David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America)

by David Goodis

“Yes,” the little one said. “You tell them to move, they move.” He laughed again. “I remember you now. Little white-haired bum who stands with detective on other side of room. Then the Captain, he comes walking slow, and you see him coming closer and you say to your feet, Come on, boys, move. So then you take off, you start to walk, and then you walk faster, and then you run. So we get same idea. We run too. We go out the door and down the street and the cops make chase but we get away.”

  “We damn sure get away,” the taller Puerto Rican said, and he laughed loudly. “The cops, they look so funny. They jump up and down, they don’t know what to do.”

  The little one was suddenly serious. He gave Whitey a sideward look and said, “You know something, man? I think you did us a good favor. If not for you, we no get away.”

  “Well,” Whitey said, “I’m glad you made it, anyway.”

  “You mean this? You are really glad?”

  “Sure,” Whitey said, “It ain’t a healthy place, that station house. I like to see people staying healthy.”

  “What people?” The little one’s eyes were narrow again.

  “All people,” Whitey said.

  “Even the Puerto Ricans?”

  “Of course,” Whitey said. “Why not?”

  “You don’t hate Puerto Ricans?”

  “I don’t hate anybody.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely,” Whitey said. “Why should I hate the Puerto Ricans?”

  “Listen to me, mister. Listen careful, now. There is many Americans no like Puerto Ricans. Why they not like us? They say we dirty, we rotten. They say we steal and make trouble and jump on their women. They call us rats and snakes and all names like that. And then they come in gangs, they use clubs and split our heads wide open, we get our teeth knocked out, we get broken arms and legs, and some of us get killed. You think we gonna take that? You think we are damn fools?”

  “I don’t think anything,” Whitey said. “It ain’t for me to say who’s right and who’s wrong.”

  “You mean you are not interested? You don’t care?”

  Whitey smiled dimly. “You want the truth, don’t you?”

  “It better be the truth.”

  “All right,” Whitey said. “Here’s the way it is. If I said I cared, I’d be a goddamn liar. I don’t give a damn what goes on here in the Hellhole. What happens in this neighborhood ain’t none of my business.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  “No.”

  “Then where? Where you from?”

  “Tenderloin.”

  “That is what I thought,” the little one said. “You look like Tenderloin bum. In the eyes it shows, that look, that don’t-give-a-damn look. But something else I see. Something under that look. It is what?”

  Whitey didn’t say anything.

  “It is what?” the little one repeated. “You give it to me straight, mister. What you doing here?”

  “Like I told you,” Whitey said, “I’m running from the heat. I’m looking for a place to hide.”

  The little one was quiet for some moments. Then he turned to the other Puerto Rican and said something in Spanish. They commenced a rapid conversation in Spanish and it went on like that for the better part of a minute. Finally the little one looked at Whitey and said, “You sure you tell the truth?”

  Whitey nodded.

  “I don’t know,” the little one said. He looked down at the broken bottle in his hand, his eyes centered on the jagged edge. “I am not so sure.”

  “Add it up,” Whitey said. “You saw it with your own eyes. You saw me running out of the station house. So it figures I’m hot and I’m looking for a hideout.”

  There was another flow of quiet. The light pouring from the kitchen window came slanting down across the back yard to make a pool of vague yellow glow in the narrow alley. It showed the thoughtful, doubtful frown on the face of the little Puerto Rican. The taller Puerto Rican was not frowning, not appearing thoughtful or dubious or in any way affected by the issue. His face was blank and his eyes were focused on Whitey’s belly, the knife in his hand pointed at the same spot. His attitude was purely functional, like a poultry-market laborer getting set to kill a chicken.

  Then the taller Puerto Rican said something in Spanish and took a slow step forward. The little one blocked him with an outswept arm and said, “No.”

  “Sí,” the taller one said. He was very anxious to start using the knife.

  “No,” the little one said. He pushed his partner backward. He looked at Whitey and spoke quietly and slowly. “I tell you something, man. You lucky for now. But maybe only for now. We take you to boss and hear what he says.”

  “Boss?” Whitey asked.

