Great Noir Fiction

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  “Where’s your gun?”

  Jordan nodded at the closet.

  “Ah,” said the killer, and left it to lie there when he saw it on the shelf. Then he turned all the way back to the room.

  “A shame,” he said. “She could have stayed in one piece if I could have gotten you elsewhere. But now she’s going to see this.”

  Jordan sank into the chair behind him and his breath came with a paper sound.

  “I think I’ll do her first. Real shame,” and he lifted the gun the way Jordan would do it. Outside a motor raced loud. He took a stance the way Jordan did when he was not on the run.

  The girl gagged when she saw the gun come up to level, and she understood nothing when all that stopped.

  Jordan, the way he hardly ever did, squeezed from way low and the killer seemed to draw up his shoulders. When he fell, Jordan was over him, looking hard for the little hole which did not show clearly because of his clothes. He held out the little twenty-two and made a hole where he wanted it. He felt nothing.

  When the girl made a hoarse sound Jordan looked up. He felt rattled and confused, Smith-Jordan confused. He looked at her drawn up on the bed and said, “Don’t be afraid, Betty. He’s dead.”

  Then he ran out. He saw the car by the curb, motor revving, but when he ran out on the porch he thought better of it and pulled back. So the car took off.

  He stood on the porch and watched the car go. He was not so confused that he did not know what came next. Next would come the same thing, the same thing again, with only one finish to it. He knew the routine. He felt heavy and still. One more run, he said, one more run. Not for long now, but for just a little.

  He ran back into the house and into the bedroom.

  “Betty . . .”

  “Please!”

  “Quiet, Betty, quiet quiet. Here now, get this on.”

  “What are you—who are—”

  “Nonono. Forget that. Sam Smith. Remember? And the buttons.” He held the coat to her but she stepped back into a corner.

  “Betty, please,” he said, “Betty, please. One more run is all, Betty sweet, one more and it’s over. When you’re gone and it’s over, they won’t want you any more.”

  “What are you—”

  “He said so, remember? Before he was dead. Here, the coat.”

  She put it on, so he would go away. When she had it on he pulled money out of his pocket. “Now this, Betty. Stick it here, in the pocket,” and he held the thick roll out with two hands.

  “No. I won’t touch . . .”

  “Betty.”

  “You’re some filthy kind of . . .”

  “Please,” he said, talking slower now. “Please don’t quarrel.”

  He put the money into her pocket and she held still with fright.

  “You come now,” he said. “Here, shoes. Then we go. Run, I mean.”

  She put the shoes on and he rushed her. He left his jacket where it was, but was not so confused that he did not take the Magnum. He put it in the place under his belt but moved it into the pocket when he saw how she looked at it.

  “Please,” he said again. “Don’t quarrel,” and he ran her out to the street.

  He ran her to the car at the corner and when they were inside he drove fast and skilled. For a while they sat next to each other like that without talking, he not talking because of all he was thinking. What there was of him and the things he had done, so that she would know the bad and the good of him, and what he had wished would have happened. But he did not know enough about any of it and the confusion kept him from talking. She sat still too, so he felt that she felt the same kind of things, and was kept from talking. Once he reached over and made a light stroke on her arm. Her fright kept her silent and stiffened.

  Her fright made her keep step with him when they ran into the airport; and when he found a ticket for a plane which left in five minutes; and when he rushed her last through the gate and said something she did not understand . . .

  He latched the chain across the empty gate and watched the plane swivel slowly and then move slowly with a big roar. It moved out of the light and in a while it will fly off, he said to himself.

  He felt no need to watch that. And he did not remember where her ticket went. Just that the girl had been.

  They picked him up again in town and they had him when he went into the bus station. He had gone into the station because there were people. Then he saw the three men and knew immediately.

  They shot him against a wall with a summer schedule behind him, and that got torn too.

