David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

“A goddamn federal,” Frieda said. “I can spot them a mile away.”

“What’s he want with us?” Dora’s voice was wary.

“I’m wise to these federals,” Frieda declared in a loud voice. “They can’t put anything over on me. Hey, you,” she shouted at Kerrigan. “Whatever you got in mind, forget it. We ain’t bootleggers and we ain’t peddling dope. We’re honest, hard-working women and we go to church and we’re all paid up on our income taxes.”

“And another thing,” Dora cut in. “We’re not counterfeiters.”

“We’re decent citizens,” Frieda stated. Her voice climbed to a shrill blast. “You leave us alone, you hear?”

Kerrigan sighed and went back to his beer. He knew there was no use trying to prove his identity. He knew that Frieda and Dora were mixing their fear of the law with a certain pleasure, a feeling of importance. They visualized the United States government sending an agent to deal with two clever queens of vice. But they’d show him. They’d trip him up on every move he made.

He called to Dugan and said he was buying drinks for the ladies. They ordered double shots of gin and didn’t bother to thank him because they were in a hurry to get it down. And when it was down they forgot all about him; they gazed at the empty glasses and tried to drown themselves in the emptiness.

While Dugan hummed the squeaky tune, Kerrigan leaned low over the bar, not hearing it. He was gazing at the half-empty glass of beer and feeling the weight of the camera in his pocket.

Then the door opened and someone came into the taproom. The women looked around at the newcomer, who smiled a quietly amiable greeting and moved toward a table at the other side of the room. The hags made oaths without sound as they glowered at the delicately chiseled face of Newton Channing. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a light summer suit that was freshly pressed. As he seated himself at a table he lit a cigarette with a green enamel-cased lighter. It sent a pale green glow onto his thin, sensitive features and gave a greenish tint to his yellow hair.

The two hags went on looking at Newton Channing, their eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and absurdly futile envy.

Kerrigan had raised his head and he was staring at the mirror behind the bar. He watched the smoke climbing languidly from the cigarette in Channing’s mouth. His hand moved slowly along the side of his jacket and he reached into the pocket containing the camera.

He waited until Dugan served Channing a water glass filled with whisky. Then he walked across the room to Channing’s table. He took the camera out of his pocket and put it on the table.

“What’s this?” Channing asked without interest.

“It belongs to your sister.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“She left it with me.”

Channing frowned slightly. He picked up the camera and turned it around in his hands, holding it close to his eyes and giving it a careful inspection. Then he put it down and his head turned slowly and he looked at Kerrigan.

He said, “Aren’t you the man I met last night?”

Kerrigan nodded. “You bought me a beer. We talked for a while.”

“Yes, I remember.” Channing turned his attention back to the camera. “What’s the story on this?”

Kerrigan laughed.

“What’s funny?” Channing asked. His voice was very soft.

Kerrigan moved to the other side of the table and sat down. Channing had pushed the glass of whisky aside and was leaning forward and frowning puzzledly, his eyes still on the camera.

Kerrigan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He said, “You better have a talk with your sister. Tell her she was very lucky this time. Maybe next time she won’t be so lucky.”

Channing looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Can’t you add it up?”

Channing shook his head. His eyes were blank.

“She made a play for me,” Kerrigan said. He leaned back in the chair and waited for Channing’s reaction.

But there was no reaction, except that the puzzlement faded just a little. And then Channing shrugged. He reached out for the water glass filled with whisky, lifted it to his mouth, and took a long drink. Then he put the cigarette to his lips and pulled at it easily. The smoke came out of his nose and mouth like the smoke from an incense burner, thin columns climbing lazily.

Kerrigan could feel himself stiffening. He tried to loosen up, but his eyes were getting hard and his voice sounded tight and strained. “Didn’t you hear what I said? She made a play for me.”

“So?”

“You don’t seem to care.”

“Why should I?”

Kerrigan spoke with bitter sarcasm. “She’s got class. You don’t want her mixing with bar flies and dock workers.”

“I don’t give a damn who she mixes with.”

“She’s your sister,” Kerrigan said. “Don’t she mean anything to you?”

“She means a great deal to me. I’m awfully fond of Loretta.”

“Then why don’t you look out for her?”

“She’s old enough to look out for herself.”

“Not after dark. Not in this neighborhood. No woman is safe in this neighborhood.”

Channing lifted his gaze from the camera and studied Kerrigan’s face. For some moments he didn’t speak. Then he said quietly, “I’m not worried. Why should you be?”

It was a perfectly logical statement. Kerrigan swallowed hard and said, “Just trying to give you advice, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” Channing said. He slanted his head a little. “I think you’re the one who needs advice.”

Kerrigan found himself staring toward the center of the table, at the camera.

He heard Channing saying, “Don’t be afraid of her.”

It seemed to him that the tabletop was coming up to hit him in the face. He pulled his head to one side. He wondered why he couldn’t look at Channing.

“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Channing said. “After all, she’s just a woman.”

He tried to reply. He groped for phrases and couldn’t find a single word.

“I’m saying this,” Channing murmured, “because I know you want her.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Possibly,” Channing admitted with complete gravity. “But at times it’s the lunatic who makes the most sense. Maybe you’re not aware that you want her, but it shows in your eyes. You want her very much and you’re terribly afraid of her.”

Something tugged at Kerrigan’s throat. He spoke in a whisper. “Sure I’m afraid. I’m afraid if she bothers me again I might clip her in the teeth.”

Channing raised his eyebrows. For a long moment he was quietly thoughtful. Then he said, “Well, that’s easily understandable. From your point of view she’s just fooling around.”

Kerrigan put his hands flat on the table. His palms pressed hard against the wood. He didn’t say anything.

Channing said, “It’s quite possible she’s more serious than you think. Why don’t you try to find out?”

“I’m not interested. Happens I got something else on my mind.”

He paused, waiting for it to sink in.

Channing’s face was impassive.

“It concerns you.” And there was another pause, much longer. “I’d like to find out more about you.”

“Me?” Channing frowned. “What for? Any special reason?”

“I think you know what the reason is. I’m not ready to say for sure. But I think you know.”

Channing’s eyebrows were up again. “That sounds rather sinister. Now you have me curious.”

“Not worried?”

“No. Just curious.”

“You ought to be worried.”

Channing smiled. “I never worry. I suffer a lot, but I never worry.” He reached for the glass of whisky. He took a very long drink, emptying the glass. Then he poured more whisky from the bottle and took another drink. He said, “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.”