Noir

by Christopher Moore

  “Really?” asked the guy at the counter; forties, dark hair, and going round around the middle, wearing a suit that was too heavy for summer, even in San Francisco. “Is that what I ordered?”

  “You wanted two eggs, sunny-side up, and buttered rye toast, right?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t sound like that.”

  “We have our own professional language here, mister. Like lawyers and scientists.”

  “Crusty cow and frog sticks!” called Myrtle from down the counter. “Drag it through Wisconsin!”

  “What’s that?” asked the guy in front of Stilton.

  “Cheeseburger, well done, with fries.”

  “Why doesn’t she just say, ‘cheeseburger, well done, with fries,’ then?”

  “Look, mister, do I look like I can explain science? Look at me. Go ahead, read the name tag another hundred times.” (Guys spent a lot of time reading her name tag. Pretending to read her name tag. It read Tilly, because she got tired of explaining the Stilton story.) “No. I take orders, I sling hash, and I pour coffee. You want a refill?”

  The guy shook his head and she stepped down to the next guy, who had stumbled in on a crooked cane wrapped with electrical tape. He was wearing a white shirt that had once been crisp but now was smeared with what looked like blood. He looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days.

  “How ’bout you, sunshine?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Sure. How do you take it?”

  He grinned into his top button. “I like my coffee like I like my women—”

  “Drunk and naked?” she guessed.

  Now he brought his grin up and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “No, blonde and sweet.”

  “Aw,” Stilton said. She turned to Myrtle. “Did you hear that? Did you?”

  She’d heard. “He’s got charm. He might clean up nice, too.”

  “Where were you last night?” Sammy said. “I was outta my mind.”

  The guy on the stool next to Sammy started to get up and Stilton reached over and pushed him back down. She signaled Sammy to meet her at the stool at the end of the counter, by the window, and led him down there with the coffeepot in hand.

  Myrtle slid down the counter to take the position in front of the eggs and rye toast guy, who had had about enough. “It’s so sweet,” Myrtle said. “Guys never come into the diner to see her. He’s not rich, but she don’t care.”

  “Where were you?” Sammy whispered.

  “Where was I? Where was I? I was sleeping, you lunkhead. Remember, I spent the whole night drinking and doing the razzmatazz with you? I had to go to work when you went home to sleep.”

  “She was a mess,” said Myrtle, who was now only a couple of stools down from them, not even pretending she wasn’t interested. “It was adorable.”

  “Say,” said the Cheese, “speaking of last night, where were you?” She poured his coffee, then doctored it for him with cream and sugar, two spoonfuls, because he held up two fingers.

  He sipped it, closed his eyes, and smiled like it was nectar of the gods. “Perfect.”

  “Well,” she said, “a little tip: Just like your women, a little liquor in that will smooth it out.”

  He laughed. Myrtle laughed, then scampered off to take an order when a guy in a booth at her end of the diner coughed like he didn’t really mean to cough.

  “I had a rough night,” Sammy said.

  “Who woulda guessed? Tell me.”

  “Well, I started out heartbroken and it got worse from there.”

  “Heartbroken? Really?” She bent down, leaned on the counter, looked into his eyes. “Tell me more.”

  “You could have called,” he said.

  “No I couldn’t, I don’t have a phone. And I was asleep. You could have come over.”

  “Could I have?”

  “Sure. I might have let you in.”

  “Bow-wows and whistle berries!” Myrtle called into the window. “Two fat dagos in the straw! Bun pup, take a shit on it and make it cry!”

  Sammy raised a questioning eyebrow to the Cheese.

  “Franks and beans, two spaghetti and meatballs, and a chili dog with onions,” Stilton translated. “I think she just made that last one up to show off for you.”

  “Then how did you know what it was?”

  “I’m a professional.”

  “Of course. You want to do something tonight?”

  “I could come to the bar.”

  “It’s my night off. I thought we could get out of North Beach.”

