by David Goodis
Texas Shuffle was hitting its climax when she came out of the bathroom. Parry turned and looked at her. She smiled at him.
She said, “You like Basie?”
“I collect him. That is, I did.”
“What else do you like?”
“Gin.”
“Straight?”
“Yes. With a drink of water after every three or four.”
She stopped smiling. She said, “There’s something odd about that.”
“Odd about what?”
“I also go for gin. The same way. The same chaser schedule.”
He said nothing. She went into another room. The record ended and Parry got Basie started with John’s Idea. The idea was well under way and Basie’s right hand was doing wonderful things on the keys and then she was coming in with a tray that had two glasses and two jiggers, a bottle of gin and a pitcher of water.
She poured the gin. Parry watched her while he listened to the jumping music. She gave him some gin and he threw it down his throat while she was filling her jigger. He helped himself to a second jigger. He lit another cigarette. She put on another record, and sat down in a violet chair, leaning back and gazing at the ceiling.
“Light me a cigarette,” she said.
He usually smoked a bit wet but he lighted her cigarette dry. As she took it from him she leaned over to lift the needle from the finished record.
“More?” she said.
“No. Let’s talk instead. Let’s talk about what’s going to be.”
“Do you have plans already?”
“No.”
“I do, Vincent. I think you should live here for a while. Live here until the excitement dies down and an opening presents itself.”
Parry picked himself up from the floor. He walked to the window and looked out. The street was almost empty. He saw smoke coming from a row of stacks beyond rooftops. He took himself away from the window and looked at a grey-violet wall.
He said, “If I had a lot of money I could understand it. The way it is now I don’t get it at all. There’s nothing in this for you. Nothing but aggravation and hardship.”
He heard her getting up from the chair, walking out of the room. From another room he heard a sound of a bureau drawer getting opened. Then she was coming back and saying, “I want to show you something.”
He turned and she handed him a clipping. He recognized the print. It was from the Chronicle. It was a letter to the editor.
There’s a great deal to be said in behalf of Vincent Parry, the man now on trial for the murder of his wife. I don’t expect you to print this letter, because the issue will be ultimately settled in court and from the looks of things it is a fair trial and Parry has his own lawyer. And yet the prosecution has steadily aimed at getting away from the technical aspects of the case and attempted to picture Parry as a combination of unfaithful husband, killer and draft dodger. I am not acquainted with Parry’s marital difficulties. As for the killer angle, the case is not yet completed and further testimony will no doubt bring up new facts that will decide the matter one way or another. However, I am certain that Vincent Parry is not a draft dodger. I happen to know that Parry made several attempts to enter the armed forces even though he had been rejected previously because of physical disability.
The letter was signed—Irene Janney.
Parry said, “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not much of a letter. It hardly says anything.”
“It’s not the entire letter. The Chronicle couldn’t print all of it. They’d have to use a couple of columns. But they tried to be fair. They included that contradiction of the draft-dodging angle.”
“How did you know I tried to get in?”
She pressed her cigarette in a yellow glass ash tray. “I have a friend who works at your draft board. He told me. He said you were called up twice and rejected. He said you kept pestering the draft board for another chance to get in.”
“Is that what got you interested in the case?”
“No,” Irene said. “This friend knew I was interested. He called me up and told me what had happened at the draft board. He told me you really wanted to get in. It checked with the way I felt about the entire affair. Sometimes I get that way. I get excited about something and I give it everything I have.”
“I think I’ll clear out,” Parry said.
“Sit down. Let’s keep talking. Let’s tell each other about ourselves. How’s the kidney trouble?”
“I’ve been feeling better,” Parry said. He lit another cigarette.
“It’s odd about the kidney trouble.”
“Why?”
“I have it also. Not serious, but it bothers me now and then.”
“Look, I think I’ll clear out. How’s the fire escape?”
“Stay here, Vincent.”
“What for?”
“Stay until it’s dark at least.”
He looked at the stained-yellow cabinet, the unmoving shining black record on the phonograph disc. He said, “It’s this way. I’ve got to keep moving. And moving fast. Like this it’s no good. The police will be working while I’m doing nothing. They’re running after me and if I don’t run I’ll be caught.”
“There’s a time to run.”
He was about to say something but just then the phone rang. It was a French phone, yellow. It was on a yellow table beside the grey-violet davenport. Irene picked up the phone.
“Hello—oh, hello Bob. How are you—yes, I’m fine—tonight? Oh, I’m sorry, Bob, but I won’t be able to make it tonight—no, no other commitments, but I just don’t feel like going out. —Oh yes, I’m quite all right, but I’m in the mood for a quiet evening and reading and the radio and so forth all by myself—no, I just feel that way—don’t be silly—oh, don’t be silly Bob—well, maybe tomorrow—oh, Bob don’t be silly—stop it, Bob, I don’t like to hear you talk that way. Call me tomorrow—yes, tomorrow about seven. —Of course not. How’s your work coming along—that’s fine—all right, Bob—yes, tomorrow at seven I’ll expect to hear from you. Good-by——”
Parry walked toward the door.