  It felt to him as if he sat on the floor a long time, and for one very bad moment a sudden, great wildness almost tore him open, like pigeons beating around inside a wire-mesh cage and even their eyes with the stiff bird-stare turned wild with glitter.

  But he made that all go quiet again. He could not see any more and wished he had said more to the girl, had told her some things he had done, so that she would know the bad and the good of him and he would not be just a blank.

  He had a great deal of pain and then died.

  When the policeman turned him over, he found one driver’s license which said Smith and another one which said Jordan.

  “Must be Jordan,” he said. “There aren’t any Smiths.”

  Night-Walker

  Robert J. Randisi

  Robert J. Randisi is just now starting to be appreciated for the lean, stripped-down approach he’s brought back to the private-eye novel. Last Exit from Brooklyn was a notable novel in a notable year, and he’s got two more just as good waiting publication.

  First published in 1978.

  He sits at the dimly lit bar and listens to the conversations going on around him. He does not concentrate on any one conversation, but strains to catch at least a piece of each separate one within earshot. With a wave of his hand he orders a second drink and continues to listen. He is listening for a certain phrase to be spoken, at which time he will make his plans and act upon them.

  The words, however, when spoken, do not come from any of the conversations going on around him, but from the bartender as he brings him his third drink.

  “So, what do you think?” the bartender asks.

  Glancing at the heavily built man behind the bar, he asks, “About what?”

  Pointing to the far end of the bar the bartender says, “We was having an argument, about Ali and this new guy. I think the challenger is gonna get hurt pretty good, but those guys figure Ali is taking the guy too light. Me, I know Ali can beat a nobody like this bum. I mean, who is he, you know? He’s a nobody!”

  He stares at the overweight bartender for a few moments before telling the man, “Go back to your friends.”

  Frowning, the bartender starts to say something else, but thinks better of it and moves off . . .

  Finishing his drink, he rises to leave, stopping only to ask the hatcheck girl, “What time does the bartender work until?”

  “Midnight,” she answers and, batting heavily made-up eyes at him, adds, “Why? Won’t I do?”

  Without answering, he leaves the bar and picks a spot outside. The bartender leaves at five minutes past midnight. He turns right and proceeds towards an alley. As he passes the alley he is grabbed by the neck from behind and dragged in. Although the attacker is smaller and thinner, his strength is sufficient to hold the bigger man until he chooses to release him, deeper into the alley. There he pushes the bartender against the building.

  “What do you want?” the heavier man cries, eyes wide with fright. “I ain’t got no money! What do you want?”

  Slowly the smaller man takes a switchblade from his pocket and allows the four-and-a-half-inch blade to spring from the six- inch handle. Although at its widest the blade is a mere three- eighths of an inch it is a very effective weapon.

  Rotating the knife slowly, he catches the frightened man’s eyes with his own, then he plunges it swiftly into his belly. The man screams. He falls to the ground whimpering. The last words he hears befor
e dying are “Everybody is somebody.”

  He rides the subway, listening to the conversations. Not to any one conversation, but to at least a part of every one he can. He listens for a certain phrase.

  From behind him he hears, “I wouldn’t go out with Arnold on a bet. He’s so short—a little fat nobody.”

  He turns to see who is speaking. The girl is young, not yet twenty, with blond hair and smooth skin. He watches closely to see where she gets off, and follows when she does.

  It is late and he and the girl are the only two to leave the train. The girl gives him a brief and suspicious look, satisfying herself as to who got off with her and what he looks like. Apparently what she sees does not frighten her and she begins to walk towards the stairway to the street. He notices that there is no clerk in the change booth. He follows the girl closely and calls to her as she approaches the stairs. She turns, but does not see the blade in his hand. She does see his intense eyes when they catch hers and hold them.

  “What is it? What do you—” she begins, her voice tinged now with fear. He steps in and, in one swift motion, plunges the thin blade into the girl. She falls to the floor clutching herself. The last words she hears before dying are “Everybody is somebody.”

