The Wounded and the Slain

by David Goodis

  And of course they’ll come right back at you with what you know already, that they didn’t find any blackjack. So that brings us to Mr. Nathan Joyner. You’ll be forced to tell them of the deal you made with Joyner, although I don’t think that’ll work. I’m quite sure it won’t work. If they call in Joyner they won’t get anything from him. He’ll make a flat denial, and he’d be foolish if he didn’t. He’d be very foolish to let himself wide open for a charge of blackmail that would send him up for two years or three or maybe more. I think we can agree it’s no use mentioning our chum Nathan.

  That makes the blackjack factor somewhat awkward. All right, let’s shelve that for a moment. Next item on the list, the broken bottle. They’ll want to know what you did with it. Again the answer is Nathan, and that means there’s no answer. You’ll just sit there and stare at them stupidly.

  At this point it begins to get stuffy in the room where they’re asking the questions. So many questions, and when you try to answer, the words just won’t come.

  But they won’t rush you. They’ll be very considerate and very polite. It isn’t as though you’re some hoodlum they’ve picked up. You’re a respectable American citizen, a first-class tourist staying at the fashionable Laurel Rock Hotel. So that cancels out the rough stuff. And yet I’d much prefer the rough stuff to the politeness. It’s the politeness that makes you feel you’re being slowly smothered. You swallow hard, and one of them picks up a pencil and makes a note of that.

  And another leans forward with his hands flat on the desk, smiling ever so politely as he asks, Why did you run away?

  You fled from the scene, Mr. Bevan. We’re interested in knowing why.

  It—it isn’t easy to explain.

  What do you mean by that?

  No answer.

  Had you been drinking? Yes.

  Were you intoxicated? I’m not sure.

  You mean you can’t remember? I guess that’s it.

  How did you get back to the hotel? I walked.

  Then you weren’t very drunk, Mr. Bevan. You weren’t too drunk to know where you were going. It’s quite evident you were capable of making a decision. You decided to get away from there as quickly as possible and return to the hotel. Am I correct in that assumption?

  Yes.

  When you entered the Laurel Rock, did anyone see you come in? No.

  But someone must have seen you. There are always employees in the lobby. The desk clerk has a clear view of the front entrance. Or perhaps you didn’t use the front entrance?

  May I have a drink of water?

  Certainly. I think I’ll have one myself. It’s terribly hot in here, isn’t it? We ought to have a fan going. But the fans have been sent away for repairs. Oh, well, that’s how it goes. Tell me, Mr. Bevan—which entrance did you use?

  Side entrance.

  Your room is on what floor?

  Third.

  Did anyone see you going up to your room? No.

  Not even the elevator operator? I didn’t use the elevator. Why not? No answer.

  Why did you use the side entrance? Why did you use the stairway instead of the elevator? No answer.

  Perhaps I can provide the answer, Mr. Bevan. You wanted to avoid being seen. Isn’t that true?

  I don’t know what you’re getting at.

  That’s a nice suit you’re wearing, Mr. Bevan. Is it the same suit you wore last night?

  No.

  Could I see the suit you wore last night? I mean, if we went to the hotel, would you show it to me? No answer.

  You discarded that suit, didn’t you? It was stained with blood and you were extremely anxious to get rid of it.

  The suit was ruined. It was a mess and I just threw it away, that’s all.

  But you also got rid of the broken bottle. What about that? No answer.

  Another thing, Mr. Bevan. You stated the man was armed with a blackjack. When I told you there was no blackjack, and no evidence to indicate he had such a weapon, you failed to provide an explanation. Can you explain it now?

  No answer.

  What is it, Mr. Bevan? Why can’t you reply to these questions? I’m sure you’d feel a lot better if you let it all out and told me the truth.

  All right, I’ll say it again. He was trying to rob me.

  And you merely tried to defend yourself. But that makes it all the more puzzling. You claim what you did was fully justifiable. But your behavior following the incident fails to support that claim. If you’ll pardon my putting it bluntly, each and every move you made was the act of a fugitive.

  Now look, I wasn’t dragged in here. I came here voluntarily.