She stood up and stepped between Parry and the door. She said, “Please, Vincent——”
“I’m going,” he said. “That phone call did it.”
“But I didn’t want to see him anyway.”
“All right, but there will be times when you’ll want to see him. And times when you want to be at certain places. Doing certain things. And you won’t be able to, because you’ll be stuck with me.”
“But I said only for tonight.”
“Tonight will be a beginning. And if we let it begin it will keep on going. You’re trying to help me but you won’t be helping me. And I certainly won’t be helping you any. We’ll only get in each other’s way. I’m going.”
“Just until tonight, Vincent. Until it gets dark.”
“Dark. They won’t see me when it’s dark.” He stood there staring at the door as she stepped away from him and went into another room. He didn’t know what she was doing in the other room. When she came back she had a tape measure in her hand. He looked at the tape measure and then he looked at her face.
She said, “I’m going to buy you some clothes.”
“When?”
“Right now. I want the exact measurements. I want the fit to be perfect. And it’s got to be expensive clothes. I know a place near here——”
She took his measurements. He didn’t say anything. She took the measurements and then she made notes in a small memo book. He watched her going into another room. Again he heard the sound of a bureau drawer getting opened. As she came out again she was counting a roll of bills. A thick roll.
“No,” Parry said. “Let’s forget about it. I’m going now——”
“You’re staying,” she said. “I’m going. And I’ll be back soon. While you wait here you can be doing things. Like getting rid of those rags you’re wearing. All of them, even the shoes. Take them into
the kitchen. You’ll find wrapping paper there. Make a bundle and throw it into the incinerator. Then go into the bathroom and treat yourself to a hot shower. Nice and hot and plenty of soap. And you need a shave.” A little laugh got out before she could stop it.
“What’s the laugh for?”
“I was thinking you could use his razor. It’s a Swedish hollow-ground safety razor. I used to be married and I gave it to my husband for a Christmas present. He didn’t like it. I used it every now and then when I went to the beach. I stopped using it when someone told me depilatory cream was better.”
“What happened to your husband?”
“He took a walk.”
“When was this?”
“Long, long ago. I was twenty-three when we married and it lasted sixteen months and two weeks and three days. He told me I was too easy to get along with and it was getting dull. I just remembered there’s no shaving soap. But I’ve got some skin cream. You can rub that in and then use the ordinary soap and you won’t cut yourself. The incinerator is next to the sink. Don’t forget to get every stitch of those clothes into the bundle. Maybe you better make two bundles so you’ll be sure they get down.”
“All right, I’ll make two bundles.”
She was at the door now. She said, “I’ll be back soon. Is there anything special you want?”
“No.”
“Will you do me a favor, Vincent?”
“What?”
“Will you be here when I come back?”
“Maybe.”
“I want to know, Vincent.”
“All right, I’ll be here.”
“What colors do you like?”
“Grey,” he said. “Grey and violet.” He wanted to laugh. He didn’t laugh. “Sometimes a bit of yellow here and there.”
She opened the door and left the apartment. Parry stood a few feet away from the door and looked at the door for several minutes. Then he walked back to the tray where the gin was and he poured himself two shots and got them down fast. He took a drink of water, went into the kitchen and found the wrapping paper. He undressed, slowly at first, then gradually faster as he realized he was getting rid of Studebaker’s clothes and they were dirty clothes. For the first time he was aware that they had a smell and they were itchy. It was a pleasure to take them off and throw them away. Now he was naked and he was making two bundles. He got a ball of string from the kitchen cabinet, tied the bundles securely, then let them go down the incinerator. He heard the swishing noise as the bundles dropped, the vague thud that told him they had reached bottom. Knowing that Studebaker’s clothes and the prison shoes were going to burn and become ashes he felt slightly happy.
He walked into the bathroom. It was yellow tile, all of it. There was a glassed-in shower and he got it started and used a rectangle of lavender soap. He made the shower very hot, then soaped himself well, got the hot water on again, switched to full cold, let it hit him for the better part of a minute. Then he was out of the shower, using a thick yellow towel that he could have used as a cape.
The skin cream mixed well with the soap, resulting in a decent lather that gave the razor a smooth ride. He shaved in three minutes and then he went into the parlor and lit a cigarette. He had the yellow towel wrapped around his middle and tucked in. He looked over the Basie records and decided to play Shorty George.
He let the needle go down and just as it touched the black he felt something coming into the apartment. It was only a noise but to him it had form and the ability to clutch and rip at his insides.
It was the buzzer.
Parry lifted the needle and stopped the phonograph. He waited.
The buzzer sounded again. Parry slowly lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a long haul. He sat down on the edge of the davenport and waited. He gazed at the phone attachment beside the door and as the buzzer hit him again he decided to lift the phone and tell the person down there to go away and leave him alone. He let his head go into cupped hands.
Then the buzzing stopped.