  It is almost morning, almost daylight. He cannot function correctly in daylight. Somehow the sunlight inhibits him, makes him a different person. At night it’s different. In the daytime, as a janitor in a high school, he is a nobody. He cleans floors, walls, the yard and locker rooms, the lunch room—everyone believing that, as a janitor, he is subject to their commands.

  “Clean that up, Woodley.”

  “I dropped some milk, Woodley, mop it up, would you, please?”

  “Who’s that? Oh, just Woodley.”

  In the daytime he is Woodley the nobody.

  But everybody is somebody, so at night when darkness falls, he is somebody.

  Dust to Dust

  Marcia Muller

  Marcia Muller is one of the major voices of modem crime fiction. She writes mainstream novels that just happen to have a mystery in them, and she writes in a practiced, careful style that gets better each time out. She is rapidly becoming without peer in the private-eye genre.

  First published in 1982.

  The dust was particularly bad on Monday, July sixth. It rose from the second floor where the demolition was going on and hung in the dry air of the photo lab. The trouble was, it didn’t stay suspended. It settled on the Formica counter tops, in the stainless-steel sink, on the plastic I’d covered the enlarger with. And worst of all, it settled on the negatives drying in the supposedly airtight cabinet.

  The second time I checked the negatives I gave up. They’d have to be soaked for hours to get the dust out of the emulsion. And when I rehung them they’d only be coated with the stuff again.

  I turned off the orange safelight and went into the studio. A thick film of powder covered everything there, too. I’d had the foresight to put my cameras away, but somehow the dust crept into the cupboards, through the leather cases, and onto the lenses themselves. The restoration project was turning into a nightmare, and it had barely begun.

  I crossed the studio to the Victorian’s big front windows. The city of Phoenix sprawled before me, skyscrapers shimmering in the heat. Camelback Mountain rose out of the flat land to the right, and the oasis of Encanto Park beckoned at the left. I could drive over there and sit under a tree by the water. I could rent a paddlewheel boat. Anything to escape the dry grit-laden heat.

  But I had to work on the photos for the book.

  And I couldn’t work on them because I couldn’t get the negatives to come out clear.

  I leaned my forehead against the window frame, biting back my frustration.

  “Jane!” My name echoed faintly from below. “Jane! Come down here!”

  It was Roy, the workman I’d hired to demolish the rabbit warren of cubicles that had been constructed when the Victorian was turned into a rooming house in the thirties. The last time he’d shouted for me like that was because he’d discovered a stained-glass window preserved intact between two false walls. My spirits lifting, I hurried down the winding stairs.

  The second floor was a wasteland heaped with debris. Walls leaned at crazy angles. Piles of smashed plaster blocked the hall. Rough beams and lath were exposed. The air was even worse down there—full of powder which caught in my nostrils and covered my clothing whenever I brushed against anything.

  I called back to Roy, but his answering shout came from further below, in the front hall.

  I descended the stairs into the gloom, keeping to the wall side because the bannister was missing. Roy stood, crowbar in hand, at the rear of the stairway. He was a tall, thin man with a pockmarked face and curly black hair, a drifter who had wandered into town willing to work cheap so long as no questions were asked about his past. Roy, along with his mongrel dog, now lived in his truck in my driveway. In spite of his odd appearance and stealthy comings and goings, I felt safer having him around while living in a half-demolished house.

  Now he pushed up the goggles he wore to keep the plaster out of his eyes and waved the crowbar toward the stairs.

  “Jane, I’ve really found something this time.” His voice trembled. Roy had a genuine enthusiasm for old houses, and this house in particular.

  I hurried down the hall and looked under the stairs. The plaster-and-lath had been partially ripped off and tossed onto the floor. Behind it, I could see only darkness. The odor of dry rot wafted out of the opening.

  Dammit, now there was debris in the downstairs hall, too. “I thought I told you to finish the second floor before you started here.”

  “But take a look.”

