David Goodis - The Moon in the Gutter

There were five feet of wooden box separating him from the big men and the thick clubs and the brass knuckles.

One of the men was grinning at him.

The other man, somewhat shorter and wider than his partner, leaned forward just a little and said, “You ready for it? You ready to take it?”

“He looks ready,” the taller man said.

They spoke quietly, yet their voices were distinct against the rumbling of the storm outside. In the shadows their eyes were little points of yellow and green light, and there was the bright gleam of the brass knuckles, the glow reflected on the thick clubs of rounded wood.

And then there was something else, another glow that caused Kerrigan to glance downward. He saw the glimmer on the metal handle attached under the lid of the box.

The short wide man was saying, “Let’s find out if he’s ready.”

“All right,” the other man said. “Let’s take him.”

Kerrigan grabbed the handle and got a tight two-handed hold on it and with all the power in his body he heaved upward and forward, doing it very fast so that the box was raised and pushed in almost the same moment. It was just as heavy as it was large, and he heard the loud thud as it collided with the men. There was another thud and he knew that one of the men had been knocked down. He was still pushing at the box and he went on pushing until the box toppled over onto the fallen man. There was the sound of something being crushed and the fallen man was screaming and trying to wriggle out from under the box and not being able to do it.

The short wide man had leaped backward and seemed to be debating whether to aid his partner or make a lunge at Kerrigan. Before he had a chance to arrive at a decision, Kerrigan rushed at him, coming in low, sending a shoulder against his knees and taking him to the floor.

As they hit the floor the short man used his club on Kerrigan’s ribs. Kerrigan let out a cry of animal pain, and the man hit him again in the same place. It sent white-hot fire through his middle, then more fire as he took another blow from the club. He rolled himself away and managed to evade a blow aimed at his skull. The man leaped at him, kicked him in the spot where he’d been clubbed, then tried to turn him over, sort of prodding him with a heavy foot to get him over on his back. In the next moment he was on his back and he looked up and saw that the club was raised once more. The short man wore a businesslike expression and was taking careful aim with his eyes focused on Kerrigan’s pelvis.

Then the club came down. Kerrigan raised both legs and took the blow on his thigh. In the same instant he snatched at the club, missed and snatched again and missed again, and the club slammed against his arm. But now he didn’t feel the pain and he was getting to his feet and not thinking about the club or the brass knuckles. He walked toward the short wide man and feinted with his left hand. As the club flashed downward, he pulled away from it, going sideways, then moving in very close and chopping his right hand to the man’s jaw. The man staggered backward and dropped the club. Kerrigan kept moving in, hooked a left to the side of the head, and then hauled off and threw a roundhouse right that lifted the man off the floor and sent him sailing to land flat on his back.

Kerrigan kept moving in. The man was scrambling to his feet. Kerrigan kicked him in the head and that sent him down again. The man was gasping as Kerrigan kicked him once more. Kerrigan reached down and pulled him to his knees and smashed him in the mouth.

The man screamed. He made a desperate attempt to flee. Headed for the door of the loading platform, he ran through the narrow path lined with crates and barrels. He found the door and opened it and leaped out upon the rain-swept platform.

But in the next instant the man was on his knees with Kerrigan on top of him. Kerrigan’s eyes were calmer now. He was thinking in purely practical terms, knowing there was only one way to deal with these professional manglers. He thought, knock him out, then make him talk.

He had one arm circling the man’s throat. His other arm was drawn back and then he let go with a kidney punch that caused the man to scream again. Then another kidney punch, and the force of it was enough to take the two of them off the loading platform and onto the planks of the pier. As they landed, the man made a frantic effort to break loose, pumping his elbow into Kerrigan’s stomach. Kerrigan groaned and fell back and saw the man running past the planks and onto the concrete driveway that bordered the edge of the pier.

But there was too much rain, it was coming down too hard, and the man could scarcely see where he was going. The concrete driveway was a foggy, slippery path, made treacherous by the foam coming up from the big waves crashing against the pier. The man had taken only a few steps when he lost his footing. Kerrigan was up very fast, lunging at him and trying to grab him before he went over the edge. There wasn’t enough time for that. The man went over and down and made a splash. The raging current caught him and carried him away and swallowed him.

Kerrigan walked back to the loading platform and went inside the warehouse. He moved very slowly, wearily, grimacing as he felt the hammering pain in his ribs and stomach. He went on leaden feet toward the spot where the other man was still trying to squirm out from under the heavy box.

“God in heaven,” the man groaned. “Get this thing off me.”

Kerrigan smiled dimly. “What’s the hurry?”

“It’s mashin’ my chest. I can’t hardly breathe.”

“You’re breathing all right. And you’re talking. That’s all we need for now.”

The man had one arm free and he raised his hand to his eyes and let out a moan.

Kerrigan knelt at the side of the man. He took a close look at the man’s face and saw there wasn’t much color. The man’s eyes were glazed and the lips were quivering with pain and supplication. He told himself that maybe the man’s chest was crushed, that maybe the man would die. He decided he didn’t give a damn.

He said, “Who hired you?”

The man’s reply was another moan.

“If you won’t talk,” Kerrigan said, “you’ll stay there under the box.”

He stood up. He turned away from the moans of the crushed man. Facing the opened doorway of the loading platform, he listened to the sound of the rainstorm. It seemed to merge with the noise of a cyclone that whirled through his brain.

Just then he heard the man saying, “It was a woman.”

And after that it seemed there was no sound at all. Just a frozen stillness. Again he turned very slowly, and he was looking down at the man.

“A woman,” the man said. He moaned once more, and coughed a few times. He wheezed, “She lives on Vernon Street. I think they call her Bella.”

“Bella.” He said it aloud to himself. Then he reached down and lifted the heavy box off the chest of the man. He heard the man’s sigh of relief, the dragging sound of air pulled into tortured lungs.

The man rolled over on his side. He tried to get to his feet. He made it to his knees, shook his head slowly, and muttered, “This ain’t no good. I’m in bad shape. You might as well call the Heat. At least they’ll take me to a hospital.”

“You don’t need a hospital,” Kerrigan said. He put his hands under the man’s armpits, then used his arms as a hook to raise him from the floor.

The man leaned heavily against him and said, “Where’s my partner?”

“In the river,” Kerrigan said.

The man forgot his own pain and weakness. He stepped away from Kerrigan, his eyes dulled with a kind of brute sorrow. Then he shook his head slowly and said, “It just don’t pay to take these jobs. They’re not worth the grief. I’m all banged up inside and he’s food for the fishes. All for a lousy twenty bucks.”