David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

A voice called, “Hey, man.”

He turned and looked at the window of the wooden shack and saw the long, glimmering earrings, the lacquered black hair, the coffee-and-cream face of Rita Montanez. In the Vernon Street market, which rarely ran as high as three dollars, she alone had the nerve to charge five. She got away with it because she was constructed along the lines that caused men to swallow hard when she passed them on the street. Rita was a mixture of African and Portuguese and she featured the finer physical characteristics of her internationally-minded ancestors. Her onyx eyes were long-lashed and she had a finely shaped nose and medium-thick lips. She was in her early thirties and didn’t look a day over twenty.

Kerrigan smiled at Rita and walked toward the window. Although he was not a customer, he had a definite affection for her, going back to the days when they were kids playing in the streets.

“Got another smoke?” Rita asked.

He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

She winked at him, beckoned with her head, and said, “Wanna come inside?”

He laughed lightly. She laughed with him. They were always going through this routine and taking it just this far and no farther.

“What’s new?” she asked. “How’s my friend Thomas?”

Kerrigan shrugged. He wasn’t affected one way or another by the fact that his father was one of Rita’s steady customers. Long ago he’d become accustomed to Tom’s dealings with the Vernon professionals.

Rita took an open-mouthed drag at the cigarette. She let the smoke come out slowly, and watched it climbing past her eyes. She said, “I like Thomas. He is much man.”

Kerrigan’s thoughts were only half focused on what she was saying. He said absently, “You better watch out for Lola.”

Rita narrowed her eyes. It was purely technical, an expression of business strategy. “You think Lola knows something?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what she knows. But sooner or later she’s gonna pay you a visit. You better be ready to run.”

“From her? She’s nothing but a lot of fat and a lot of noise.” Rita blew smoke away from her face. “Lola don’t worry me. No woman worries me.” She made a motion toward the back of her head, and her fingers came away holding the tiny black-beetle knob of a five-inch hatpin. “This here’s the equalizer,” she said. “One jab with this and they know who’s boss.”

He grinned. “You’re a hellcat, Rita.”

“Gotta be. This street is no place for softies.”

The grin faded. He stared at the splintered wall of the shack. He said, “You got something there.”

She studied his eyes. Suddenly she knew what he was thinking. She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t let it get you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Rita kept her hand on his arm. “I was good friends with your sister.”

He blinked. He looked at the painted face of the five-dollar woman.

Rita nodded. “Real good friends,” she said. “And I don’t make friends easy. Especially women. But it was different with Catherine. She was strictly Grade A.”

He stared at Rita. He said, “I didn’t know she was friends with you.”

“She was friends with everybody.” Rita gazed past Kerrigan’s head. “I used to see her giving candy to the kids in the street. Giving pennies to the bums and the cripples. Always giving.”

His voice was thick. “She sure got paid back nice.”

“Don’t think about that.”

For some moments he didn’t speak. And then, very low in his throat, “It was my fault.”

She looked at him. She frowned.

He said, “I knew she didn’t belong here. I should have taken her away.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” he said. “Just to get her away from this mess. This goddamn street.”

“You don’t like the street?”

“Look at it.” He pointed to the rutted paving, the choked gutter, the littered doorsteps. “What’s there to like?”

“She liked it,” Rita said.

“She had no choice. She lived here all her life and she never knew anything better.”

“But she liked it. She was happy here. That’s what you gotta remember.”

“I can only remember one thing: I could have taken her out of this fouled-up rut and I didn’t do it.”

“Quit blaming yourself,” Rita said.

“There’s no one else to blame.”

“Yes, there is. But there’s no way to point at him, you don’t know his name. Maybe you’ll never know. After all, it happened almost a year ago. Best thing for you to do is forget about it.”

He wanted to say something, to disagree with Rita’s viewpoint, but as he searched for a way it was like groping in a dark closet that had no walls. He shook his head slowly, futilely, and finally he murmured, “Good night, Rita,” and walked away.

At the corner of Fourth and Vernon he took out his pocket watch. The hands pointed to twenty past three. He had to be up very early and it hardly paid to go home and get in bed. And now the prospect of a battle with Bella was not at all appetizing. He winced at the thought that she’d still be sitting up, preparing to greet him with a flood of curses. Suddenly he was thinking of the railway ticket office, the bus depot, the freighters docked at the piers. But that had nothing to do with Bella. He just felt like taking off, that was all. He just wanted a long trip that would carry him far away from Vernon Street.

Skip it, he told himself. Think about it later.

He shrugged. But it was more than a casual effort. His shoulders felt strangely heavy. And then, trying to shake off the weighted feeling, he began to walk fast. But suddenly he came to an abrupt halt. He turned his head slowly and looked at the dark alley, where moonlight fell on a broken bottle, a crushed tin can, and the dried bloodstains of his sister.

He moved toward the alley. Then he was in the alley, looking down at the bloodstains. He wondered why his eyes felt cold. Quit it, he told himself. Get out of here. Go home. But he stood there looking down at the crimson stains on the rutted paving. A minute passed, another minute, and then all at once he had the feeling that someone was watching him.

He turned very slowly. He saw the carrot-colored hair and thick neck and sloping shoulders of Mooney. The sign painter had his head slanted and his arms folded and seemed to be appraising Kerrigan as though lining him up for a charcoal sketch.

Kerrigan smiled uncertainly. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Just happened to see you,” Mooney said. He shifted his position, leaning against the wall of the shack at the edge of the alley. His hair was damp and shiny.

“Enjoy your swim? Cool you off any?” Kerrigan asked.

Mooney had a look of grumbling displeasure. “That goddamn river. Cooled me off, hell. Only thing it did, it almost drowned me.”

Kerrigan grinned. “Was Nick there to see it?”

Mooney nodded. He said offhandedly, “Reached me just in time. I went down twice before he dived in.”

Kerrigan was still grinning. “Where’s Nick now?”

“Went home. That’s what I oughta do.” He shrugged again. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said quietly, “Making progress?”

“What?” Kerrigan said. “What are you talking about?”

“This situation here,” Mooney murmured. He was looking down at the bloodstains. “I’ve seen you in this alley more times than I can count. Of course, it ain’t none of my business—”

“All right, let’s drop it.”

“You won’t drop it.”

“I’m dropping it now. It’s a dead issue.”

“The hell it is. You’ll come here again. You’ll keep coming here.”

“If I do, I’m a damn fool,” Kerrigan said.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Mooney spoke very quietly, almost in a whisper. “I’ve never had you checked off as a damn fool.”