  And we appreciate that, Mr. Bevan. It’s certainly a point in your favor. Unfortunately, it doesn’t hold up for long. It becomes another segment that fits the pattern.

  What pattern?

  The pattern of your strategy.

  I don’t know what you mean.

  Yes, you do, Mr. Bevan. You know precisely what I mean.

  I’ve told you—

  What you told me wasn’t the truth. Not the whole truth. There’s a missing element involved here. It’s more a question of motivation than anything else. Do you care to help me out on that?

  No answer.

  All right, Mr. Bevan. That’s all for now.

  So later they try again, but of course you won’t answer. You won’t read it off to them from the billboard you saw in your sleep, the words in big black letters, “He went out to spill some blood and spilled it, that’s all.” It’s a plain statement that anyone can understand; it needs no analyzing or theorizing or a careful study of my brain. These things happen every day. All you need to do is pick up any paper and there it is on the front page. Man Slain by Unknown Assailant. They pick up a number of suspects and all of them have alibis except one creepy-looking bird who has trouble answering the questions and finally gives a shrug and says, “All right, boys, you got me.” But when they ask him if he knew the victim he says no, he never saw the man before in his life. So then they ask him why he did it and he says he just felt like doing it to someone, he happened to be in that land of mood. They check on him and find out he works in an office where the supervisor makes it miserable for him, has been doing it for years, all of it piling up in him like a stack of firecrackers just waiting for that one tiny spark to set them off. Or one time I remember it was a man who used a sledge hammer, waiting behind a parked truck for the first person that came along. It came out in the courtroom he’d been having a twenty-year feud with his father-in-law, with the old man making all the noise and dishing it out, or rather slamming it down on his head with the force of a sledge hammer. So when he had to take it out on someone it couldn’t be an ordinary hammer or a length of lead pipe; it had to be a big heavy tool he’d be wielding with both hands.

  Well, you were provoked into doing it. But you were itching to be provoked, and that’s the size of it, mister. And while we’re at it, we can narrow it down to the essential fact that you wanted his blackjack to smash the bottle, you wanted jagged glass to enter his throat.

  But is that a fact? Is that really a fact?

  The answer is either yes or no; there’s no in-between. And at this particular point there’s a decided lack of reasons to say no, and there’s every reason to say yes.

  And that’s it. Mr. Investigator. That’s the missing element you wanted me to provide. Now that you have it, you can release the man you picked up this morning, and you can throw me in a cell without fear of any repercussions from the American Consulate. You’ll simply tell them you have the slayer in custody and the slayer has made a confession that clarifies the motive. You’ll tell them it was premeditated, based on the technical factor of an urge to destroy The intent is clearly indicated by the cause of the victim’s death, the broken bottle aimed at a vital spot, entering the throat and severing the jugular vein. Are there any further questions?

  I don’t think so. Unless it’s the question that first came up, the question of whether or n
ot you’re ready and willing to hang.

  You want them to hang you?

  No. Not really. If they do that, I’ll miss out on a lot of drinking. And I enjoy drinking. It’s the only enjoyment there is, but it’s a very pleasant thing and I’d like to stay with it.

  What you mean is you want to remain alive.

  More or less.

  Then you won’t go to Queen Street? You won’t give yourself up?

  I’m going into Winnie’s Place and get a drink.

  Just a moment.

  Sorry, mister. I’m in a hurry.

  But listen. The man they arrested, he’s innocent. You know he’s innocent. What about that? I can’t talk to you now. I’m awfully thirsty. You won’t try to help him?

  Oh, leave me alone. For Christ’s sake, leave me alone. And then he was moving quickly, convulsively. He went down the alley to the side door of Winnie’s Place, grabbed at the knob like someone overboard grabbing at a life buoy. The door was on loose hinges and it made a loud creaking sound as he threw it open. He let it stay open as he stumbled in, tripping over a crumbled cardboard box, then tripping again as he collided with an overturned chair with two of its legs missing. There were several overturned chairs, most of them needing repair, and some of the tables were in similar condition. There was a lot of broken glass on the floor, and the bar itself was badly splintered. He came up to it and leaned on it, and it sagged under his weight. Then one of the boards fell away from the frontal side, and as it went down it narrowly missed a frantic mouse scurrying out from underneath the bar. He heard the thin squeak and turned his head to watch the mouse going pell-mell across the littered floor, cutely by-passing the sprawled legs of Winnie, who sat on a toolbox staring dismally at nothing at all. Her arms dangled limply and in one hand she held a screwdriver. The fingers of her other hand were wrapped loosely and futilely around a small pot of glue. At her feet there were scattered nails and screws of various sizes, a pair of rusty pliers, and a small hacksaw with its blade twisted out of shape.

