David Goodis: The Moon in the Gutter

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Tom let out a tremendous yawn, and then he smiled amiably at his son. “Just coming in?”

Kerrigan nodded. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Tom shrugged. “I didn’t feel like sleeping anyway. This goddamn sofa was breaking my back.”

“What’s wrong with your bedroom?”

“Lola threw me out.”

“Again?”

Tom frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with that woman. She’s always been an evil-tempered hellcat, but lately she’s been carrying on something fierce. I swear, she tried to murder me tonight. Threw a table at me. If I hadn’t ducked, it would’ve knocked my brains out.”

Kerrigan sat down in a chair near the sofa. He sensed that his father was in a talkative mood, and he was perfectly willing to sit here and listen. Somehow he always felt relaxed and content when he was alone with Tom. He liked Tom.

“Let me tell you one thing,” Tom said. “It ain’t no cinch living with a woman like that. It’s like playing around with a stick of dynamite. The thing that beats the hell out of me is why I stay here and take it.” Tom shook his head slowly and sighed.

Kerrigan shifted his position in the chair. He settled back halfway against the wooden arm and flung both legs over the other arm.

Tom said, “It’s always something. Last week she claims I’m monkeying around with some woman lives upstairs. Now for God’s sake, I ask you man to man, would I do a thing like that?”

“Of course not,” Kerrigan murmured, and checked it off as a lily-white lie. Tom had quite a reputation in the neighborhood.

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” Tom declared. “When I marry a woman, I stay faithful to her. If I say so myself, I think I’m one hell of a good husband. I was good to your mother and after she died I was loyal to her memory for three entire years. For three years, mind you, I wouldn’t let myself look at a skirt. Now that’s the truth.”

Kerrigan nodded solemnly.

“Come to think of it,” Tom said, “your mother wasn’t so easy to live with, either. But let her rest in peace. She was an awful nag, but she wasn’t so bad compared to these other wives I’ve had. Like that second one, that Hannah. I swear, that woman was completely out of her mind. And the next one I married, that Spanish woman. What was her name?”

“Conchita.”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Conchita. She was one hot tomato, but I didn’t like that knife she carried. It bothers me when they carry a knife. That’s one thing I can say for Lola. She never reaches for a knife.”

“Why’d she heave the table at you?”

Tom sighed heavily. “We had a discussion about the rent. She claims the tenants upstairs are four months behind.”

“She’s right about that,” Kerrigan murmured. “It adds up to more than a hundred dollars.”

“I know,” Tom admitted. “And we sure can use the cash. But I just don’t have the heart to put the pressure on them. Can’t squeeze money out of people when they don’t have it. Old Patrizzi ain’t worked for a year. And Cherenski’s wife is still in the hospital.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re all up the same creek. Last time I went upstairs to make collections, I heard so much grief it gave me the blues and I stayed drunk for three days.”

From one of the other rooms there was the sound of a door opening, then heavy footsteps approached through the hall. Kerrigan looked up to see Lola entering the parlor. She was a huge woman in her middle forties, with jet-black hair parted in the middle and pulled back tightly behind her ears. Weighing close to two hundred pounds, she had it distributed with emphasis high up front and in the rear, with an amazingly narrow waist and long legs that made her five feet nine seem much taller. She moved with a kind of challenge, as though flaunting her hips to the masculine gender and letting them know she was the kind of woman they had to fight for. The few who had dared had wound up with badly lacerated faces, for Lola was an accomplished mauler and she’d been employed as a bouncer in some of the roughest joints along the docks.

Her complexion was dark, and some Cherokee red showed distinctly when she was riled. Actually the Cherokee was mixed with French and Irish, with accent on the more explosive traits of each.

Lola moved toward the sofa, her hands on her hips, directing her full attention to Tom. Her booming lower-octave voice was like the thud of a heavy cudgel as she said, “You gonna go upstairs and collect that rent?”

“Now look, sweetheart. I told you—”

“I know what you told me. It’s for the birds, what you told me. You’re gonna get that money and you’re gonna get it tonight.”

“But they don’t have it. They swore to me—”

“They’re nothing but a bunch of goddamn liars,” Lola shouted. “I’d go up there myself and make them pay off or get the hell out, but that ain’t my department. You’re the owner of this house and it’s your job to deal with the tenants.”

“Well, after all, I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?” Lola demanded. “Sitting on your rear all day and drinking beer? That’s another thing I’m fed up with. Morning, noon, and night it’s beer, beer, beer. We got enough empty bottles in the back yard to start a glass factory.”

“The doctor says it’s good for my stomach.”

“What doctor? What are you giving me? When you been to see a doctor?”

“Well, I didn’t want to worry you.”

Lola moved closer to the sofa and pointed a thick finger in Tom’s face. “You’re so goddamn healthy it’s a downright disgrace. Why shouldn’t you be healthy? All you do is eat and sleep and drink beer. If it wasn’t for your son here bringing in the pay check, we’d all be living on relief.”

Tom assumed a hurt look. “Is it my fault if times are hard?”

“It ain’t the times, and you know it. If anyone came and offered you a job, you’d drop dead, you’d be so scared.” As though addressing a roomful of spectators, she indicated Tom with an extended palm and said, “I tell him to go upstairs and get the rent money and he claims it wouldn’t be charitable.” She whirled on Tom and yelled, “Where do you come off with that charity routine? You’re just too goddamn lazy to climb a couple flights of stairs.”

“Now look, sweetheart—”

Lola cut in with another burst of condemnation, spicing it with oaths and four-letter words. The walls of the parlor seemed to vibrate with the force of her loud harangue. Kerrigan knew from past experience that it would go on like this for the better part of the night. He walked out of the parlor and moved slowly down the narrow hallway leading to the small bedroom he shared with Frank. But all at once he stopped. He was looking at the door of another room. It was an empty room and no one lived in it now and he wondered what caused him to stare at the door.

He tried to drag his eyes away from the door, but even while making the effort he was putting his hand on the knob. He opened the door very slowly and went in and flicked the wall switch that lit the single bulb in the ceiling. He closed the door behind him and stood looking at the walls and the floor, the bed and the chair, the small dresser and tiny table. He was thinking of the girl who had lived here, the girl who’d been dead for seven months.

Without sound he spoke her name. Catherine, he said. And then he was frowning, annoyed with himself. It didn’t make sense to sustain the sorrow. All right, she’d been his sister, his own flesh and blood, she’d been a fine sweet tenderhearted creature, but now she was gone and there was no way to bring her back. He tried to shrug it off and walk out of the room. But something held him there. It was almost as though he were waiting to hear a voice.