David Goodis: The Moon in the Gutter

“But this is Bill Kerrigan. You remember Bill Kerrigan.”

“I don’t remember anybody,” the man said. “I don’t like to remember people. All the people I’ve known I’d rather forget.”

“Is it that bad?” Kerrigan wondered if he could really make contact with this man.

“It isn’t bad at all,” the man said. “It’s delightful. It’s positively delightful.”

“What’s delightful, Johnny?”

“The calendar,” the man said. “The calendar with the picture of the girl on it. She wore an ermine wrap and it was unbuttoned and she didn’t have anything on underneath. That’s what I was dreaming about when someone wakes me up and starts calling me Johnny. It so happens my name isn’t Johnny.”

“What was the name of the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the dream.”

“She didn’t have a name,” the man said. “None of them have names. They’re just a lot of telephone numbers. This one didn’t even have a telephone. I like them better when they don’t have telephones. And the ones I like best are the dead ones. The dead ones never come around to bother me, not even in dreams.”

“But you said it was delightful.”

“That’s why it bothers me,” the man said. “It gets too delightful. It gets so damned delightful that it becomes anguish. Maybe I owe you something for breaking up the dream. You want me to buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

The man raised his head. He had a sallow complexion, and his features were fragile and sensitive. The shadows under his eyes were like a dark reflection of what he had in mind most of the time. He was of average height and weight and he looked to be in his early thirties.

He offered Kerrigan a weary smile. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have a beer, Johnny.”

The smile became dim and sort of sad. “You still think it’s Johnny?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He got up and went to the bar. Kerrigan watched him as he stood there talking quietly to Dugan. Then he was back at the table with the beer, and a water glass half filled with whisky for himself.

Kerrigan raised his glass. “Good luck, Johnny.”

“There’s no such thing,” the man said. “It’s all bad.” He grinned at the whisky. Then he took a big gulp of it. He had trouble getting it down and he tried to curse while he was coughing and began to choke. He put a stop to that with another gulp. While it went down he had his eyes shut tightly. Then he was grinning again and he said, “You’re lonesome too, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Kerrigan said.

“I’m lonesome all the time.” The man stopped grinning and gazed at the whisky in the glass. “I’ve been everywhere, I’ve done everything, and I’ve known everybody. And what it amounts to, I’m lonesome.”

“Maybe you need a woman,” Kerrigan ventured.

The man didn’t even seem to hear it.

Then it was quiet for some moments and finally the man grinned again and said, “Who are you?”

Kerrigan decided to play it straight. He said, “I’m sorry, mister. I knew I’d never seen you before. It’s just that I wanted company. I’m Bill Kerrigan.”

“And I’m Newton Channing. Ever hear of Newton Channing? Does the name mean anything?”

Kerrigan shook his head.

Channing said, “You know, it means nothing to me, either.”

There was a long silence. Kerrigan took a sip of beer, and then he said, “Where do you live?”

“Uptown,” Channing answered absently. And as he went on talking, it was obvious that his thoughts had nothing to do with what he was saying. “Nice clean neighborhood. Too goddamn clean. Strictly middle-class. House and garage and a lawn in front. I live there with my sister. Just the two of us. She’s a nice girl and we get along fairly well. One night last week she knocked me cold.”

Kerrigan didn’t say anything.

“She’s really a very nice girl,” Channing said. He lifted the glass to his mouth and finished the whisky. Then he got up from the table and went to the bar and came back with another beer and a pint bottle of whisky. Pouring the whisky, he went on in the detached tone, “I was trying to set fire to the house and she used the heel of her shoe on my head. I was out for at least ten minutes.”

“Well, there’s nothing like a happy home.”

Channing filled the water glass to the brim. He lifted the glass very carefully and drank the whisky as though he were drinking water. He consumed more than a third of the glass before he said, “You know, I admire my sister. I really do. Only thing I object to, she has some notion I can’t take care of myself. It makes her maternal. Lately she’s been coming here to pick me up and drive me home.”

“Can’t you make it alone?”

Channing shrugged. “Usually I’m too drunk to handle a car. When that happens, Dugan calls for a taxi. I don’t like to see my sister coming down here. I’d much rather go home in a taxi.”

“It’s a lot safer,” Kerrigan said. “I mean, it’s safer for your sister. After all, this is a rough neighborhood.”

“She doesn’t care about that.”

“The point is,” Kerrigan said, “it’s a very rough neighborhood and it’s especially bad for a woman.”

Channing inclined his head and gave Kerrigan a side glance. “Maybe you’re just sitting here and pulling my leg.”

Kerrigan didn’t reply.

“Something bothers you,” Channing said. “You’re not chatting with me just to pass the time.” He leaned forward, and his gaze was intent. “What’s really on your mind?”

“Nothing special,” Kerrigan said.

Channing drank more whisky. He kept the glass in his hand and stared at it. “Maybe you’re a mugger. Maybe you’re building up to some clever dodge. Like getting me alone somewhere and knocking my brains out and taking my wallet.”

“Could be,” Kerrigan agreed. “In a neighborhood like this, you never know who you’re dealing with. It’s always smart to be careful.”

Channing laughed softly. “My friend, let me tell you something. I don’t give a damn what happens to me.”

Kerrigan watched him as he finished the whisky in the glass and lifted the bottle to pour some more. The glass was filled again and Channing had it almost half empty when there was the sound of a door opening and Kerrigan looked up and saw the woman coming into Dugan’s Den.

She was walking toward the table. She moved slowly, casually, with a certain poise that blended with her face and body. She had a very beautiful face and her figure was slender and elegant. She had long wavy hair and greenish eyes. Her height was around five-four and she appeared to be in her middle twenties.

But he wasn’t thinking about her age. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking. He could feel the tingling fascination of her physical presence and at the same time he was irritated with himself for staring at her.

He didn’t realize that she was returning his stare. Whatever her reaction was, she did a nice job of hiding it. It lasted that way for a few minutes or so, then she was looking at her brother and saying, “All right, Newton. Finish your drink and let’s go home.”

Channing smiled at the whisky glass. “I ought to pay you a salary. What are nursemaids getting these days?”

“It isn’t that kind of job.” Her tone was quiet and amiable. “It isn’t a job at all. I don’t mind it in the least.”

Channing shrugged. “You might as well sit down and have a drink. I’m not ready to go yet. I still have some drinking to do.”

“How much have you had?”

“Very little, really.”

“That means you’ve had almost a quart.”

“It hasn’t hit me yet,” Channing said. “I’ve got to stay here until it hits me.”