  “Sure, we got boss.” The little one smiled thinly. “This riot thing is big fight, man. Is like real war. You know how is with soldiers? The soldiers, they need leader. We got leader.”

  The little one made a gesture telling Whitey to turn and start walking. Whitey turned, and in doing so he caught a glimpse of the kitchen window. It was dark now and it had no importance, no meaning at all. It was just like all the other dark windows, and he thought: Well, anyway, it was interesting while it lasted.

  Then he was walking slowly, with the Puerto Ricans walking behind him. The alley was very narrow and they had to move along in single file. For a moment he played with the idea of running. But he knew they could run just as fast, or faster. He felt sort of sorry for them, not pity really, just sorry they were having such a rough time.

  8

  AT THE end of the alley there was a narrow cobblestoned street and they crossed it and went down another alley that had no paving and was mostly mud and stones. All the dwellings were wood, or sheet-metal roofed with tar paper. In the back yards there were a lot of cats and some dogs and he could hear them busily engaged in looking for food or romance or argument. There was no loud barking or meowing, just the scuffling and the scurrying, the convulsive squirming and the sound of furry bodies rolling around. At intervals he saw large rats darting between the fence posts. The rats were very large. He told himself he’d never seen them that big. He saw two of them leaping down from a fence and going after a cat. The cat was not yet full grown and it wasn’t quite sure what it should do. As it hesitated, the rats pounced on it, but then a larger cat lunged in and the rats scampered away.

  The alley extended for three blocks and gave way to a vacant lot heaped with rubbish and garbage and animal excrement. They moved along the edge of the lot, going east toward the river, and now he could see the lights along the water front, the lamps in the warehouses, and here and there the lighted portholes of freighters and tankers. With the little Puerto Rican giving directions, they skirted a lumberyard and another vacant lot and a wide area filled with scrap metal, going north now and entering a network of winding alleys that sloped downward and then up and then down again. The dwellings here were very old, with the wooden walls splintered and some of them partially caved in, and there were large gaps where there wasn’t any wall at all. The wind whistled shrilly coming in from the river and racing through the gaps in the walls. Most of the dwellings were two-story structures, and he wondered what was keeping them upright. They looked very weak and flimsy, sort of leaning over and just about ready to go.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and he stopped and heard the little one saying, “In here.”

  It was one of the two-story houses. It didn’t have a doorstep and there was no glass in the first-story windows. The windows were stuffed with cardboard and newspapers to keep the wind out. Along the base of the front wall there were jagged holes where rats had gnawed through the wood. The wood looked easy for the teeth of the rats; it had long ago lost its hardness and resistance, it was more like the pulpy fungus-mushy substance of rotted trees.

  The taller Puerto Rican stood close to Whitey while the little one stepped up to the door. The little one hit the heel of his palm against the wood, hit three times and waited, hit again and
waited, and then hit very hard with the back of his hand, the wood creaking and groaning from the impact of his knuckles.

  From inside the house there was a query in Spanish.

  “Soy yo, Luis,” the little one said. “Luis y Carlos.”

  “Cómo?”

  “Luis.” The little one spoke louder. “Luis, digo! ”

  “Qué pasa?”

  “Goddamnit,” the little one said. Then he shouted something in Spanish. After that, in English, “Come on, you dumb bastard, open the door.”

  The door opened. The man in the doorway was very old and wore a torn overcoat and tattered gloves and had a muffler wrapped tightly over his chin. He was shivering and his thin lips were more blue-gray than red. He made an impatient and somewhat frantic gesture, telling them to come inside so he could close the door and shut out the cold.

  Luis entered the house. Carlos shoved Whitey and followed him in. From one of the back rooms there was the glow of lighted candles. The flickering light came into this room and showed some people sleeping on the floor. There was no furniture except for a chair that was used for a table. On the chair Whitey saw an empty wine bottle and some unused candles and the melted wax from previous candles.

