David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 2

Danny’s lip was split right down the middle and blood ran down his chin onto his shirt. He doubled up his fists and acted like he was going to sock Marty back and the fellows came closer. Danny didn’t sock Marty, though. He just turned and walked away. If he had started to hit Marty the fellows would have piled him. The fellows got a kick out of ribbing Marty but they wouldn’t stand for anyone picking on him. They were as nice a bunch of guys as you’d ever find.

After that every time Danny would come by the pool hall the fellows would yell, “Better run, Danny, here comes Marty.” Then they’d all laugh and Danny would walk faster. Pretty soon he got so he wouldn’t come by the pool hall any more. Danny was all right but he couldn’t take a little kidding.

It made Marty cocky as hell. He went around town bragging about how he licked Danny and every time anybody wanted a laugh they’d say, “Hey, Marty, what’d you do to Danny?” and Marty’d stick out his chest and say, “I beat him up. Yeah, I beat him up.” It sure made Danny’s life miserable for him and it gave the fellows a lot of laughs.

One of the best jokes the fellows pulled on Marty was about Marge, the red-headed girl who worked at the coffee joint next to the station. It was a lulu of a joke and we had more darn fun, only Marty spoiled it. You’d have never thought Marty would do a thing like that but it just goes to show you how screwy he was. The fellows started telling Marty that Marge was in love with him. At first he’d grin and say, “You can’t kid me, you can’t kid me. You’re jus’ kiddin’, ‘ats all.” But the fellows kept it up. “Of course, she likes you, Marty,” they’d say. “She’s goofy about you. She told us so.” “Did she?” Marty’d ask. “Did she, hones’?” and he’d lick his lips and look across at the coffee joint.

“I bet if you bought her some candy she’d fall hard for you,” one of the fellows told him one day. “You think so?” Marty asked, all excited. “Sure,” the fellow said. “Try it and see.” So by God Marty did try it. Marge came walking by on her way to work one night and Marty popped out of the pool hall and stuck a bar of five-cent candy in her hand. “Here,” he said, and started giggling. When he giggled his lips got all slobbery and he looked like he was blowing soap bubbles. The bar of candy was all squeezed up and dirty like Marty’d hung onto it in his pocket all afternoon. Gosh, the fellows roared. “Oh, Marge,” they said, “who’s your boy friend?” Marge’s face got red’s a beet. “It isn’t funny,” she said. “He means well. Thanks, Marty,” she said, and walked away fast.

And maybe you think the fellows didn’t razz Marge after that! “Hey, Marge,” they’d yell, “how’s your boy friend?” She’d flush and walk faster and it was always good for a laugh. Marty started hanging around the coffee joint when Marge was working and the owner had to kick him out almost every night. Sometimes he’d give her a bar of candy and sometimes it’d be some flowers he’d swiped out of somebody’s yard. She’d take ‘em so’s not to hurt his feelings but the fellows would play like she really was in love with him. Whenever they saw her they’d ask when was she getting married and things like that. Boy, did it burn her up!

Marty got so he thought Marge really was his girl. “Who’s your girl, Marty?” the fellows would ask, and Marty would grin sly as the dickens and say, “Aw, you know, you know,” and he’d giggle and bubbles would come on his mouth. Then the fellows would say, “Hey, Marty, we saw you out with another jane last night. What’s the idea? Trying to ditch Marge?” Marty’d get all excited and beg ‘em not to tell Marge that. Gosh, it was funny how serious he took the thing. “What do you and Marge do when you go out?” the fellows would ask, and Marty’d grin, “You know,” he’d say, and then he’d lick his lips and look across the street where she worked.

It was the darnedest, funniest thing you ever saw, until Marty spoiled it. You never can tell what a goofy guy’ll do and Marty was like the rest of ‘em.

One night the fellows were hanging around the taxi stand in front of the pool hall when they heard a woman screaming like she’d been murdered or something. Before they could figure out where it was coming from, Marge came running into the light out of the alley. Her dress was torn and her face was bloody like it’d been scratched. Her hair was down over her shoulders and she looked like she’d seen a ghost or something. Her eyes were bugged out and she didn’t seem to see. She just screamed and screamed. Finally Ironsides found out what it was all about and the fellows all ran down the alley. She stood alone on the corner and kept on screaming. It was awful.

The fellows found Marty hiding behind a garbage can, crying. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “Don’t let them put me in jail.” When they got him in jail and started asking him questions he acted like a kid that’s been caught stealing candy or something. “I won’t do it again,” he said. He’d wipe his eyes with his fists and spread dirt all over his face. “Did she tell on me?” he’d ask.

Of course they had to send Marty to the nut house at Stockton. They were afraid he’d bust loose again. He bawled like a kid for three days after they told him what they were going to do, until they took him away. What worried him was he’d be cooped up and wouldn’t get to go up and down the streets selling papers. The deputy that took him to Stockton said he didn’t fight. He just bawled like a kid.

What made the fellows sore about the whole thing was the way Marge acted when she got out of the hospital. You know how women are. You never know what makes ‘em click. Marge was that way. She got the notion the fellows were to blame. That’s a hot one, isn’t it? How could the fellows been to blame when they weren’t anywhere near when it happened? It made them mad the way she started treating ‘em. When they went into the coffee joint she treated ‘em like dogs, wouldn’t kid with them or anything. Never so much as a smile or a pleasant word. The fellows started staying away from the place, so the owner canned Marge. You couldn’t blame him.

It seemed what Marty did to her and losing her job and all kind of made her screwy herself. Before she left town she met one of the fellows on the street and he told her he was sorry about her losing her job. “If you’d treated the fellows decent,” he said, “the boss would of kept you.” Well, sir, she scratched his face something awful, and he had to slap her good to make her quit. He wasn’t the kind of fellow that hits women, but women haven’t got a right to scratch a fellow’s face when he hasn’t done anything. Old Ironsides, the cop, agreed with the fellow. He told Marge to get out of town or he’d run her out.

The fellows sometimes say how funny it seems without Marty going up and down the streets yelling “Whoa! Whoa!” They sure used to get a kick out of him.

At exactly 8:13 A.M. Mr. Petty arrived. He hung his hat in the locker, just as he had hung it every working day of his life for the last thirty years. He went over to the water cooler where he wet his dry, tense throat with a small sip of water. Then he shuffled down the hall to the door marked: George V. Benson, General Manager.

Mr. Petty waited till his wrist watch showed precisely 8:15. Then he opened the door, walked in, closing it carefully behind him.

Mr. Benson looked up at the little bookkeeper.

“Always prompt, aren’t you, Petty?”

Mr. Petty gulped. “Yes, sir. You said 8:15, sir.”