The tears started again, coming into his eyes, collecting there, ready to gush. He told himself that he had to stop that sort of thing. It was bad because it was soft and if there was anything he couldn’t afford now it was softness. The lukewarm and weak brand of softness. Everything had to be ice, and just as hard, and just as fast as a whippet and just as smooth. And just as accurate as a calculating machine, giving the buzzer a certain denomination. Now that the buzzer had stopped a key was clicking into position and crossing off the denomination. The buzzer had stopped and it was all over. The person down there had gone away. Check that off. Then check off all the other things that needed checking off. Get another key in position and check off San Quentin. Go back further than that and check off the trial. Come back to San Quentin, go ahead of San Quentin and check off the barrel and the truck, the pale-green meadow, the hills and the dark-green woods. Check off the Studebaker, the man in the Studebaker, the ride to San Francisco and the motorcycle cops. Check off Studebaker’s clothes. Get started with now and keep going from now. Check off the buzzer. Start Shorty George again.
He turned the lever that started the phonograph running. The black record began to spin. He put the needle down and Shorty George was on its way. Parry stood a few feet away from the phonograph, watching the record go round and listening to the Basie band riding into the fourth dimension. He recognized the Buck Clayton trumpet and he smiled. The smile was wet clay and it became cement when he heard knuckles rapping against the apartment door.
All of him was cement.
The rapping was in series, going against Shorty George. The first series stopped and Parry tried to get to the phonograph so he could cut off the music that wasn’t music any more, only a lot of noise telling the person out there that someone was in the apartment. He couldn’t get to the phonograph because he couldn’t budge. The second series of raps came to him, stopped for a few moments and then the third series was on and he counted three insistent raps.
Then he knew it was impossible to check off all those things. They were things to be remembered and considered. This thing now rapping at the door was the police. It was logical that they should be here. It wasn’t logical for them to have slipped up on that blanket episode. Then again it was logical for them to have taken the Pontiac’s license number as the car went away from them. It was easy to sketch—them talking it over, telling each other they should have looked further under the blanket to see what was in those old clothes for China, then congratulating each other on their brains in taking the license number, and now coming here to have a talk with Irene Janney.
He turned and looked around the room and tried to see something. The window was the only thing he saw. Shorty George was rounding the far turn and coming toward the homestretch, but he didn’t hear it, he was staring at the window.
The fourth series of raps got through the door and bounced around the room, and following the raps a voice said, “Irene—are you there?”
It belonged to a woman. Then it couldn’t be the police. And yet there was something about the voice that was worse than the police.
“Irene—open the door.”
The music was music again. Parry figured if he made the music louder he wouldn’t hear the voice.
It was a voice he knew and he was trying to place it and he didn’t want to place it. He made the music louder.
“Irene—what’s the matter? Let me in.”
Shorty George was coming down the homestretch. The voice outside the door was louder than Shorty George.
“Irene—I know you’re in there and I want you to let me in.”
The voice was getting him now, closing in on him, forceps of sound that was more than sound, because now he recognized the voice, the pestering voice that belonged to Madge Rapf.
5
IT WAS as if the door was glass and he could see her standing out there, the Pest. His eyes made a turn and looked at the ball of yellow glass with the lighter attachment. All he had to
do was grab hold of that thing and open the door, go out there and start banging her over the head to shut her up. This wouldn’t be the first time he had liked the idea of banging her over the head.
“Irene—I don’t think this is a bit funny and I want you to open the door.”
Parry reached over and picked up the heavy ball of yellow glass.
“Irene—are you going to open the door?”
Parry tested the weight of the ball of yellow glass.
“Irene—you know I’m out here. What’s the matter with you?”
Parry took a step toward the door. He wasn’t shaking and he wondered why. He wasn’t perspiring and he wasn’t shaking and the ball of yellow glass was steady and all set in his right hand. He wondered why he felt so glad about this and all at once he understood he was about to do mankind a favor.
“Irene—do you intend to open the door?”
Shorty George crossed the finish line and the glazed center spun soundlessly under the needle.
Rapping again. Angry, puzzled rapping.
“Irene—open the door.”
Parry took another step toward the door and he began to shake. He began to perspire. His teeth were vibrating. A grinding noise started deep in his belly and worked its way up toward his mouth.
“Irene——”
“Shut up,” Parry yelled, realized that he was yelling, tried to hold it, couldn’t do anything about it. “For God’s sake—shut up.”
“What?”
“I said shut up. Go away.”
He knew that she was stepping back and away from the door, looking at the number to see if she had the right apartment.
Then she said something that was Madge Rapf all over. She said, “Irene, is someone in there with you?”
“Yes, someone’s in here with her,” Parry said. “Now go away.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you know. So go away.”
She went away. Parry had an ear next to the door crack and he could hear her footsteps going down the corridor toward the elevator. He moved to the phonograph and picked up the needle from the silent record. He lit another cigarette and then took a position near the window and waited there. He estimated two minutes and it was slightly under two minutes when he saw Madge Rapf getting past the partition of yellow brick. He knew she was going to turn and have a look at the window and he ducked just as she turned. When he came up she was on her way again and he watched her crossing the street. He figured she had to cross the street but when she got to the other side he knew that was wrong. She was there because she wanted to get a better view of the window.