David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

“For God’s sake!” He shouted it, and jumped up from the table. “What are you building here? That broad don’t mean a thing to me. I hardly even know her!”

He jammed his hands into his trousers pockets and started to walk up and down alongside the table.

“Another thing,” Bella said. “You didn’t come home last night. I stayed up, waiting for you. Where’d you go? Where’d you sleep?”

The floor seemed to be moving under his feet and he wished it would keep on moving and take him away from all these questions he couldn’t handle. But the floor kept him there near the table, holding him on the track, setting him there like a slowly moving target while the sharpshooter took aim.

Then Bella shot it at him. “Whoever she is, she’s doing something to you. She’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

It was like a crowbar hitting him in the eyes. He backed away from the table, staring at Bella. “What gives you that crazy idea?”

“I can tell. It’s plastered all over your face.”

He took several deep breaths. But that didn’t help. He turned his back to the table, folded his arms, and glowered at the floor.

And he heard Bella saying, “You see what I mean? It shows. You can’t even look me in the eye.”

For a moment he wished he were one of the smooth talkers, the con artists who could handle this sort of thing and slide out of it without any trouble. But then, as he pivoted hard and faced her, he was glaring and his voice was blunt. “Now listen,” he said. “I’ll tell you once and then it’s ended, you hear? There ain’t a goddamn thing happening with me and that chippy. She’s one of them phonys from uptown. She came down here to play around and get some kicks. All I did was tell her off and send her on her way.”

Bella’s features were impassive. Then gradually a smile worked its way onto her lips, a perceptive smile that narrowed her eyes as she murmured, “She’s got you so mixed up, you’re dizzy. You really go for her.”

“Sure,” he snarled. “Like a fish goes for dry land. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Bella slowly arose from the table. She looked him up and down. She smiled and said, “This tickles me. It’s really very funny.”

He stiffened. “What’s funny?”

Her smile was pure disdain. “You,” she said. “You’re the comedian. And what takes the cake is that getup you’re wearing. Making a social call uptown?” She started to laugh at him.

“Stop it,” he said.

She went on laughing.

He stood rigid and his fists were clenched and he spoke through his teeth. “Goddamn you,” he said. “Stop it.”

He stood rigid and his fists were clenched and he spoke through his teeth. “Goddamn you,” he said. “Stop it.”

“I can’t.” She was holding her sides, as though her ribs were cracking. Her laughter climbed to a screaming pitch.

Kerrigan moved toward her, his eyes burning, his teeth grinding. But suddenly he stopped short, staring past Bella, seeing something that caused him to stiffen. His eyes were aiming at a small mirror on the wall and he saw his carefully combed hair and the Sunday suit.

The mocking laughter jabbed at him like hot needles inserted in his brain. But he heard it, the jeering sound wasn’t coming from Bella. He told himself it came from the mirror.

He turned away and hurried out of the kitchen. The laughter followed him down the hall, through the parlor, and went on jabbing at him as he opened the front door and walked out of the house.

He walked aimlessly on Vernon, crossing the street several times for no good reason at all. On Wharf Street he turned around and went back on Vernon all the way to Eleventh, then walked eleven blocks back to Wharf, and turned around again. It didn’t occur to him how much ground he was covering, how many hours it was taking. The only definite feeling he had was the weight of the camera in his jacket pocket.

The sky was dark now. He continued to walk back and forth along Vernon Street and finally he stood outside a store window, staring at the face of a clock that read eleven-forty. He scowled at the clock and asked himself what in hell he was going to do with the camera.

He turned away from the store window and resumed walking along Vernon. The heat-weary citizens were grouped on doorsteps, the perspiration gleaming on their faces. As Kerrigan walked past, they stared at him in wonder, seeing the buttoned collar and the necktie and the heavy worsted jacket and trousers. They shook their heads.

But although he wasn’t thinking about it, the sticky heat seeped into his body and he moved with increasing difficulty. His mouth and throat were aching for a cold drink. He saw the light in the window of Dugan’s Den, and it occurred to him that he could use a few beers.

Entering the taproom, he heard the squeaky tune that Dugan hummed off key. There were three customers at the bar, a couple of hags with a lot of rouge on their faces and an ageless humpbacked derelict bent low over a glass of wine. The hags were glaring at Dugan, who had his arms folded and his eyes half closed and was concentrating on the music that came from his lips.

One of the hags leaned toward Dugan and yelled, “Shut up with that noise. I can’t stand that goddamn noise.”

Dugan went on humming.

“You gonna shut up?” the hag screeched.

“He won’t shut up,” the other hag said. “Only way to quiet him down is shoot him.”

“One of these nights I’ll do just that,” the first hag said. “I’ll come in here with a gun, and so help me, I’ll put a slug in his throat.”

Kerrigan was at the bar. He caught Dugan’s attention and said he wanted a beer. Dugan filled a glass and brought it to him. He finished it quickly and ordered another. He looked up at the clock above the bar and the hands pointed to twelve-ten. In his jacket pocket the camera was very heavy.

The first hag was pointing to Kerrigan and saying loudly, “Look at that goddamn fool. Look at the way he’s all dressed up.”

“In a winter suit,” the other hag said.

“Maybe he thinks it’s wintertime,” the first hag said. She was short and shapeless and her hair was dyed orange.

The other hag began to laugh. She made a sound like two pieces of rusty metal scraping against each other. Her throat was ribboned with several knife scars and on her face she had a hideous vertical scar that ran from the right eye down to the mouth. She was of average height and weighed around eighty pounds. Pointing a bony finger at Kerrigan, she jeered, “You tryin’ to suffocate? Is that whatcha wanna do? You wanna suffocate?”

“He don’t even hear ya,” the shapeless hag said. “He’s all dressed up to go somewhere and he don’t even hear ya.”

“Hey, stupid,” the scarred woman hollered. “You goin’ to a party? Take us with you.”

“Yeah. We’re all dressed up, too.”

Kerrigan looked at them. He saw the rags they wore, the cracked leather and broken heels of their shoes. Then he looked at their faces and he recognized them. The shapeless woman with orange hair was named Frieda and she lived in a shack a few doors away from the Kerrigan house. The scarred woman was the widow of a ditchdigger and her name was Dora. Both women were in their early forties and he’d known them since his childhood.

“Hello, Frieda,” he said. “Hello, Dora.”

They stiffened and stared at him.

“Don’t you know me?” he said.

Without moving from where they stood at the other end of the bar, they leaned forward to get a better look at him.

“I know what he is,” Frieda said. “He’s a federal.”

Dora slanted her head and looked Kerrigan up and down and then she nodded slowly.