  They went into the next room and there were more people sleeping on the floor. Several of them had blankets and the others were covered with assorted burlap bags and old carpets. A few were covered with newspaper. Whitey saw there were a lot of children sleeping close together, their arms flung over one another, their legs drawn up close to their bellies. He saw a very short, very fat woman sleeping flat on her back. Her mouth was open and she was snoring loudly. With one arm she held a sleeping infant, and her other arm provided a pillow for a two-year-old. There were several mothers holding their children while they slept. It was not a large room, but there were many sleepers on the floor. He saw it was really crowded in here, and as he walked behind Luis he stepped carefully to avoid treading on them. Luis and Carlos walked with less care, ignoring the fretful mutterings as their feet made contact with chins and shoulders and outstretched arms.

  Then there was a stairway with some of the steps missing, and other steps sagging as he climbed behind Luis, with Carlos following. On the steps and along the walls there were a great many roaches and bugs, moving slowly and contentedly in the dim light coming down from the second floor.

  The light on the second floor was from a single candle placed on a window sill. Also, some light was showing through cracks in a door at the far end of the hall. They went down the hall and Luis opened the door. Several men were standing in the room and talking quietly in Spanish. A few men were seated on wooden boxes arranged along the walls. In the center of the room there was a pile of baseball bats, broken bottles, lengths of lead pipe, and a varied assortment of bread knives, butcher knives, switchblades, and meat cleavers. As the men talked they gestured toward the collection of weapons. It appeared they were having a problem with the weapons. They were deeply concerned with the problem, but when they saw Whitey they stopped talking. They stared questioningly at Luis and Carlos.

  It went on like that and there was no sound in the room. Then one of the men moved slowly toward Luis and said something in Spanish. The man was pointing to Whitey and wanting to know who he was and what he was doing here. Luis began to talk rapidly, addressing the man as Gerardo. It was obvious he had much respect for the man, because he kept saying “Gerardo” in the way that overly humble people who talk to doctors keep saying “Doctor,” starting or ending each phrase with “Doctor.” While Luis talked, Gerardo wore a detached gaze that gave the impression that he wasn’t listening. And when Luis was finished, Gerardo didn’t bother to comment. He was looking at the pile-up of weapons on the floor. He said in English, “Is not enough meat cleavers. Little knives no good. We need more meat cleavers.”

  “I get some,” Luis said.

  “You?” Gerardo looked directly at Luis. “You go out and find meat cleavers?”

  “Sure,” Luis said eagerly. “I do it now, Gerardo. I go right now. You say O.K., Gerardo?”

  Gerardo said very quietly, “I send you out for meat cleavers, maybe you bring back something else. Maybe you bring another gringo.”

  There was a laugh from Carlos. The other Puerto Ricans laughed also. They did it hesitantly at first, and then it really struck them funny and there was much laughter in the room.

  “Shut up,” Gerardo said to them. And instantly they stopped laughing. But Carlos couldn’t check it completely and he was grinning open-mouthed. Gerardo looked at Carlos and said, “Is not funny.”

  Carlos got rid of the grin.

  “Is for sure not funny,” Gerardo said. Again he was looking at Luis. “Is more sad, I think. Is very sad my men they always make mistakes.”

  “I—” Luis was swallowing hard. “Leesen, Gerardo—”

  “You keep quiet now,” Gerardo said. “You do smart thing, you keep quiet.”

  Luis swallowed very hard and looked down at the floor.

  Gerardo turned to Whitey and said, “They bring you here, they make mistake.”

  “Not me,” Carlos said quickly. “Eet wasn’t my idea. I tell Luis we have this man in alley, we kill him there. Luis he say no.”

  “Bad mistake,” Gerardo went on, as though Carlos weren’t there. “Very bad.” He nodded slowly and solemnly. The single bulb that dangled on a wire from the ceiling was directly over his head and the glow was focused on him, high-lighting his features. He was an exceptionally good-looking man in his middle thirties. His build was lean and nicely balanced and he stood about five-nine. He featured a thick crop of heavily greased straight combed black hair, and every hair was in place. It was evident he gave much attention to his scalp. Also, his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and his face looked cleaner than the other faces.