  As Bevan gazed at her, she gave a sigh and let go of the glue pot. It rolled along the floor and the glue came out in a slow thick flood. She watched the glue pouring out of the overturned pot, her mouth gradually forming a somewhat contented smile. Then carefully she aimed the screwdriver at the stream of glue, pitching it overhanded and sending it into the thick amber stream. She looked at her empty hands, clapped her palms to make an emphatic sound of finality, and said, “Dat settles dat.”

  “Sell me a drink,” Bevan said.

  She didn’t look up. It was as though she hadn’t heard. Again she spoke aloud to herself. “De tools are not useful when dere is no ability to use them.”

  “That makes sense,” Bevan remarked. “But it doesn’t get me a drink. I came here to get a drink.”

  She looked at him, then looked past him and said, “You got a box of matches?”

  “Matches? For what?”

  “To burn up dis place.”

  “You serious?”

  “Give me de matches and I demonstrate.”

  He glanced around the room with its wrecked tables and chairs, with its walls showing wide holes where the plaster had given way. Winnie was saying, “Dey break up dis place for the last time. What dey do here last night was de end of it. Dey make de damage once too often.”

  “Is that how you feel about it?”

  “Dat is precisely how I feel about it.”

  “Then we both need a bracer.”

  Winnie let that slide. She was gazing at the glue spilled on the floor. “Look at dis mess,” she said. “Look at what dey do to my establishment.”

  “Come on, let’s have that bracer. You open up a bottle and we’ll get ourselves braced and have a party.”

  “Dis not de time for a party.”

  “It’s the perfect time,” he said. “I can’t think of a better time for filling the glasses and having a party.”

  She smiled at him. It was a contemplative smile, very dry and somewhat twisted. She said, “You wish to make dis a festive occasion?”

  “Sure.” He grinned at her. “You set up the glasses and we’ll commence the festivities.”

  “To celebrate what?” She made a slow gesture to indicate the smashed furniture and ripped walls and littered floor. “You see any reason to celebrate?”

  “I’ll find a reason. I’m always finding reasons to celebrate.”

  Winnie lifted herself from the toolbox. She moved slowly to the splintered bar and went behind it, ducking under it and coming up with an unopened bottle of rum. Then she searched for glasses and couldn’t find any that weren’t broken. She walked out of the room and came back with a tin cup and a water glass. Bevan was busy with the task of uncapping the bottle.

  When he got it opened he poured the rum into the clean water glass and the somewhat battered tin cup. Winnie reached mechanically toward the tin cup and (he American tourist pulled it way from her and offered her the water glass.

  “I drink from de cup,” she said. “De cup is all right for me.”

  But she didn’t get the point across. He wasn’t paying attention. He had the tin cup to his lips and was taking a long gulp of rum.

  She looked at the water glass set before her, and made no move to take it. She said, “You enjoying dis party?”

  “Very much.” He grinned at her. “It’s a swell party.” “It would be nicer if I could provide entertainment.”

  “Like a floor show?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Wid much noise. Much activity. Like you see here last night.”

  He took another gulp of rum. He didn’t say anything.

  “I remember you from last night,” Winnie said. “You de same mon. De same clean-face, clean-shirt tourist who come here to view de exhibit.”

  “Exhibit?”

  “Yes, mon. De comical exhibit of de comical people. I hope you were pleased wid de performance.”

  He wasn’t grinning now. He said very quietly, “You’re dialing the wrong number.”

  She looked at the money he’d placed on the bar. She said, “Put it back in your pocket. De bottle is my treat.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  Then he was returning the bills to the wallet, putting the wallet in his pocket. Winnie was saying, “You call me de boss. But you know I am not de boss. At de hotel where you stay I would be cleaning de toilets.”

