David Goodis: The Moon in the Gutter

At the edge of the alleyway facing Vernon Street, a gray cat waited for a large rat to emerge from its hiding place. The rat had scurried through a gap in the wall of the wooden shack, and the cat was inspecting all the narrow gaps and wondering how the rat had managed to squeeze itself in. In the sticky darkness of a July midnight the cat waited there for more than a half hour. As it walked away, it left its paw prints in the dried blood of a girl who had died here in the alley some seven months ago.

Some moments passed and it was quiet in the alley. Then there was a sound of a man’s footsteps coming slowly along Vernon Street. And presently the man entered the alley and stood motionless in the moonlight. He was looking down at the dried bloodstains.

The man’s name was William Kerrigan and he was the brother of the girl who had died here in the alley. He never liked to visit this place and it was more on the order of a habit he wished he could break. Lately he’d been coming here night after night. He wondered what made him do it. At times he had the feeling it was vaguely connected with guilt, as though in some indirect way he’d failed to prevent her death. But in more rational moments he knew that his sister had died simply because she wanted to die. The bloodstains were caused by a rusty blade that she’d used on her own throat.

At the time it had happened, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital ward. He was a stevedore, and on the docks a large crate had slipped off its mooring and hit him hard, breaking both his legs. During his third week in the hospital he was told of his sister’s suicide.

It was definitely a case of suicide but the circumstances were rather unusual and the authorities decided on a post-mortem examination. They discovered she’d been raped, and the assault had deprived her of virginity. They concluded that she couldn’t bear the shock, the shame, and in a fit of despair decided to take her own life.

There were no clues to indicate who had assaulted her. It was the kind of neighborhood where the number of suspects would be limitless. A few were hauled in, questioned, and released. And that was as far as it went.

Seven months ago, Kerrigan was thinking. He stood there looking down at the bloodstains. Attempts had been made to wash them away, and summer rains had thinned them a lot, but the dried red blotches were now a part of the alley paving, stains that couldn’t be erased. The moonlight poured on them and made them glisten.

Kerrigan lowered his head. He shut his eyes tightly. His mood was a mixture of sorrow and futile anger. He wondered if the anger would ever find its target. His eyes opened again and he saw the red stains and it was like seeing a permanent question mark.

He sighed heavily. He was a large man, with the accent more on width than on height. He had it mostly in the shoulders, and it amounted to a powerful build composed of hard muscle, two hundred pounds of it, standing five feet ten. His hair was black and thick and combed straight, and he had blue eyes and a nose that had been broken twice but was still in line with the rest of his face. On the left side of his forehead, slanting down toward his cheek, there was a deep jagged scar from an encounter on the docks when someone had used brass knuckles. On the other side, near the corner of his mouth, there was another ridge of healed flesh, from someone’s knife. The scars were not at all unique, just a couple of badges that signified he lived on Vernon Street and worked on the docks. Just a stevedore, thirty-five years old, standing here in the dark alley and thinking of a dead girl named Catherine.

He was saying to himself, She had the real quality, straight as they come, and it adds up to a goddamn pity, but you gotta give her credit for what she was, she was born and raised on this street of bums and gin hounds, winos and hopheads, and yet with all that filth around her, she managed to stay clean, through all the twenty-three years of her life.

He sighed and shook his head slowly and started out of the alley. Just then someone called his name and he turned and saw the torn and colorless polo shirt, the slacks that couldn’t be patched any more. He saw the sunken-cheeked cadaver, the living waste of time and effort that added up to the face and body of his younger brother.

He said, “Hello, Frank.”

“I been lookin’ for you.”

“For what?” But he already knew. One look at Frank’s face and he could tell. He could always tell.

Frank shrugged. “Cash.”

He was anxious to get rid of Frank. He said, “How much you need?”

“Fifty dollars.”

Kerrigan smiled wryly. “Make it fifty cents.”

Frank shrugged again. “All right. That oughta do it.” He accepted the silver coin, hefted it in his palm, then slipped it into his trouser pocket. He was twenty-nine. Most of his hair was white. His daily diet consisted largely of five-cent chocolate bars and slot-machine peanuts and as much alcohol as he could pour down his throat. He was fairly gifted at cards and dice and cue sticks, although he’d failed miserably as a purse-snatcher. They hadn’t sent him up for it, they’d merely hauled him into a back room at the station house and beat the daylights out of him, and after that he’d stayed away from petty theft. But he was nevertheless proud of his criminal record and he liked to talk about the big operations he’d handle someday, the important deals and transactions he’d manipulate and the territories he’d cover. A long time ago Kerrigan had given up hope that Frank would ever be anything but a booze hound and a corner bum.

“Got a spare weed?” Frank asked.

Kerrigan took out a pack of cigarettes. He gave one to Frank, put one in his own mouth, and struck a match.

He noticed that Frank was gazing past him, the watery eyes aiming down through the darkness of the alley. Frank’s expression was thoughtful, then probing, and finally Frank murmured, “You come here often?”

“Now and then.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Kerrigan shrugged. “I’m not sure. I wish I knew.”

Frank was quiet for some moments, then he said, “She was a good kid.”

Kerrigan nodded.

“One hell of a good kid,” Frank said. He took a long drag at the cigarette. He let the smoke come out, and then he added, “Too good for this world.”

Kerrigan’s smile was gentle. “You know it too?”

They were looking at each other. Frank’s face was expressionless. Then his lips twitched and he blinked several times. It seemed he was about to say something. He clamped his mouth tightly to hold it back. The cords of his throat moved spasmodically as he swallowed the unspoken words.

Kerrigan frowned slightly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m always nervous,” Frank said.

“Loosen up,” Kerrigan suggested. “Nobody’s chasing you.”

Frank jerked the cigarette up to his mouth and took a quick draw and bit off some shreds of tobacco and spat them out. He looked off to one side. “Why should anybody chase me?”

“No reason at all,” Kerrigan said easily. But inside he felt himself stiffening a little. “That is, unless you’ve done something.”

Frank took a deep breath. He seemed to be staring at nothing. His lips scarcely moved as he said, “Like what?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t keep tabs on you.”

“You sure you don’t?”

“Why should I? You’re old enough to look out for yourself.”

“I’m glad you know that,” Frank said. He straightened his shoulders, trying to look cold and hard. But his lips were twitching, and he went on blinking. He took another conclusive drag at the cigarette and said, “See you later.”