pushed it into the culvert, which took perhaps two minutes, he counted time by the number of times he pushed against bone instead of flesh.
Done, back through the weeds which were pulling at him. He kept wiping his hands and then wiped them with the weeds. They were not wet but brittle and dry and Jordan, wiping over and over, cut himself. Up the bank, job over. And how quick and clever the whole thing. It had probably been spite to start with—Paul following him by the movie—but then it was the plan working. It was good to know about plans working. Going down Third, drawing Paul after. Stopping at Kemp’s place, getting Paul all riled up. Then the fast walk around to Fourth—Paul already there, having cut through a lot; then moving the suitcase to give him time and to mystify him, then the slow stunt with the car so he could follow on foot, and then driving off fast when Paul showed up again near Kemp’s building.
Jordan worked up the incline to the highway, rehashing things this way, something he had never done. Job over.
Though this was not yet the important one.
Before the haste went out of him and left just nervous splinters, he rushed all the rest. He drove the dead one’s car a little ways down the next lane and from there up a path which went to a spent quarry. Jordan knew it was there, drove Paul’s car there, and left it. Jordan was not concerned with eliminating all trails but only with working for time. They would find the dead one and they would find the car. He worked for one day’s leeway, and the trail would lead nowhere.
He ran back to the highway and his haste didn’t change into something else until he sat in his car and knew what he would do next. There was all this momentum but it now turned sharp and clean. Clean like routine. Kemp was next.
Jordan drove back to town, sitting neat and still. He sat with his head on top of his neck like a stopper on top of a bottle. Fine. Everything fine now. Finish it . . .
He went through Third and saw a light where Kemp’s room was. He drove past and turned through the square, doubling back to Fourth. To pick up his suitcase in the room and then finish. He parked and when he went across the street he went fast and kept his hand on his pocket. The Magnum was heavy and Jordan did not want it to swing. Then would come Magnum in suitcase, target pistol for job, suitcase in trunk, drive to Third, check target pistol in front seat, car on street pointed the right way, up Kemp’s building, finish it.
Jordan opened the door to his room where the light was on and then everything became very slow. The brain, the movement of the door closing, the door thunk when it closed, even Kemp. He sat in Jordan’s chair, looking slow, and he held Jordan’s other gun.
“Ever use one of these?” he asked.
Jordan stayed by the door and the weight of the Magnum in his pocket was so great that he felt his right shoulder ache and thought Kemp must notice any moment.
“You don’t look well, Smith. Why don’t you sit on the bed?”
Jordan walked to the bed and wasn’t aware of any muscles moving in him. He was only aware of Kemp telling him to sit down.
And this is the payoff for Paul, he thought. This is the payoff. Not for the job he had done, but for having done the job wrong. He had touched him afterwards.
“Jeesis,” said Kemp. “You can smell pigeons all the way up here. You mind if I close the window?”
“There’s a chicken coop down there,” said Jordan.
“No. It’s a pigeon coop. Hear ‘em fluttering?”
“I thought it was a chicken coop.”
“No. Mind if I close the window?”
“Go ahead,” said Jordan.
Kemp smiled and closed the window behind without changing position. With one hand.
“That’s better. Come on, Smith, relax, huh?”
“I can’t,” said Jordan.
“You’re no salesman, are you?”
Jordan did not answer. He shifted a little on the bed and sighed. It was a natural sigh.
“And Smith yet. What a handle to pick. Don’t you know about Smiths?”
“No.”
“There aren’t any.” Kemp laughed.
The Magnum wasn’t so heavy now because it was resting on the bed.
“Make it easy on yourself, Smith, why don’t you.”
Jordan nodded and put both hands down on the bed. It did not relax him but it would be more efficient.
“I’m not saying you’re dumb all the way, or that obvious, and maybe I just spotted you, Smith, because I got some background. That surprise you?”
“I am surprised. Yes.”
“Take your coat off, why don’t you?”
“Thanks. No.”
“Okay.”
Kemp looked at the target pistol in his hand and didn’t say anything for a moment. Jordan crossed his legs for position so he could lean on one elbow.
“And loaded yet,” said Kemp. “This,” and he nodded the gun.
Jordan finished leaning down on one elbow.
“You like this type?” Kemp asked.
“What?”
“This kind of gun,” said Kemp, “means one or the other to me. Either hobby, or business.”
“What do you want from me?” said Jordan.
“Fess up, I guess. Instead of me getting it out of you.”
