David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

In the morning he knew he would find her sunning, alone, on the pier. There was a small spur of pride in him as he told himself how he had finally seen through her. He was sure now that she had led him on, and that she had nearly made him kill himself.

“... To cease upon the midnight with no pain,” he quoted to himself again. But it would be broad daylight now, and he didn’t suppose it would be absolutely painless...

He went up to meet Lynette McCaffrey with no weapon but his hands, and he didn’t even give a thought to what must inevitably come after.

All the taxi drivers and the fellows who hung around the pool hall would tell you that Marty was a laugh; you should’ve seen him when the boys got him burnt up about something. He was more fun than a circus, was Marty. Not exactly crazy enough to be put in the nut house or anything like that, just goofy enough to be really pretty darn funny.

He sold papers at the station. They were Posts and Marty yelled something that sounded like “Whoa”, so all the fellows got a great kick out of yelling “Giddiap! Whoa!” at him and making him mad. He got screwy when they did that. He’d come across the street with his dirty checkered cap pulled down over one side of his face and his twisted mouth all squeezed up into a snarl.

“You old bootleggers,” he’d say. “You old bootleggers!” The fellows got a special kick out of Marty calling ‘em bootleggers and they’d laugh like anything. “I’m gonna get you,” Marty would say. “Just you wait and see. You’d better not make fun of me.”

“Aw, gosh! Don’t scare us like that,” one of the fellows would say, and everybody’d laugh again. Everyone would gather around. There was always a laugh when you had Marty going. He’d lay his papers on the sidewalk and double up his fists. “Wanna fight?” he’d ask. Then everybody’d act afraid and beg Marty not to hit ‘em. Of course they weren’t afraid. Marty was just a little fellow and any of the fellows could have licked him easy with one hand. They were just kidding him for a laugh. Even Old Ironsides — that’s what they called the corner cop — would come by and grin at Marty standing with his fists doubled up and acting like he was a tough guy.

They’d keep on kidding Marty and he’d start squealing like a stuck pig, he’d get so mad. You couldn’t understand what he was saying when he got mad like that. Just a lot of cuss words that didn’t make sense. And his mouth would froth like he was a mad dog or something.

Then somebody’d act like he really was going to fight Marty. He’d double up his fist and prance around and wiggle his arms and say, “All right, Marty, look out!” and he’d make a couple passes at Marty. “Come on, put ‘em up,” the fellow would say, “I’m gonna knock your can off.” Then Marty’d start whimpering like a little kid. He’d rub his eyes and back away and say, “You’d better not. You’d better not. I’ll tell the cops, that’s what I’ll do.” Then he’d grab his papers and run like hell back across the street. Gee, it was funny!

It wouldn’t be no time before he’d forget all about it and he’d be walking up and down the station platform yelling “Whoa, Whoa,” or something that sounded like that. He sold a lot of papers because people felt sorry for him, I guess. He kept all his money in one pocket and when there wasn’t anybody around he’d take it out and count it. He’d count his money seventy times a day. Guess it was the biggest kick he got out of life. And you couldn’t get him to spend a nickel. Nobody knew what he did with his money. He was nutty about money.

He was always begging for it. “Gimme a nirkel,” he’d say, looking up at somebody. “Aw, go on, gimme a nirkel. Please,” he’d say, “go on, please gimme a nirkel.” It was funny the way he said nickel. There was something the matter with his tongue and he couldn’t talk straight. He’d do anything for a nickel and that’s no kidding. He’d do anything. Sometimes when the fellows were drunk they’d get Marty in the back room of the pool hall and if you’d been there you’d seen there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for a nickel.

But one of the biggest kicks was when the fellows would kid Marty about his girls. Of course he didn’t have any. He was about thirty years old and he had a face like a monkey. His chin sprouted long black hairs that grew far apart and the fellows said he had pig’s bristles instead of whiskers. I don’t think he ever shaved but the whiskers didn’t get any longer. It was funny to think of him having a girl. Gosh, no girl’d even look at him. Even the Mexican woman would chase him away when he’d go to her shack across the tracks and say what the fellows had put him up to saying.

“Hey, Marty,” the fellows would say, “who’s that hot number we saw with you last night?” And Marty’d grin sly, like he really had been out with a girl, and he’d say, “Nonna yer bursness” or something like that. And they’d say, “Can’t you fix it up for us? Gee, she was a hot number. Oh, boy!” Marty’d act real proud like he really could and he’d say, “Naw sir, not youse guys. Not youse guys. T’hell wit’ ya.”

The funniest thing was when somebody’d ask Marty what he did to the girl. It was a scream. He couldn’t even pronounce the word right. “Aw, you never had one in your life,” they’d tell him and he’d get mad. “Tha’s all you know,” he’d say. “Tha’s all you know.” All Marty knew about things like that was what he heard the fellows saying in the pool hall. But you’d thought he did all ‘em himself the way he talked.

A girl would go by on the other side of the street and the fellows would whisper, “Hey, Marty, that your girl?” And he’d say, “Sure,” and they’d act surprised and say “Gosh, Marty, you ever—?” And he’d wink like he’d seen the fellows do and say, “Yeah, sure.” Sometimes the woman would be the banker’s wife or the girl that played the organ at the church but Marty’d say sure everytime. It didn’t matter who it was, he’d say the same thing. The fellows always got a laugh out of that.

One of the worst things Marty could think to call a guy was a bootlegger. The fellows around the taxi stand used to tell him that George Burke, the lawyer, was going to have him put in jail. Marty’d go white every time you mentioned jail to him. He was goofy, but he liked his freedom more’n anybody you ever saw. So when the fellows’d rib him up about Burke he’d get scared stiff, then crazy mad. He’d go running past Burke’s office fast’s he could, yelling, “Burke’s an old bootlegger! Burke’s an old bootlegger! Yeah, Burke’s an old darn bootlegger!” Burke was a little red-faced guy and he’d get hopping mad but he never did anything about it. He knew the people would think it was small potatoes for a big lawyer to pick on a half-wit. So he couldn’t do anything. Anytime we wanted a boot we’d rib up Marty to go after Burke. You should’ve seen it.

The fellows all got a kick out of ribbing Marty, but they wouldn’t stand for anybody picking on him. One time they told Marty the reporter for another paper was playing dirty tricks on the Post, the paper Marty sold. You’d thought Marty owned the Post the way he was willing to fight for it. He couldn’t read, but he’d get sore as hell if you told him the Post wasn’t any good. The fellows kept telling Marty this fellow Danny McLeod was scooping the Post and things like that until Marty was hopping mad. One day Danny came walking down the street and one of the fellows said, “There’s the dirty punk that’s been scooping your paper, Marty. Why don’t you sock him?” Marty’s mouth got twisted worse than ever and he started biting his lips. When Danny got near him he all of a sudden ran out and hit him on the mouth. You could’ve knocked the fellows over with a feather. They didn’t think Marty had guts enough to hit anybody.