  “Oh, cut it out,” he said. “You’re spoiling the party.”

  “You are right. I should not spoil de party for you. I should do my best to provide de frolic for de tourist mon. Perhaps you would like me to dance?”

  She came out from behind the bar and simulated a dancing pose. He looked at her shapeless body, which showed all the strain and weariness of fifty-odd years in the sugar fields and the tobacco factories, the labor-hardened ridges engraved deeply in the dark skin. Her blemished and almost chinless face was creased in a wide smile of pretended gaiety, and he saw it was an imitation of the “gay, colorful native women” as they danced in the pages of the travel folders.

  She said, “De tourist mon, he like to see de shoulders shake, de feet doing de meringue, de beguine, de calypso. And de native woman she half naked or entirely naked, like she supposed to be for benefit of tourist mon. He clap hands to make her dance faster. And faster yet. And still faster. He take de coins from his pocket and pitch de silver onto de floor. ‘Shake it, girlie,’ he shout at her, and so she shakes it wid all her might, in accordance wid de wishes of de clean-face tourist. You see, she need dese coins. In de house her babies are sick, dey require medicine. Or in dis particular case it is younger brother who is in trouble and requires a lawyer.”

  Something very cold hit him in the eyes. Then it burned white-hot. And then it was cold again.

  He heard her saying, “Dere is no money for a lawyer. And even if dere was, it would be money thrown away. Because no lawyer can save him. Nothing can save him.”

  The dancing pose had been abandoned. Now it was
a stoop-shouldered shuffle that took her back behind the bar.

  She lifted the glass of rum and said, “You drink a toast wid me, mon?”

  He nodded. It was a slow nod, somewhat mechanical. She said, “We drink to dis younger brother of mine.

  Last night he cut de mon in de throat and de mon he die. It happen out dere in de alley. Dis morning de police catch my brother and so now we drink to he and wish he a pleasant trip to de gallows.”

  The rum never reached her mouth. The glass fell out of her hand and the rum spilled over the bar. Then her head was down, her hands covering her face.

  Chapter Ten

  He wondered what he could say to her. It seemed rather pointless to say anything, or do anything. If he patted her shoulder consolingly she wouldn’t even feel it, so perhaps the only move was to pour more rum into the tin cup and drink it down and then drink some more.

  The tin cup was filled and emptied and refilled. It went on like that for a while, the rum sliding down very smoothly, the vapors of it floating up to his brain and swirling slowly, amounting to a whirlpool that beckoned him, telling him it was so pleasant down there, far away from everything. Yet as he descended into the amber fog of rum-induced nothingness, he saw Winnie raising her head, gazing past him at the ruin of her establishment.

  He looked at her eyes, and he knew she was seeing beyond the smashed chairs and tables and battered walls. She was seeing the wreckage of something that couldn’t be repaired.

  So then he realized why she’d given up trying with the pot of glue and the screwdriver and the other tools. The glue and the tools had nothing to do with the broken wood. It didn’t need much thinking to understand that. It came to him from her eyes, which were saying, What is de use? Why attempt to fix what cannot be fixed?

  He knew she meant the younger brother, and even before she said it aloud he sensed the countless efforts 1 she’d made to correct the wayward child who became a wayward youth and then a wayward man.

  She was saying, “Dat Eustace, he give me grief from de time when we very young and my parents die. It just Eustace and me, and I do what I can to take care of he. I try to teach he what is right, but he no listen. He run out in de street and make de mischief. Den later he begin to steal I beat he on head wid stick. I say, ‘You have de devil in you, boy. I knock he out of you. It is devil I hit, not you.’ But Eustace, he have very hard head. He only laugh and say, ‘For devil you need bigger stick. Something heavy to make he feel it. Like cricket bat.’ So one time he come home wid turtles he steal from fish stall in de Coronation Market, and I hit he wid cricket bat. Yes, I certainly give it to he dat time. He go to hospital wid what dey tell me is concussion of de brain. But does dat send de devil away? No, it only put devil in deeper. When Eustace come out of the hospital he badder dan ever.