  “Will you be sleeping and showering between now and then?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Then I’m in. So, after the heartbreak, then what happened?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I hate blackouts. Did you have your panties on backwards when you woke up? Only one shoe?”

  “No, I mean, yes. I mean, I didn’t black out. I’m just not sure I can explain.”

  “Tonight, then,” she said. “I gotta work. Phil is giving me the hairy eyeball. Watch this.” She went to the window, waving the coffeepot over her customers’ cups as she moved down the counter. “Hot baby puke, Phil! Squeeze a bunny over it!” She turned and grinned at Sammy.

  The beleaguered Phil stopped and put both hands on his side of the counter pass-through. “What in hell is that?”

  “Oatmeal with raisins,” she said coyly. “Everyone knows that.”

  Phil nodded as if he should have known that and turned toward his grill.

  “Never mind!” said Stilton. “Cancel that, Phil. Instead, ax-murder a monkey and hump it three times!”

  Phil wheeled back to the window, a man who was just about reaching the end of his spatula.

  “Just messing with you, Philly,” said the Cheese. “But that’s a banana split, in case we get in the weeds.”

  “You girls do the ice cream,” said Phil.

  “I know, that’s why I was just messing with you.”

  She quick-stepped back down the counter to Sammy. “So, I’m buying you a banana split, so I don’t get fired.”

  “Aw, I never had a dame buy me ice cream before.”

  “You know I don’t actually have to pay for it, right? I just said ‘buy’ so you didn’t think I was easy.”

  “Right,” said Sammy. “I wouldn’t think that.”

  “Yeah, she’s no floozie,” said Myrtle, who had made her way back to their side of the diner and into the conversation. “So, you got some tape on your cane? Accident? I mean another accident. Not the one where you got the cane.”

  “Yeah,” said Sammy. “You could call it an accident.”

  9

  Laff in the Dark

  Stilton agreed to meet Sammy that evening at the corner of Columbus and Broadway, which he thought was swell of her, because it saved him from walking up 387 stairs to pick her up at her place, but also because it gave him a chance to check in with Thelonius Jones, who was already at his station as doorman at the Moonlight Club.

  “You get home all right, Lone?”

  “Sho’ did. I been a little jumpy ever since last night, though.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that’s taken care of. If anyone asks, you weren’t at Cookie’s last night.”

  “What ’bout that new waitress? Someone ask, she gone remember.”

  “Good point.” Sammy pushed his hat back, scratched his head. “And she saw Pookie come after you. But I don’t think she saw what happened after. Just say Pookie told you to scram and that’s what you did.”

  “I sho’ will, Sammy. Hey, ain’t that your new lady friend?”

  Sammy wheeled to see Stilton coming down Columbus Avenue, her hair down but pinned away from her face, a long, tan raincoat open over a white and red polka-dot dress, flat shoes she could walk in.

  “Yes, it is,” said Sammy. “Yes, it is.”

  “Hey, Lonius!” She waved at Lone, kissed Sammy on the cheek. “How are you tonight?”

  Lone tipped his top hat. “I’m j
ust fine, miss. Y’all going to have you an evening out?”

  “Yes, we are.” Stilton hooked on to Sammy’s arm. “Our first date.”

  “You know better than to feed him, don’t you, miss?”

  “Oh no, is that bad? I gave him a banana split for breakfast.”

  “Well he yours, now. You won’t never get rid of him.”

  “I wish someone would have told me.”

  “This is not true,” Sammy said to Lone. “That’s not true,” he whispered to the Cheese.

  “Whatever you say, snowflake,” Lone said. “You go on now, show yo’ lady a good time.”

  Stilton looked from Sammy, to Lone, to Sammy. “Snowflake?”

  “That’s what I called him, on account he my first white boy.”

  “Oh, snowflake, I’m so excited to hear the story,” Stilton said.

  Sammy pointed his cane at Lone. “I will remember you ratted me out.”

  “Y’all have a nice evening.”

  “Anyone asks, you know nothing, Lone.”

  “Whatever you say, snowflake.” Lone’s smile shone like the grille of an Oldsmobile fresh out of the factory.

