Great Noir Fiction

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  “I’d be ashamed to sell you something with the name of Smith, Jordan.”

  “But it is Smith. I’m saying, it has to be Smith. Birth certificate, car registration, insurance, driver’s license, social security. Samuel Smith.”

  “Too many esses.”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like a superior job.”

  “It is.”

  “And who’s paying for it?”

  “I am.”

  “I thought you said it was a job, Jordan.”

  “Damn you, stop digging,” he said. He was glad that the old man did not look up and would not see the mistake show in Jordan’s face. “I get reimbursed for it,” said Jordan, “which is the new way we got of handling things.”

  “Ah. There’ve been changes.”

  “You seem the same.”

  “Permanent, superior quality. When do you need this?”

  “Jinx time.”

  “What was that, Jordan?”

  “Jig time, jig time. I mean now.”

  “I can’t get it for you all in one day. What do you need first?”

  “The birth certificate.”

  “Ask the impossible, and it costs extra.”

  “Caughlin, come on. This is rush.”

  “Easiest way, Jordan,” and Caughlin never changed his face, “is for you to go out and do a job on a Smith and then bring me the papers so I can fix them up.”

  “You going to keep horsing around here with that nut talk, Caughlin, or do I get this job done?”

  “Murder in the Reading Room.”

  It’s part of the price. You buy from Caughlin and part of the price is the digging and squirming he does like a worm and you better take it.

  “What do you need the things for, Jordan?”

  “I’d only lie to you.”

  “All my customers do. But they all say something.”

  Jordan said nothing.

  “Need it that bad?”

  He needed it so badly, Jordan felt suddenly on the point of tears or a scream, he did not know which, both Smith and Jordan screaming why all this . . .

  Because a wife can’t testify against her husband, it struck him. That’s why. I’m Smith and I marry her, for that good reason. The scream went and Jordan felt right again, admiring the quick lie he had made. He knew full well he was lying, the same as he knew there was no Smith and no Jordan, but it worked well that way.

  “Smith is an easy name,” he said. “You’ve got to have something on file that I can use.”

  “I do,” said Caughlin. “Needs a little work, but is a good birth certificate.”

  “You son of a bitch, why didn’t you say so in the beginning?”

  “I like to talk,” said Caughlin.

  “I want it tonight,” said Jordan. “Get on it now so I can have it tonight.”

  “Too expensive.”

  “Come on!”

  “Four thousand, counting your hurry.”

  The price for Kemp.

  “And the driver’s license,” said Caughlin, “that’s for nothing.”

  The price for Sandy. I mean, speaking of money, thought Jordan. He said, “I got five hundred with me. You get the rest when you’re done.”

  They went outside and stood on the street. It was still light but the street lights went on. Caughlin said something poetic about that and then he said he wanted the five hundred.

  “At your place. I want to see the merchandise.”

  “I got to fix it a little.”

  “I know. I want to see what you’re going to fix.”

  They walked through a small park where the bums sat in the warm evening air and from there down a street with tall office buildings which were all shut for the day. The street was quiet and empty because of the hour.

  “This one,” said Caughlin, and they went into an alley between two buildings and from there through a steel door into the furnace room. There was a dry heat in the basement room and just one bulb burning near the panel which had to do with the heating and the air-conditioning system.

  Caughlin lived behind that room. He lived in an enclosure with a good door, but the room behind turned out to be no room at all. It was like a bin. There was no window, but there was one diagonal wall with a hatch on top where the coal used to come through when they had heated with coal.

  The floor was covered with newspaper and the walls were glued over with newspaper.

  “I’m in the news,” said Caughlin. He said this to everyone who came in there and it sounded automatic. Some of the papers on the floor lifted gently at the edges when Caughlin closed the door.

  There was a cot, a table, a closet—nothing else would fit into the place. In the closet were a great number of things, dirty laundry at first sight. Caughlin rummaged around in the darkness and came up with a sheet of paper.

  “This one,” he said.

  It looked all right. It made Jordan forty-five years old but aside from that it was a good document.

  “Make me younger,” said Jordan, “and for the first name, make it Samuel.”

  “That’s your name.”

  “Yes.”

  “All amateurs do that. Like they’re afraid to let go altogether.”

  Jordan laughed. He could let go Jordan and fall into Smith and he could let go Smith and fall back into Jordan. It was that kind of forever situation and he felt there was nothing neater.

  “When?” he said.

  “I can change the name easier than the age . . .”

  “Naturally,” said Jordan.

  “Age,” Caughlin finished off but did not seem to feel interrupted. “But to do both of them . . .”

  “Just the name. Leave the age. When?”

  “Tomorrow. Early.”

  “Tonight.”

  “I’ll work all night.”

  “Do it faster.”

  Caughlin shrugged and took the five one-hundred-dollar bills Jordan held out. “Between twelve and one tonight,” he said. “Come back here.”

  Jordan nodded and went to the door.

  “I admire the calmness of a worker like you,” Caughlin said behind him.

  Jordan stopped, and turning to look at the old man, he tore some of the sheets on the floor.

