Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

“In three years he’s had a thousand chances to snap out. He’s getting worse instead of better. Don’t serve him anymore.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If he hasn’t any dough, I won’t trust him. If he has the dough, I’ll sell him drinks. If I don’t, there’s nine gin mills in the block that will.”

She sagged into a chair. “I suppose you’re right. I wish I had the money to take him away where he couldn’t buy a drink.”

“Look,” I say to her, “there’s something else. I want you should buy a chain for your door and let me put it on. You know, those kind that let you open it a little to see who wants in.”

She stared at me. “Why, for goodness’ sake?”

I had to tell her all about Buster. I really laid it on. When she asked me where the law was, I told her that in this town the Pasternaks are the law. I finally got it through her head that she was in actual, physical danger. She was crying when I left, not from fear, but just from having too many problems all at once.

Angelo glared at me for taking so long, and hurried back to his game in the back room.

The next evening I put the chain on the door for her. Simmonds was sitting on the couch. He glanced up at me, but he didn’t speak.

I didn’t see any of them for nearly a week, except once in a while a glimpse of her on her way home from work.

On a rainy Wednesday, shortly after one o’clock, Simmonds comes in, shaking the rain off his collar. I wait until I see him take a ten out of his pocket before I pour the rye. The performance is the same as before, with him relaxing a little as soon as he downs two shots.

“What’d you hock to get the dough, golden boy?” I ask him.

He leers at me. “From in back of the sugar bowl in the cupboard, if it’s any of your business, Johnny.” It wasn’t any of my business, but I was having the jitters worrying about whether or not Buster would show. I knew that this time she wouldn’t arrive like the horses do in the Westerns. He was just medium noisy when a little kid clomped down the steps and peered through the window.

I said to Simmonds, “Bud, you better finish your drink and blow. And put that chain on the door. That kid is off to tip Buster, and this time your wife won’t be around to save you. You remember Buster?”

“What I don’t remember, Alice told me. And I’m staying. That monkey won’t touch me.”

“No,” I said, “he won’t touch you. He’ll just put you in the hospital for two weeks while he makes a play for your wife. Buster’ll be real gentle, he will.”

Simmonds grins at me and shows me the butt of a small automatic. He drops it back in his pocket and says, “I loaded little sweetie pie last night. She’s only a twenty-two, but I can put all seven shots into your eye from across the room. I’m ignoring the monkey, but he lays a hand on me and he gets it.”

“Look, Simmonds,” I say, “you’re not the type.”

“Maybe I’m just starting to be the type.”

I guess it was my fault. As predicted, Buster shows up in five more minutes, blowing hard from hurrying. Two old guys are sitting at a table near the window. The five of us is all there is.

Buster isn’t smiling. He stops about six feet from Simmonds and says, “Turn around and look at me, punk. I’m going to rough you up a little.”

That was my cue. I should have said, “He’s got a gun, Buster.” That’s what I should have said. But I was too busy remembering the look in Mrs. Simmonds’ eyes and too busy remembering the jobs that Buster had done on numerous clients and customers. I had my mouth open, but nothing came out.

I saw the kid’s hand dart down into his coat pocket, and he whirled, yanking the gun out as Buster rushed him. There was a small snapping noise. The kid was yanking at the trigger and nothing more was happening when Buster hit him. I expected Buster to pull the punch, but he was like a wild man.

You ever see anybody killed with one smack? It makes a sight and a sound that’s right out of this world. You don’t want to see it twice. The kid flew back against the bar and crumpled to the floor. Somehow, I knew he was dead.

Buster gave me a weak ghost of his usual smile, pawed at his throat, mumbled, “What the hell?” and folded slowly down across Simmonds’ body. One of the old guys tried to get out by way of the plate-glass window.

I was alone and the room was beginning to smell of death by the time the cops got there. I was the only witness they needed.

Buster got one hell of a big funeral. I didn’t go. I stayed right behind my bar and got tight. There was a couple of things I wanted to forget.

One thing was the way Alice Simmonds acted. You see, I went upstairs right after the two of them were pronounced dead. I expected her to be working, but she wasn’t. She was home. She opened the door and held her hands up to her mouth, her eyes wide, and said, “Is he—?”

I gave it to her quick and caught her as she fell.

I carried her over to the sofa, and as I laid her down, some little brass things spilled out of the pocket of her skirt. Six of them. Six little .22 shells.

She opened her eyes dreamily and stared up at me and murmured, “I gave him a sporting chance, which is more than he ever gave me.” Then she acted like she wanted to bite off her tongue, and looked sick when I handed her the shells.

Another thing I want to forget is Ray saying, “Damn if I can understand why a guy would expect to knock off Buster Pasternak with one dinky little bullet. That’s all he had in the gun, you know. Nicked the heart.”

They made a routine check for fingerprints, and when they found hers as well as his, it didn’t mean a thing to them.

She’s gone now. Moved out.

Sometimes on sunny afternoons when I see a slender woman walking on the other side of the street, I think it’s her and I run to the window, but it never is. It just never is.

Maybe one of these days, when Angelo fires me again, I’ll see if I can locate her.

Chowder gave me the assignment one hot afternoon in Chicago. I like to stay in shape and that morning I had gone three fast sets of tennis with a pro at the club. It was one of those afternoons. Chowder was at the big desk he keeps in the front room of his apartment, and I was in sweat shirt and shorts over on the couch. Chowder was going over the coded reports from the outlying districts. Syndicate business.

Gloria was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside me, hunched over a magazine. I had my right hand on the nape of her neck, running my fingers up through her bronze hair. Gloria is a good kid, but not too bright.

Her drink was on the floor beside me, and her cigarette smoke was curling up through the still air. She has never gotten it through her head that I don’t smoke or drink just because I don’t like the tastes involved.

I’ve told her that a gentleman is a guy with none of the minor vices, but she merely gives me a blank look.

Chowder got his name because he started in a political way in some small New England town trying to buy the voters with free chowder and beer at picnics. He has a flat white face, no hair and a little mouth like an upside-down U. He is a very rough man indeed.

“Go down to the bar and buy yourself a drink, Gloria,” he said.

She gave him a look of quick annoyance. “I like it here.”

I took my hand away from the back of her neck, put my palm flat against her ear and pushed. She sprawled over and jumped up, hopping mad.