  Sammy led Stilton across Broadway and up Grant Avenue into Chinatown. Grant was steaming with the smell of five spices, garlic, dead fish, and incense. The vegetable and fish stands had been pulled in for the night, the fortune-tellers, calligraphers, and souvenir stands pushed out. The restaurants, massage parlors, nightclubs, and bars were still hopping, and a younger bunch streamed up and down the sidewalk: men, women, Chinese, Anglo, Hispanic; sailors, longshoremen, hustlers, hounds, and hobos—Chinatown had gone from a place for making a living to a place for having fun. A young man in possession of a ten-spot could get his future told, his belly filled, his back rubbed, his crank yanked, and leave with a jade Buddha on his key chain, all within a twenty-foot stretch of sidewalk.

  “Can we stop here a minute?” Sammy asked when they reached the big golden foo dogs that guarded either side of Club Shanghai’s doorway.

  “Sure. Always wondered what this place looked like inside.”

  “My friend Eddie works here. Told him I’d rattle his chain if we passed by.”

  A sharp-dressed kid opened the door for them. Down the red carpet, Eddie Moo Shoes looked up from the host’s station. He met them halfway down the hall.

  Sammy said, “Stilton, my friend Eddie Shu. Eddie, Stilton.”

  “Pleasure,” said Eddie, taking Stilton’s hand and bowing over it, gallant as you please.

  “So, how is your houseguest?” Sammy asked.

  “Resting comfortably,” said Eddie. “Still recovering from his trip.”

  “Eddie has a cousin in from out of town,” Sammy explained.

  “Recovering from the trip?” Stilton asked.

  “Something like that,” Eddie said, then he signaled for Sammy to lean in close. “Excuse me, ungentlemanly talk, Stilton.” Sammy leaned in and Eddie whispered. “Some drunk thought he saw Pookie get clocked by a guy with a cane. Guy was shitfaced, so no one’s looking hard, yet, but you should know . . .”

  “Got it, thanks,” Sammy said, stepping back. “Well, tell your uncle I hope he feels better.”

  As they exited the Shanghai Club, Stilton asked, “Hey, you okay?”

  “Right as rain, just gotta do something I been meaning to do.”

  He walked over to the curb, carrying his cane under his arm like a newspaper, determined not to limp or favor his good foot, then bent over and chucked the cane down a storm drain port. They could hear it clatter and splash below.

  “There,” he said, dusting his hands, good riddance to bad rubbish. He held his arm out to her. “Shall we go?”

  “Wow. Just like that?”

  “Been a long time coming. Tell the truth, I should have chucked that thing a long time ago. I didn’t really need it.”

  “No?”

  “Nah, I was just using it as a crutch.”

  She took his arm and snuggled up to him as they continued down the avenue.

  “That’s what you’re supposed to use a friggin’ cane for, snowflake,” she said.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Well, I don’t need it.”

  “If you say so. But you need someone to lean on, I’m here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  They got on the B-car at Geary Street and rode it for nearly an hour, laughing and smooching and commenting between them on everyone who got on or off at every stop, making up outrageous, silly stories about street pirates and bus stop witches, mentioning neither the war nor what had come before. They got off at Ocean Beach, between the Great Highway and Playland, where, as usual, a freezing wind whipped off the Pacific at about seven hundred miles per hour, whistling through the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster, and surprising more than somewhat those tourists who had come here for a balmy midsummer night’s dream, but discomfiting Sammy and the Cheese not a whit. They were locals, and knew what the author Jack London had said about Ocean Beach in 1902: “Holy fuck, you couldn’t get a match lit here to save your life.” Stilton wore her raincoat to protect her from the wind and Sammy wore a wool overcoat with a pint of Old Tennis Shoes in the pocket to protect against the cold.

  “So, what’s your pleasure?” Sammy asked as the streetcar clanged away.

  “I could put on the feedbag, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Sounds good. There’s a diner down by the merry-go-round, if you can stand diner food.”

  “I built up a tolerance. Let’s go.”