  “In the face of loss and disaster,” said Caughlin.

  “Like what, Caughlin?”

  Caughlin sat down on his cot and made the springs squeak a few times, to fill the silence. Then he said, “I see where Sandy is dead.”

  He did not creak the springs again and the only sound was Jordan lifting his feet carefully, so as not to tear paper again. Then he leaned against the door. “You know that?” said Jordan.

  “Don’t you?”

  “How come you know that?”

  “You think all I do is read the papers?”

  “No,” said Jordan. “I know you don’t.”

  It would, of course, not be in the papers because what went on in the back of Monico’s rarely ever got beyond a known circle. But a shadow man like Caughlin, of course he might know.

  “I know you knew Sandy,” said Caughlin, “but did you know Benny?”

  “No.”

  “The one who did it. The one who does bouncing at Monico’s.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Benny. The one who does bouncing at Monico’s.”

  “Well, well, well,” said Jordan, or his voice said it while he listened to it. “Why?”

  “For the hoor what fingered him. I don’t know her name.”

  Jordan did not say Lois or anything for a moment. Then he said, “That’s no reason.”

  “Of course not,” and Caughlin laughed. Then he said, “You sound like the one who did it,” and laughed some more. “Like what Benny said.”

  “Like what Benny said?”

  “He said, ‘That’s no reason. Even a guy I don’t like I wouldn’t do in for a hooker.’”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “But they got him.”

  “They?�
�

  “Who else, the cops?” Caughlin laughed again.

  The way this is handled, Jordan knew, was by the private justice department. He knew about that part. He put his hand on the knob of the door, wanting to leave. “They done with him?” he said.

  “I thought you might know about that,” said Caughlin. “Considering your line of work.”

  “Stop digging,” said Jordan. “Would I need to be Smith for a routine like that?”

  “When they’re done with him, will you let me know?”

  “I don’t even know where they’re keeping him.”

  “Shor’s Landing,” said Caughlin. “Will you let me know?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m morbid,” said Caughlin. “Why else know anything?”

  “I’ll be back midnight,” said Jordan. “You be here and be done with the job.”

  He left that way, saying no more than he always did, Jordan all harnessed and held neat with his habits, avoiding the busy streets because that made sense, but done thinking about problems because they had all been settled. Even Caughlin the talker didn’t worry him. While I’m in town he’ll be busy; when I’m in Miami, let him talk. Oh the sense of it, Jordan thought, and even with Meyer with a nose like a pointed question, oh the ease of the answers, if he should ever ask. I thought you were in Miami? I needed the stuff from Caughlin. I thought you had a job on this what’s-her-name? Her name is Mrs. Smith and a wife cannot testify against her husband. And besides, she won’t. She won’t. No, she won’t. How come, Jordan? Because Smith takes care of that.

  He walked, neat, clean, and all settled, and had time for the other thing.

  He thought, what a beautiful, warm evening with nothing to do. With Jordan having time in between and Smith, getting shaped up to perfection. Jinx dead, he began, hours late, but completely, to appreciate the right thing he had done.

  The first job ever that had not been a job, and the beauty of it, he kept thinking. Done like a job, that Sandy thing, but with a first-time feeling of ripe satisfaction. Well, of course, it had been necessary, but it was beautiful too. Sandy, had he lived to know it, would agree and would say, Sammy, I’ll pay you double. Not that he didn’t pay, of course, for Sandy always meant money. Dear Sandy, yes how well he paid, always and from start to finish.

  Nine o’clock and more time to go.

  And, for instance, Lois now, I even wouldn’t mind her. A true time-in-between girl if I’d only known it sooner.

  But while Jordan felt free now, he did not feel foolish. He did not go to the Monico or even waste time on the notion. Maybe next time I’m back in town and between Jordan and Smith time. This is between Jordan and Smith time, but that does not mean I should be foolish.

  Ten o’clock and more time to go and Jordan, very sensible, agreed with his thoughts that he might spend the time out of town.

  He stole a car and drove to the Jersey side. He took his first ride through a warn night and with no need to go anywhere. He even whistled.

  Eleven o’clock and below the dip was Shor’s Landing. This shows, he said, how perfect everything can be, because it is.

  Shor’s Landing was a line of docks on a little lake, a line of lights hanging between tall posts, and a restaurant—more lights—where woods started again, and cabins—few lights—where woods came from the other side.

  The pine needles breathed out a nighttime smell and the band at Shor’s Landing made nighttime music. Everybody dancing, thought Jordan. It’s not bedtime, just nighttime.

  These must be lovers, thought Jordan. This cabin is dark like the others but with two sleepless voices.

  This one? Empty. Shor is not renting too well.

  And in this one a fisherman, with ear plug and nembutal to make certain he’ll be up fresh at five in the morning. And he has a belly, as I can tell by the snore.

  Ah yes. This one by the door with a cigarette. Glow and fade, glow and fade, nervous in the night and wishing he were somewhere else. Who wants to sit by the door of a cabin with the music someplace else and the bed taken up and the holster making a heavy patch of black sweat . . . What did Sandy used to pay for that type of job, ten fins?

