Robert Coover - Noir

When silence had fallen, you crept over to get your rod, throw on the lights. There were five dead guys in leather jackets. May have been more. The door was open and there was a trail of blood out into the hallway. Was Marle among the late departed? Probably. Three of them had goatees, more than you’d seen before in the whole city. You felt good. It was as if you’d accomplished something. It relaxed you and you locked the door and doused the lights and crashed to the sofa again, falling almost immediately into the sweetest deepest sleep you’d enjoyed since the widow first turned up. Certainly nothing like it since.

BY THE TIME BLANCHE WOKE YOU THE NEXT MORNING with your mended and freshly ironed clothes, she had already cleaned up the mess. Except for a few new pockmarks in the walls and furniture freshly stressed by ricocheting bullets, the place looked like it always did. Good thing, too, because Blue turned up while you were still shaving. He’d traced the phone number in the ad and wanted to see your miniature soldiers.

You’re not going to believe this, Blue, but they were rented, photographed, and returned.

You’re right, Noir, I don’t believe it. Who’d you return them to, the man you rented them from?

A guy who said he was his brother.

Sure, tell me another. They’ve been stolen, Noir, and you’re the last guy to have seen them. I’m putting you under arrest.

Sounds like an insurance scam, Blue. You’re playing right into the hands of the real crooks. Blue only smiled. You knew you were in for a working over by Blue and his goons down at the station. But you’d just had a working over, you didn’t need another one.

Then Blanche went over and whispered something in Blue’s ear, winked at you past the back of his head.

You mean—? Yeah, good point. All right, Noir. I’m gonna let you go for the moment. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you.

What did you tell him? you asked her after the captain had left.

That it was your birthday, Mr. Noir, and that he should come back tomorrow.

My birthday’s not until six months from now.

There was a phone call for you while you were sleeping. From somebody’s ice cream parlor. She wants you to stop by. Have you been going off your diet again, Mr. Noir?

At Big Mame’s you had another parfait. Why not. With hot butterscotch, maraschino cherries, and marshmallows on top. Instead of a chocolate twig sticking out, there was a rolled-up note from Rats asking you to meet him in the railway freight yard near the grain elevator at sundown. Sundown? That thing still came up?

Now, as you have a smoke and polish off the second bottle of wine from its shattered neck, slumped against a wall in the smugglers’ tunnel, remembering with nostalgia Big Mame’s parfaits and meditating morosely on the thready web of story you’ve become entangled in, it occurs to you that the tattoo on your butt has stopped itching. Maybe that means they’re finally leaving you alone. Though who’s “they”? Trouble with webs. When you’re in one, you can’t see past the next knot. It’s like being trapped in two dimensions, cut off from overviews. Not something achievable from down here, but maybe you can get an underview. Look up destiny’s skirts. That old whore. Very dark under there, as always. Like the city. Oozing with slime and enshrouded in fog. Something nosing around your pantleg. You give it a kick. You feel headachy and rumpled, dirty, your sockless feet sweaty in your shoes. How long have you been down here? Weeks maybe. Time passes indifferently in the shapeless dark — or near dark, as the case now is: You’ve crawled from a pitch blackness into a dim gray light coming from you know not where. Or else you’ve dozed off and it has crept up on you in your stupor. The weed’s not your brand, but it will have to do. Down to the last one, though, the deck’s empty. What you’ve had instead of food. You spit out the chip of glass between your teeth, toss the bottle aside, tuck the fag end in the corner of your mouth, and, on hands and knees, press on grimly toward whatever’s ahead.

What you find is another low locked door, light leaking thinly around the edges, and the first thing you hear when you unlock it and stick your nose in is: I’ll tell, I’ll tell! Don’t hit me again! and you know where you are: the basement of Blue’s docklands police station. You’ve been here before as a guest, leaving a tooth behind to cover room and board. You back out quietly, but what choice do you have? It’s through here to the next door, if there is one and this isn’t a dead end, or crawl back to the strangled sex kitten’s pad, where they’re probably still hunting for you. Wouldn’t last long there. So, hoping that the element of surprise might give you an edge, you push on through and rise up with a snarl, legs apart, fists in trenchcoat pockets as though clenching iron, smoldering butt dangling from your lower lip. Two guys in white shirts are beating up a prisoner in the holding cell under a harsh light, three others are sitting at a table under a hanging lamp with a green shade, smoking, playing cards. Snark is there with a pack in his hand, wearing his leather shoulder holster over his black suspenders, elastic bands around his shirt sleeves, sucking on a whiskey bottle. They ignore you, don’t even seem to see you there. It’s like you’re invisible; or they’ve agreed you are. They may have a rule about it. Some deal struck with the smugglers. Rats once hinted at it. The place has a closed old-socks smell like a gym, the cement floor stained darkly. The cops at the table holler at the other two to get back to the game. Their prisoner has passed out, so, with a final kick to the belly, they shrug and do so, leaving the cell door ajar, probably hoping he’ll try to escape and they can shoot him. A new hand is dealt, bills and coins are tossed toward the pot at the center.

You go over and poke around in their lunch-boxes, find half a baloney sandwich and a candybar. Snark, his thumbs in his suspenders, is talking about you. He says you’ve been a busy boy, you’re the prime suspect in at least five murders, maybe more. Possible pedophilia on top of it. Blue, he says, couldn’t be happier. On the table beside him is your fedora. He puts it on (it sits on his big head like a party hat) and says he doesn’t think you’re guilty, but tough shit, you’ll probably get the chair anyway. The others laugh, smoke around their ears like smutty halos, and Snark grunts, his equivalent of a laugh. Foo. The Bordox hasn’t settled well on your empty stomach. Which is in sudden turmoil. A cleansing agent, after all, the candybar the fatal catalyst. Snark is laying out the evidence against you, which could be useful, but you’re headed, on the double, for the john, the porcelain appurtenance you need so badly on bare bulb-lit view behind its gaping door.

SHOOT-OUTS AND DRIVE-BY KILLINGS ON CITY STREETS, hold-up victims gunned down behind their counters, mob hits in restaurants, these are the images that captivate the public, but they are all far down the crime-scene frequency list behind beds and biffies. Your getting the goods on an adulterous lover has usually led to blood on the tiles and linens. Political wheeler-dealers and mob bosses are rarely snuffed with their dignity intact. Michiko once told you about a lover, poisoned in effect by a powerful laxative in his wasabi and killed when he heaved himself desperately onto a booby-trapped stool. Your clients often ask you for your targets’ toilet habits. The poopoo charts, as Blanche calls them, wrinkling her nose in disdain, though she knows and accepts the importance of the body’s habits and exudations in committing and solving crimes, and has often, in her own prim manner, schooled you in their finer points.