  But that was the only difference. His clothing was just as tattered and shabby as the rags they wore. He was wearing a very old overcoat that looked about ready to come apart. At one time it had been camel’s-hair but now it was only a weary jumble of loose yellow threads. He saw Whitey looking at the overcoat and he said, “Is nice? You like it?”

  “Yes,” Whitey said. “It’s a very nice coat.”

  “Is very expensive,” Gerardo said. “Is genuine camel’s-hair.”

  Whitey nodded. He started to say something, and then, whatever it was, he lost track of it, and he stood there looking blankly at Gerardo’s overcoat.

  Gerardo frowned slightly. “Why you do this? Why you look at the coat?”

  Whitey didn’t say anything. He wondered why he was staring at the camel’s-hair coat. He tried to look away but the coat wouldn’t let him turn his head. He told himself it was just a piece of castoff clothing that the Puerto Rican had lifted from a rubbish can. That’s all it is, he insisted to himself.

  He went on staring at it.

  Gerardo took a step toward him. “Here,” Gerardo said quietly, “I give you a better look.”

  The camel’s-hair coat was very close to his eyes and he blinked hard.

  “What is it?” Gerardo asked. “What this thing with coat?”

  “I don’t know,” Whitey said. He was telling the truth. He really didn’t know why he was doing it, staring at the ragged garment as though it had some meaning, some importance. Of course there was a reason, there had to be a reason. Well, he thought, maybe it’ll come, but right now you’re nowhere near it. Just then Carlos laughed again.

  Gerardo looked at Carlos and said, “Qué hay? What is funny now?”

  Carlos was laughing loudly and pointing to Whitey. “He likes coat. He wants you to take it off and geeve it to him.”

  “You think so?” Gerardo murmured. “You think that is what he wants?”

  “Sure.” Carlos was shaking with laughter. “Thees is crazy man here. In alley he sees we come to kill him, he pay no mind to that. He ask if we got cigarette. Now we bring him here to kill him and he wants your overcoat.”

  The other Puerto Ricans
were grinning.

  Gerardo had a calculating look on his face. He turned to Whitey and his eyes drilled into Whitey’s eyes. He said, “Maybe Carlos is wrong. Maybe you not crazy like he thinks.”

  Whitey stared at the loose threads of the camel’s-hair overcoat.

  He heard Gerardo saying, “In school, long ago, I study the numbers. La matemática. They teach me one and one it equals two. And two and two it equals four. And four and four—you see? I learn to add the numbers. Is what I’m doing now.”

  Carlos had stopped laughing. His face was solemn and he said emphatically, “Four and four is ten.”

  “No,” Gerardo said. He wasn’t smiling. “Is not ten. Is eight. Is always eight.”

  Carlos shrugged. “No matter to me.”

  “That is right,” Gerardo said. “No matter to you, because you no can add the numbers. So you stay away from numbers, you leave that to me. I do all thinking here, all adding up the score.”

  “Yes,” Carlos agreed quickly. “Yes, Gerardo.”

  Gerardo looked at Luis. “And you? What you say?”

  Luis blinked a few times. Then he nodded slowly.

  “Not enough,” Gerardo murmured. “Say it with the mouth.”

  “You do all thinking,” Luis said. “You the boss.”

  “Always,” Gerardo said. “Always the boss.”

  “Yes.” Luis nodded again. “Sure. Always. You top man, Gerardo. You the leader.”

  “And good leader, too,” Gerardo said. “I no make mistakes. But my men, they make mistakes sometimes. They no do like I say.” He turned to Whitey and his tone was mild and conversational. “My men, they sometimes give me a headache. They make me sick sometimes. Is no easy job to be leader of these men.”

  Carlos opened his mouth to say something.

  “Close it,” Gerardo said. “Keep it closed.” And then he looked at the other Puerto Ricans. “Keep quiet, everybody. No move around. Just stand and listen.”

  They stood quietly, stiffly, fully attentive.

  Gerardo said, “I tell you now what I tell you many times before. This house is secret place. Is headquarters. Is what is called center of operations. So then is understood we no take chances they find us here. They find us here, they wipe us out. We finished.”