  Jordan walked up to the cabin and asked the man for a light. Before getting the light he kicked the man under the chin, because the man sat low on the stoop and the method was soundless.

  The screen door creaked and Jordan thought, I bet Benny thinks this is it.

  He was on the bed, as expected, tied up, as expected, gagged and sweated. Jordan knew this ahead of time because the method was standard.

  After that, standards having nothing to do with it; Jordan turned on the light by the bed and smiled down at the man.

  “I bet you think I’m it,” he said.

  Benny could not talk but he got it across with his eyes and the worm-bunched wrinkles on his forehead. And he wetted his pants, though Jordan did not know this.

  “I’m not,” said Jordan. “This is me, in between time.”

  He took the pillow out from under Benny’s head and put it over his head, on his face.

  God, I don’t want him to suffocate, Jordan thought, and pressed the twenty-two into the pillow and fired.

  Then he picked up the pillow to see if the shot had been all right, but because of the feathers glued down all over he was not too sure. He put the pillow back, and the gun, and did it again. Soft, muffled thud, and this time Benny did not jerk. Jordan went by that.

  Almost twelve and I better hurry. He turned off the lamp and left the way he had come.

  And even though he was in a hurry there was no jumpy tension in the way he felt. All was new, all was fine, Smith being done up to perfection back in town, and this, Jordan knew, was the first time ever, the first in-between-time job, only done out of idleness.

  Chapter 19

  Meyer, because of all that had happened, was still at his desk in the middle of the night. Then he got two phone calls one after the other.

  “Mister Meyer, how are you?”

  “Who in hell . . .”

  “Not well, I notice, not too well.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not directly, but just the same. This is Caughlin.”

  The nut. And how did that forger get this number? “Would you buy a birth certificate with the name of Smith?”

  “Listen! My name’s Meyer which is bad enough, but if I should want your merch . . .”

  “Not you. I meant that just for an example. For a fact though, this is for somebody else.”

  I’ll wait. For a minute I’ll wait, thought Meyer. Caughlin is a talker but with his prices he is not all nut.

  “For who?” said Meyer.

  “Whom. You mean, whom.”

  “Goddamn your crazy . . .”

  “Please, Mister Meyer. You know I always end up serious.”

  Meyer said he was sorry and would Caughlin hold the phone for a minute. He put his hand over the receiver and said, Smith, Smith. Then he yelled at the door, “Come in here a minute,” and Sherman came in.

  “That Penderburg dame,” Meyer said, “who did she say was her button salesman?”

  “Smith. That’s the name Jordan gave.”

  Meyer nodded and bit his lip. “When did Sandy say Jordan left for Miami?”

  “Sandy’s dead.”

  “I know that! Preserve me—” Meyer said to nobody and then he screamed again. “When? I asked you, when?”

  “Last night sometime. I think he said . . .”

  “Call National and Capital and whoever else flies the Florida run and check out on his flight. Jordan or Smith. Where he got on and got off.”

  Then Meyer talked to Caughlin again. “You still there?”

  “Mister Meyer, the price just went up.”

  “Yeh. Sure. Listen. Your Smith customer, when is he picking up?”

  “That isn’t free information either.”

  “But he isn’t picking up in the next half-hour.”

  “Mister Meyer, the way I ea
rn pin money . . .”

  “I know. The price just went up. My point is, Caughlin, I want to call you back.”

  “Why?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “You don’t think it’s important?”

  “That’s why I want to call back in half an hour.”

  “The customer is paying four thousand dollars. You still think it isn’t important?”

  “You gave that away for free, didn’t you, Caughlin?” and Meyer hung up.

  If he needed Caughlin, and Meyer thought that he did not, then he would call back for sure. And at that moment the phone rang again.

  “Caughlin,” said Meyer, “when I say half an hour . . .”

  “Hey—is this Meyer? Let me talk to Meyer.”

  “Yes?” said Meyer, because the voice sounded sick.

  “Benny’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “This is Ferra, you know, Ferra. I got hit on the head, I mean got jumped here at the Landing, and then Benny is dead.”

  Meyer groaned through the whole story, through the whole thought that the Sandy thing made no sense now, not that the Benny thing made any sense either, except haywire sense, if there was such a thing. He hung up and went into the next room.

  “I got this,” said Sherman, “there’s no Jordan anywheres, but a Smith took the eight-ten National flight out as far as Washington.”

  “D.C.?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “So?”

  “But his ticket was paid into the International at Miami.”

  Meyer nodded and went back to his desk. He picked at some papers there and then walked to the dark window.

  He thought, Sandy once said if that one goes he’ll be crawling into a corner and whimpering . . .

  Then Meyer walked back to the other room and laid it out to Sherman what he wanted done.

  When Jordan turned into the street with the office buildings, there was one lighted place, right at the corner, and after that came the dark street. He walked past the hamburger place with its bright, steamy windows, and when he passed the door somebody said, “Psst”

  Jordan did not stop or look around because the sound made no sense to him.

  “Mister Smith.”

  This time he stopped and the hate in his sudden movement was automatic.