Jordan. shrugged, which brought his right hand where he wanted it for the moment.
“I think I’d like this kind myself,” said Kemp. “Very accurate, isn’t it?”
“If it’s balanced good.”
“Is it?”
“For my hand.”
“I noticed it’s top heavy for me. You got a long thumb?”
“Yes.”
“Figures.” Then Kemp sighed. “Look,” he said, “I’m just talking around to make you feel relaxed. Honest, Smith.”
Jordan put his right hand on his hip and when there was no objection, he did relax. He relaxed into a balance which was like a steel spring balance.
“
I mean it, Smith. Put it away.”
He leaned forward and held the gun out. Jordan was not prepared. He was so set that he felt the Magnum might go off if he moved even a little.
“You won’t say it, I’ll say it, Smith. You’re on the lam, aren’t you?”
It took almost as long to get back to normal, thought Jordan, as it had taken him to get set. He straightened up with a pain in his back and he reached out for the target gun so that it felt like slow motion.
“Well?” said Kemp.
“Yes. You’re right.”
Jordan took the gun and turned it to look at the clip. The butt was empty and he held a cold gun.
“I took it out,” said Kemp, “because I’m afraid of guns. Imagine that thing goes off in here. Bad for both of us.” He pointed and said, “I left the clip in your suitcase.”
Jordan tapped his knees with the long barrel and then he tossed the gun on the bed. He felt exhausted and didn’t want to try figuring moves any more. Not for the moment. Not after all this.
And the Magnum was out. The silencer was in the suitcase and the racket would be too much. After that, even if the gun went off like a normal gun, after that he would have to run with half his things left in the room because all he would have time to grab would be the new tube of toothpaste on the dresser, a shirt of the wrong size, meaningless things like that.
Nothing now. He just wished Kemp would leave.
“So tell me, Smith. Who do you know?”
“Nobody. I don’t know anybody who makes any difference,” said Jordan.
“You know me.”
“Kemp. That’s all I know. Just the name.”
“Well, let me tell you a little.”
“Listen. I just as soon you wouldn’t. I mean it, Kemp.”
Kemp raised his eyebrows and watched Jordan sit on the bed. He thought the other man looked suddenly tired.
“I just meant for an introduction. Just a talk, Smith . . .”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“ . . . to see if there was something for you and me in it.”
“What?”
“Maybe there’s a job. Maybe I can use you.”
“Ohmygawd—” said Jordan, and rubbed one hand over his face.
“Well, maybe not,” said Kemp. He got up and scratched under one arm. “I didn’t mean in this town, if that’s what you meant.” He walked to the door and stopped there. “Just think about it, huh, Smith? Before you blow town, come over and see me. Okay?”
“Yes,” said Jordan. “I will.”
Chapter 10
After Kemp was gone Jordan locked his door from the inside. He took his jacket off, so as not to feel the weight of the Magnum. At the closed window he looked at the black glass.
I’m not built for this and I’m not trained for this. It comes to the same thing. I know so much and no more and it isn’t enough. Or there is always something worse. It comes to the same thing.
Then he turned away from the window because he was beginning to notice his reflection. He packed, the way he had planned it, and he started all over the way he had planned it, because he really did not know anything else.
On Third he parked in the lot next to the diner, heading the car the way he wanted. He thought about leaving the motor running but decided against it. There was light in the diner. There were two other cars in the lot, and somebody friendly might turn off his key, take it out, bring it into the diner for safekeeping maybe. He turned off the motor, put the key in his pocket, stuck the target gun into his belt and buttoned his jacket. If the silencer would only fit the pistol he would have liked that. It was a margin of safety. This was now a job for margins of safety.
He crossed behind the diner where the garbage cans stood, and a cat ran away. The cat made a potato roll over the ground and he picked it up. It was a big, raw potato and he took it along.
At Kemp’s door he knocked.
“Paul?”
“No. Smith.”
“The door’s open. Come on in.”
Jordan went in and closed the door behind him. Kemp was on his bed, dressed, shoes off, a paper across his middle. The paper went up and down with his breathing. Kemp was lying down and stayed that way. This is a bad angle, thought Jordan. The radio next to Kemp was playing mood music.
“Well now. You’re looking better.” Kemp turned the radio down to a mumble and smiled from his pillow. “You come for the job?”
“I got a job.”
“Christ—”
Jordan had the gun out and he worked the potato over the end of the barrel.
