David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

As Ruttman approached, the little man continued to hop up and down, yelling, “What kind of men you got working here? Take a look at this situation.”

“Easy, Johnny, easy.” Ruttman had a deep, furry voice. He came up to the crate, glanced at the wheeled platform, and then looked at the three stevedores. He said, “What goes on here?”

“We just can’t handle it,” one of them said. “We ain’t got enough space to work in.”

“You’re a liar,” the little man shrieked. “There’s plenty of space. You’re just goofing, that’s all, you’re trying to kill time.”

Ruttman told the little man to go away. The little man started to yelp, claiming that he had a lot of money invested in these pineapples and he’d be damned if he was going to let them get spoiled. Ruttman said the pineapples wouldn’t get spoiled and it would help matters if the little man went away. The little man folded his arms and shouted he was going to stay right here. Ruttman sighed wearily and took a slow step toward the little man. The little man scampered away.

The three stevedores moved toward the crate and Ruttman shook his head, waving them back and saying, “This ain’t no good. We gotta do it another way.” He looked at Kerrigan. “Bring me a chain and a crowbar.”

Kerrigan turned and walked down along the length of the pier, wiping sweat from his face. In the tool shed he found a roll of adhesive tape, and he cut off a strip and slipped it around his torn finger. He came out of the shed carrying the heavy chain and the crowbar. He took a few steps and stopped short and the crowbar fell out of his hand, the chain slipped away from his fingers. He stood motionless, staring at Loretta Channing.

She was sitting at the wheel of the MG. The car was parked on the pier. A few men wearing Panama hats and tropical-weave suits were leaning against the car and it was evident she’d got special permission to come onto the pier.

As Kerrigan stood there, unable to breathe, Loretta waved to him. He could feel the heavy awkwardness of the moment as the men in Panama hats turned to look at him, their faces showing vaguely puzzled smiles.

He told himself to pick up the chain and crowbar and get out of here. But as he reached down, he stiffened again. He was staring at an object in Loretta’s hands. It was a small camera. She had it focused on him.

He straightened, breathing air that seemed to burn. His arms were away from his sides, his hands were clenched, and he didn’t realize he was showing his teeth.

The camera made a clicking sound. It was a very small noise, but in his brain it was amplified. It cracked like a lash hitting him in the face.

He moved toward the MG. He walked very slowly. His head jutted like an aimed weapon. A fruit clerk wearing an apron came into his path and he pushed the man aside, not hearing the whine of protest. The men in Panama hats were moving uneasily as they detected the menace in his approach. Instinctively they got out of his way. But Loretta didn’t move. Loretta sat there at the wheel, smiling at him, waiting for him, the camera held loosely in her hand.

He came up to the door of the MG and pointed to the camera and said, “Give it to me.”

Loretta widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You want it for a gift?”

“All I want is the film.”

The mockery remained on her face. “What will you do with it?”

“I’d like to shove it down your throat.”

The men in Panama hats were swallowing hard and looking at each other. One of them braced himself and tapped Kerrigan on the shoulder and murmured, “No need to take offense, fellow. All the lady did was take your picture.”

“You keep out of it,” Kerrigan said.

The man said, “Now look here, I’m one of the owners of this pier.”

Ignoring the man, Kerrigan reached out toward the camera. But Loretta was faster. She opened the panel of the glove compartment, slid the camera in, and closed the panel.

Kerrigan gripped the door, leaned across the steering wheel, and moved his hand toward the glove compartment. The pier owner grabbed his arm and said, “Just a moment here. Just a moment.”

In the next instant the Panama hat was falling off the pier owner’s head. He was shoved backward, with Kerrigan’s flat hand covering his face. He tripped over a loose plank and sat down very hard and stared up at Kerrigan with his mouth opened wide.

Loretta hadn’t moved. She was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “I can’t understand why you’re so upset. All I did was take your picture.”

His voice was low and even but it whipped at her. “You want it for a souvenir. You’ll show it to your uptown friends. Picture of a man, stripped almost naked, like something on exhibit in a cage.”

Again he reached for the glove compartment. Loretta sat there quietly, making no move to stop him as his finger found the chromium button. He pressed the button, the panel swung open, and he groped for the camera. His hand closed on it and he pulled it out and at that moment he felt the iron pressure coming down on his arm, gripping him above the elbow and causing him to blink.

He turned his head and saw the face of Ruttman.

“Easy, bud,” the dock foreman murmured. “Easy now.”

“Let go.” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Ruttman held him there.

The pier owner, still hatless, had come forward and was saying to Ruttman, “Throw this man off the dock. Give him his pay and get him out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruttman said. He took a deep breath that was like a sigh. “All right, bud. Let’s go.”

Kerrigan didn’t move. He was looking at the faces of the men with the Panama hats. They were smiling at him; they felt safe now. They saw him taken in charge by a larger man, a stronger man, a man who was obviously capable of handling him.

“I said let’s go.” Ruttman’s tone was louder.

But he didn’t hear it. He was staring at the other faces, the faces of the stevedores who’d left the crates and were moving in to see what would happen. Ruttman was the undisputed boss of Pier 17 and there were scores of dock-wallopers who’d tried their best to disprove it, only to get their teeth knocked out, their noses caved in, their jaws broken. All along the docks of Wharf Street the opinion was unanimous: It never paid to trifle with Ruttman.

Kerrigan looked at the face of Ruttman and saw the strength, the quiet confidence, saw the warning that was almost friendly. Ruttman’s eyes seemed to be saying, Don’t force me into it, I really don’t want to hurt you.

And then, as caution was mixed with the reasonable knowledge that he had no complaint against Ruttman, he turned his head, a gesture of submittal. In that instant he saw Loretta smiling at him, a mocking smile.

He let the camera fall way from his fingers, and the back of his hand cracked across her mouth.

It was a hard blow and it sent her head twisting all the way to the side. But he didn’t have time to see what damage he had done, because Ruttman was already hitting him.

Ruttman was smashing him with a straight right that caught him under the eye. He fell back with his arms wide, his feet off the ground. He collided with a crate, bounced away, started to fall, made up his mind he wouldn’t fall, and lunged at Ruttman with his fists flailing.

He found Ruttman’s head with his right hand, staggered Ruttman with another blow to the temple, then came in close and ripped both hands to the body. He heard Ruttman grunting and again he punched to the body, and Ruttman started to double up, falling forward, trying to clinch.

Kerrigan stepped back and hooked a short left to Ruttman’s jaw, followed it with another left to the side of the head, stepping back again and chopping with the right and missing, and then taking a terrible, thundering blow from Ruttman’s right hand. It was a roundhouse smash, a punch that started wide, came in short, exploded on his jaw, and knocked him down.