  “I am. I see a mess.”

  “No, here. Take the flashlight. Look.”

  I took it and shone it through the hole. It illuminated gold- patterned wallpaper and wood paneling. My irritation vanished. “What is it, do you suppose?”

  “I think it’s what they call a ‘cozy.’ A place where they hung coats and ladies left their outside boots when they came calling.” He shouldered past me. “Let’s get a better look.”

  I backed off and watched as he tugged at the wall with the crowbar, the muscles in his back and arms straining. In minutes, he had ripped a larger section off. It crashed to the floor, and when the dust cleared I shone the light once more.

  It was a paneled nook with a bench and ornate brass hooks on the wall. “I think you’re right—it’s a cozy.”

  Roy attacked the wall once more and soon the opening was clear. He stepped inside, the leg of his jeans catching on a nail. “It’s big enough for three people.” His voice echoed in the empty space.

  “Why do you think they sealed it up?” I asked.

  “Fire regulations, when they converted to a rooming house. They . . . what’s this?”

  I leaned forward.

  Roy turned, his hand outstretched. I looked at the object resting on his palm and recoiled.

  “God!”

  “Take it easy.” He stepped out of the cozy. “It’s only a dead bird.”

  It was small, probably a sparrow, and like the stained-glass window Roy had found the past week, perfectly preserved. “Ugh!” I said. “How did it get in there?”

  Roy stared at the small body in fascination. “It’s probably been there since the wall was constructed. Died of hunger, or lack of air.”

  I shivered. “But it’s not rotted.”

  “In this dry climate? It’s like mummification. You could preserve a body for decades.”

  “Put it down. It’s probably diseased.”

  He shrugged. “I doubt it.” But he stepped back into the cozy and placed it on the bench. Then he motioned for the flashlight. “The wallpaper’s in good shape. And the wood looks like golden oak. And . . . hello.”

  “Now what?”

  He bent over and picked something up. “It’s a comb, a mother-of-pearl comb like ladies wore in their hair.” He held it out. T
he comb had long teeth to sweep up heavy tresses on a woman’s head.

  “This place never ceases to amaze me.” I took it and brushed off the plaster dust. Plaster . . . “Roy, this wall couldn’t have been put up in the thirties.”

  “Well, the building permit shows the house was converted then.”

  “But the rest of the false walls are fireproof sheetrock, like regulations required. This one is plaster-and-lath. This cozy has been sealed off longer than that. Maybe since ladies wore this kind of comb.”

  “Maybe.” His eyes lit up. “We’ve found an eighty-year-old bird mummy.”

  “I guess so.” The comb fascinated me, as the bird had Roy. I stared at it.

  “You should get shots of this for your book,” Roy said. “What?”

  “Your book.”

  I shook my head, disoriented. Of course—the book. It was defraying the cost of the renovation, a photo essay on restoring one of Phoenix’s grand old ladies.

  “You haven’t forgotten the book?” Roy’s tone was mocking. I shook my head again. “Roy, why did you break down this wall? When I told you to finish upstairs first?”

  “Look, if you’re pissed off about the mess . . .”

  “No, I’m curious. Why?”

  Now he looked confused. “I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know?”

  He frowned, his pockmarked face twisting in concentration. “I really don ’t know. I had gone to the kitchen for a beer and I came through here and . . . I don’t know.”

  I watched him thoughtfully, clutching the mother-of-pearl comb. “Okay,” I finally said, “just don’t start on a new area again without checking with me.”

  “Sorry. I’ll clean up this mess.”

  “Not yet. Let me get some photos first.” Still holding the comb, I went up to the studio to get a camera.

  In the week that followed, Roy attacked the second floor with a vengeance and it began to take on its original floor-plan. He made other discoveries—nothing as spectacular as the cozy, but interesting—old newspapers, coffee cans of a brand not sold in decades, a dirty pair of baby booties. I photographed each faithfully and assured my publisher that the work was going well.