David Goodis: The Moon in the Gutter

The three of them started walking toward Dugan’s Den. As they crossed the street, Kerrigan turned his head again for a backward glance at the dark alley.

Dugan’s den was twice as old as its proprietor, who was past sixty. The place had never been renovated and it retained its original floor and chairs and tables and bar. All the paint and varnish had vanished long ago, but the ancient wood glimmered with a high polish from the rubbing of countless elbows. Yet, aside from the shiny surfaces of the tables and the bar, Dugan’s Den was drab and shabby. It was the kind of room where every timepiece seemed to run slower.

But few of the customers owned watches, and as for the clock on the wall, it wasn’t even running at all. At Dugan’s there was very little interest in time. They came here to forget about time. Most of them were very old men who had nothing to do and no place to go. And some were white-haired women with no teeth in their mouths and nothing in their heads except the fumes of cheap whisky. The specialty of the house was a double shot of fierce-smelling rye for twenty cents.

There was no jukebox and no television set, and the only entertainment came from Dugan himself. He was a skinny little man with only a few strands of hair on his head and he was always whistling or humming or singing off key. It was a habit he’d developed long ago to keep the place from becoming too quiet. Most of the drinkers were not talkers, and when they did talk it was generally a meaningless jumble of incoherencies that made Dugan wish he were in another line of business. Occasionally there was a loud argument, but it seldom grew to anything really interesting. And on the few occasions when they’d throw fists or bottles, Dugan never made a move to stop them. He led a very monotonous life and he could stand to see a little action now and then.

There were only a few patrons at the bar when Kerrigan came in with Nick and Mooney. Behind the bar, Dugan was dozing standing up, with his arms folded and his chin on his chest. Nick banged his fist on the bar and Dugan opened his eyes and Kerrigan ordered three bottles of beer.

“No bottles,” Dugan said. “Ran out of stock late this afternoon. This is a thirsty neighborhood today.”

“I’m a thirsty man tonight,” Mooney stated. “Let’s have it from the tap.”

Dugan filled three big glasses and Kerrigan put money on the bar. Behind the bar there was a dirty mirror and he looked in it and saw a man sitting at one of the tables against the wall on the other side of the room. The man had his head lowered to his folded arms on the table and he seemed to be sleeping. Kerrigan noticed that the man was neatly dressed.

“This beer is warm,” Mooney was saying.

“There’s a shortage of ice,” Dugan said.

“You’re always short of ice,” Mooney complained. “What good is beer if it ain’t cold?”

Dugan looked at Mooney. “Did you come in here to raise an issue?”

“I came in to cool off,” Mooney said loudly.

“Then cool off,” Dugan said. “Just relax and cool off.”

“Might as well be drinking hot soup,” Mooney grumbled. “It’s a damn shame when a man can’t get relief from the heat.”

Through the mirror Kerrigan was studying the huddled figure on the other side of the room. He saw that the man had yellow hair cut short, with some silver showing through the yellow. He told himself to stop looking at the man, and he went on looking at him.

“I’m suffocating,” Mooney was saying. “It’s a goddamn furnace in here. And this beer makes it worse. I feel like I’m melting away to nothing.”

A white-haired gin-drinker raised his head from the glass and looked at Mooney. “Why don’t you walk down to Wharf Street and jump in the river?”

Nick laughed. But Mooney looked thoughtful, and after a moment he said solemnly, “That ain’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”

Mooney turned away from the bar and started out of the taproom. Nick went after him and pulled at his arm.

“Let go,” Mooney said. “I need relief from this heat and I’m gonna get it if I have to stay in the river all night.”

“It’s a cinch you’ll stay longer than that,” Nick said. “You know you can’t swim.”

“Well, I’ll float.” Mooney released his arm from Nick’s grasp. He continued toward the door. At the door he turned and looked at Nick and Kerrigan. “You coming with me?”

Nick sighed. “I better be there when you jump in. You’ll need someone to pull you out.” He went back to the bar and gulped the rest of his beer. Then he looked at Kerrigan. “You coming?”

Kerrigan wasn’t listening, and Nick repeated it, and then Nick saw that Kerrigan had his mind on something else. He saw what Kerrigan was looking at in the mirror. Nick’s face was expressionless as he watched Kerrigan staring at the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room. Mooney had already made an exit, and after some moments Nick went to the door and opened it and walked out.

Dugan was dozing again, his head down and his arms folded on his chest as he stood behind the bar and hummed a squeaky tune. The white-haired gin-drinker was gazing tenderly at the few drops remaining in the glass. The other drinkers were bent over the bar and looking at nothing in particular. Then the door of the men’s room opened and Frank came out and saw Kerrigan and walked toward him, saying, “What are you doing here?”

Kerrigan took his gaze away from the mirror. He looked at Frank.

“You never come to this place,” Frank said. The corner of his mouth went up and came down and went up again. “Why’d you come here tonight? You don’t hafta put any tracers on me. I know how to take care of myself. What’s your point, anyway? Were you worried how I’d spend your fifty cents?”

“I came here to drink a glass of beer,” Kerrigan said.

“Then why don’t you drink it?”

Kerrigan lifted the glass to his lips and took a long drink. He put the glass down and Frank was still standing there, breathing hard, the mouth still moving in up-and-down spasms. Frank’s eyes were shiny and he was having difficulty standing still.

“What’s the matter, Frank?”

“You see anything the matter?”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“Quit digging.” Frank spoke jerkily, as though he’d been running and was out of breath. “You been watching me lately as if you’re waiting for some kind of flash news. Every time I look at you, I see you watching me. I’m warning you to lay off.”

Kerrigan stood motionless. Frank was moving past him and out of the taproom. He heard a sound that was something like a rumbling roar and it became louder and then he realized it was the dense quiet and stillness that made all the noise. But gradually he was aware of another sound and he concentrated on it, the squeaky little tune that came humming from Dugan’s lips. He tried to stay with the music, tried to think of the words that went with the melody, but while his brain moved in that direction his eyes moved to the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room.

He turned away from the bar and walked slowly toward the table.

He sat down facing the yellow-haired man, who was still slumped over, head buried in folded arms. For almost a full minute he sat there looking at the man. Then he touched the man’s wrist and said, “Hey, Johnny, wake up.”

“Go away.” The man didn’t look up. He scarcely moved, except to draw back his wrist from Kerrigan’s hand.

“Come on, Johnny. Get with it.”

“Leave me alone,” the man said.

“Don’t you know your old friend Bill?”

The man lifted his head just a little, but his arms still covered his face. He spoke slowly, more distinctly now, measuring his words. “I’m not acquainted with anyone named Bill. And I don’t have any old friends.”