  They walked arm in arm to the Sea Lion Café, where they ordered burgers and Cokes from a counter guy in a paper hat. Sammy splashed a jigger or two of Old Tennis Shoes from the pint into their Cokes under the table.

  “More,” said the Cheese.

  Sammy slurped some cola off the top and splashed in more liquor—a bartender used to juggling glasses.

  “Okay?”

  She nodded as she blew the paper wrapper off her straw at him, then drank off a quarter of her Coke in one pull. “Ah, perfect.”

  “Glad you liked it. Old Tennis Shoes is aged in oak barrels for several days.”

  “You can taste it.” She put her glass down. “Sammy, I need to ask you something, and don’t say no just to be nice. Be honest.”

  “Promise. Shoot.”

  “Do you think I’m an alcoholic?”

  “How would I know? I’m a bartender. Everyone I know is a drunk except the kid who hangs out on the steps of my building, and I’m not even sure about him.”

  “What would you guess, then?”

  “Nah. Considering what you been through, you’re as sober as a church mouse.”

  “Isn’t that ‘quiet as a church mouse’?”

  “You’d think, but once you get a few drinks in those little guys, you can’t stop them singing.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him around her straw before she took another long pull on her drink.

  “Just the truth,” he said. “Now me.”

  “You’re definitely a drunk,” she said.

  “No, now I get to ask a question.”

  “Oh, okay. Forget I said that. Shoot.”

  “What were you looking for when you came into my bar that day?”

  “I was looking for you. Just you.”

  “But we’d never met.”

  “I didn’t know you were what I was looking for, but there you were . . .”

  “What if I hadn’t been there? Would anyone have done?”

  “Nope. I wasn’t looking for just anyone. I wasn’t looking for you until I found you. I thought, That’s the guy I’ve been looking for, that guy, right there.”

  “It was because I was pouring drinks, wasn’t it?”

  “That did not hurt. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.”

  “You could have lied about that.”

  She sucked on her straw until it made a thirsty slurping noise at the bottom of the glass, then said, “I’m not lying
.”

  “Yeah, but you could have. I would have been okay.”

  “Okay, here’s the truth, Sammy. I’m trouble. I’m not right. I do reckless things. Selfish things. I’m a wreck waiting to happen. You should steer clear of me.”

  “You want another Coke?” Like he hadn’t even heard her.

  “Yeah. Please.” She had warned him. You can’t blame her. “You like onion rings?”

  “Nah.”

  “Me either.”

  Their burgers arrived and they dove in, the Cheese eating hers in four bites, cheeks puffed out like a lipsticked chipmunk. Sammy was impressed. For a slim broad, she could eat.

  She was munching away at a bouquet of ketchup-tipped fries when he said, “You know, for a slim broad, you eat like a champ.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” she said. “Been eating since I was a kid. You know, practice.”

  “I mean, a lot of girls on a first date would be dainty and pretend they weren’t really hungry. Push the food around on their plate. But not you.”

  “Yeah, but what you don’t know is then they go home, climb into the icebox with a spoon, and think bad stuff about you. I won’t be doing that. I got plans for you, later, buster, which is why I gotta keep my strength up.”

  “Plans?”

  “Yeah. You gonna eat the rest of your fries?”

  Sammy grinned and pushed his fries to her side of the table and was about to negotiate for a hint of her plans when two cops came in the café and took seats near a window looking down the walk toward the merry-go-round. Sammy watched their reflections in the paper napkin dispenser. They were young, not particularly tough-looking, and seemed more interested in watching girls than fighting crime—like they were celebrating drawing sweet duty where the worst thing they might encounter was a rowdy sailor or a kid lifting wallets in the funhouse.

  Sammy snatched the last handful of fries from his plate and crammed them in his mouth.

  “Too slow,” he said around the mouthful of distressed spuds. “Let’s go.”

  Stilton laughed and the cops looked over. Sammy put on his hat and stood, dropped some money on the table, and said, “Keep the change,” to the guy at the counter.