“Smith . . . Wait a minute. Let’s talk . . .”
Jordan didn’t talk. In the movies there is talk, for the drama. Jordan worked without drama. Or there is talk because there is a grudge. There was no grudge.
“Smith, just lemme . . .”
“Sit up.”
“Yes, I was gonna say, lemme sit up—”
“Go ahead.”
While Kemp sat up Jordan took a stance. He never fired from the hip because when he fired he was never on the run. He aimed straight-arm and only the potato bothered his aim.
“For God’s sake—”
The voice was hoarse as if it had the worst kind of cold and after that type of sound there was often a scream. Jordan did not want that and would have been ready if the potato did not interfere with balance and sighting.
“Smith . . . I ask . . . I beg—”
Dull sound, slightest recoil, potato spraying all over. Kemp’s head snapped back and went thunk on the headboard. Mood music mumble. The hole was high and the blood was just filling it. Black in the light.
A drawn-up knee collapsed and the leg dangled a little and Jordan was going down the stairs.
When he got out on the street he stood for a moment and took a deep breath. He thought that the air was just right. He himself felt right and he felt finished with the job he had come to do.
A young couple came down the dark street and Jordan turned his head away out of habit. He crossed the street to his car and noticed that the diner was dark. He got into his car, feeling right and finished. When he put the key into the ignition he noticed that his hand was shaking.
He did not know why it was shaking because everything felt right now and he was done. He took the gun out of his belt, wiped the end of the barrel across his pants because the metal was wet from the raw potato. He wiped and wiped and then he put the gun under the seat. He started the motor, got into gear almost immediately so that the car jumped and the motor died.
It was not his habit to drive this way. He had a routine with the car where he started the motor, nursed it in idle, then got into gear and took off, smooth and gentle-footed.
While he started over again he thought about everything, thinking too much. At first, way in the beginning, the work had been hard, with everything effort. When that became better, a job was achievement. After that, a job was smooth habit. That had been most of the time now and had felt like the final thing.
He took off the way he was used to it, except faster. There was a man by the letterboxes inside the vestibule. He had a lunch bucket under his arm and was getting his mail.
But this time, thought Jordan, there was this. He was done but his hand was shaking. He was done but he drove too fast. If more of me were shaking, he thought, I would know why I’m feeling this way. Just my hands are shaking, so it’s nothing. A fine job up in that room.
What upset him now was that he was thinking about it at all.
He drove through the square and took the street at the other end which went out of town.
Maybe eight minutes since, he thought. That’s three more than planned.
What upset him again was not the loss of three minutes but the thoughts he had about a job which was really well done. This felt indecent.
On the other side of the street someone was walking and then turned up to a house with no lights in the windows. The porch light went on and Jordan saw the girl from the din
er. She still had her uniform on and was carrying, a purse over her arm. She went into the house while Jordan passed.
He kept driving because he was now nine minutes off. Yes, yes, yes, and such a fine finish after that godawful thing on the bridge and then under the bridge. I would hate, he suddenly said aloud, to leave here without such a neat thing done like the Kemp job.
The voice shocked him and the thought—that there had to be thought about any of this—shocked him so that he held the wheel hard, rocking on it. The wheel gave with the rocking, the springiness keeping the rocking motion going. Jordan kept nodding back and forth. What now, what now, he kept thinking, what more, what more now. It’s done, it’s done—double everything, because it went with the rocking. All the props gone out from under, he thought, all the props I never knew had been there, like don’t talk to him, don’t touch him, don’t know him too well. But they don’t mean a thing, and his thinking got loud again, because I did finish . . .
But he did not recognize himself. He stopped rocking because it made him sick, and he stopped thinking, because that made him sick. He was able to stop thinking because it was easier just to feel the confusion.
She wouldn’t think anything like that about me. Her dumb face knows everything and I’m Smith and sell buttons. Her dumb face doesn’t care if I’m Smith or sell buttons. She never once mentioned anything like it. She mentioned that I am a gentleman. Jeesis. She mentioned that she likes a quiet man. “You want me, Sam? You want me, Sam, and you don’t talk around it. I like that.”
She can’t be all wrong, he thought. She must know something. She’s dumb which just means there’s no confusion, and if she says now, Sam, you look fine and not shivery like one day ago—she can’t be all wrong. He swung the car into a U-turn and drove back toward town.
He knocked on her door, and she said, “Who is it?”
Great Noir Fiction Page 41