David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) (73 page)

“You saying it is my fault?” Gerardo asked mildly.

The man didn’t reply.

“Say it, Chávez. You can say it. Go on, say it.”

Chávez took a deep breath. He was a medium-sized but strongly built man in his middle forties. His eyes aimed past Gerardo
and he said quietly, “I no like these riots in street. Is no way for men to fight. Is not respectable.”

“Respectable?” Gerardo murmured. He allowed himself the slightest trace of a smile. “What you mean, Chávez?”

Chávez looked directly at Gerardo and said, “I am respectable man. Very poor in the pockets but not lacking in good manners, clean life. I no drink too much or use dope or—”

“So,” Gerardo cut in. The smile was fading. “So what are you trying to say?”

“I am not a bum in the streets,” Chávez said. “I am working man with family. I come here from San Juan with my wife and seven children. Much trouble finding job, getting place to live. Is here a bad neighborhood with roughnecks, hoodlums, thugs. For reason we not know, they hate
puertorriqueños
, they make trouble. So then we do the same. We come out on River Street and give them plenty bad business, much commotion. The police they come and we run back here to hiding place. But I no like to hide. Why should I hide? Better I should make announcement, I should give hoodlums my address, say to them, ‘Now you know where I live, you want to get me you know where to come, I wait for you, I fight you with all my strength.’ ”

“And then,” Gerardo murmured, “they come in a mob. They break down the door and—”

“They no break it down. I open it for them.”

“And they walk in. They smash your head. Maybe they kill you.”

“At least I die fighting in house where I live. I die respectable.”

Gerardo was silent for some moments. He gazed at the faces of the other Puerto Ricans. Some of them were nodding in solemn agreement with Chávez. These were the older men. The younger ones were frowning thoughtfully. And a few, both young and old, had nothing in their eyes. They hadn’t been affected by what Chávez had said; they were waiting for Gerardo to react so they could mirror his reaction.

Finally Gerardo said, “I tell you something, Chávez. Maybe you die respectable this minute. Maybe I kill you.”

Chávez stood stiffly. Again he was staring past Gerardo. He didn’t say anything.

“Yes,” Gerardo said. “Maybe I do it. Is my privilege, you know. I
am leader here. Like general of army. Like captain of ship. I have full right to stop rebellion.”

“I no make rebellion,” Chávez said. “I only make statement.”

Gerardo smiled again. It was a twisted smile. He said, “Sometimes is very expensive to make statements.”

And then he took the bread knife from Carlos’s hand. He ran his finger along the blade.

Chávez looked at the knife. In his eyes there was more sadness than worry. The sadness deepened his voice as he said, “You would do this, Gerardo? You would put me in the grave?”

“I am thinking about it,” Gerardo said. He went on running his finger along the blade. “I am thinking maybe you are not useful now. Like broken wheel. Keeps other wheels from moving.”

Chávez took a very deep breath and held it. He stood there waiting to be stabbed.

Gerardo stabbed him. It was more slash than stab, and the knife went in fairly deep, going into the shoulder and ripping down along the arm to the elbow. Then Gerardo stepped back and the knife slashed wide with the blade cutting a deep gash across the forehead of Chávez. “
Ai, Jesús
,” Chávez moaned, and Gerardo cut him again, slicing his cheek, the blood spurting from a slanting gash that started under the cheekbone and ended at the mouth.

Chávez fell to his knees. He had one hand pressed against his carved cheek and with his other hand he was trying to stop the flow of blood from his forehead and his upper arm. His hand made a rapid blurry motion going from forehead to shoulder and back to forehead. He was getting a lot of blood all over himself and there was much blood on the floor.

Gerardo was looking at Carlos and saying, “This is good knife, you know? I think I will keep it.”

“Sure.” Carlos nodded eagerly. “You keep it, boss. Is present from me.”

“Thank you,” Gerardo said politely. He wiped the dripping blade on his sleeve. And then, gesturing with the blade to indicate the bleeding man, “Take him out of here. Take him downstairs, give him some water. Make bandages.”

A few of the older men came forward and lifted Chávez from the floor. And as they stood him upright he fainted. They carried him out of the room.

Gerardo looked at the blood on the floor. “Statements,” he said. “My famous fighters, all they do is make statements and mistakes.”

The Puerto Ricans were quiet. Some of them were staring at the knife in Gerardo’s hand. Most of them were trying not to look at the knife.

Gerardo studied their faces. He said, “Do I hear further talk? Is anyone else like to make statements?”

The men kept their mouths shut tightly.

“All right, then,” Gerardo said. “So now we finished with making statements. Now I deal with man who make mistake.”

He turned his head slowly and looked directly at Luis.

Luis opened his mouth just a little. Then his face was like that of a child forcing down some castor oil. He swallowed very hard.

“I say it now like I say it many times before,” Gerardo said. “I say this is important secret place and you no bring gringos here. There is chance gringo gets away. And then what?”

Luis swallowed hard again. He put his hands in his trousers pockets and took them out and put them in again.

Gerardo pointed at Whitey and said to Luis, “You see this man? You see what he has on his face?”

“On his face?” Luis mumbled, his lips twitching nervously.

“Yes,” Gerardo said. “On his face.”

“Is just a face,” Luis said. He managed a slight shrug. “Like any other face.”

Gerardo nodded slowly. “Yes, very true. Like any face that has eyes and mouth. You see what is? You understand what I mean?”

Luis blinked several times. He shook his head vaguely.

“All right, I tell you,” Gerardo said. “With the eyes he see. With the mouth he talks.”

“But—”

“You hear what I say, Luis? With the mouth he talks.”

Carlos let out a murmuring laugh and said, “This gringo no talk. We make sure he no get away.”

Moving quickly, Carlos reached toward the pile of weapons on the floor and selected a meat cleaver.

Gerardo smiled. “And now you fix him?”

“Sure,” Carlos said. “I fix thees bastard so he no talk.”

Carlos raised the meat cleaver above his shoulder and started walking slowly toward Whitey.

“N
O
,” G
ERARDO SAID
. He motioned Carlos to stay away from Whitey.

“But why?” Carlos frowned puzzledly. “Is easy to do it. Is very simple job.”

“And then?” Gerardo murmured.

Carlos shrugged. “Get rid of body.”

“How? Where?”

Carlos shrugged again. “Dig hole. Bury him. Or maybe throw him in river. No trouble.”

“Plenty trouble,” Gerardo said. “No place to dig outside this house. Ground too hard. Big stones. Too much cement. Is softer ground on empty lot. But empty lot too far away.”

“Not so far, Gerardo.” Carlos was very anxious to get started with the meat cleaver. “We carry body there in a few minutes.”

“In a few minutes much can happen,” Gerardo said. “Is many police in this area. Maybe they see we carry something. They get curious, you know? The police, they are very curious people.”

“Maybe—” Carlos was stumped for a moment. He tried again, saying, “Maybe is better the river. Is much closer the river.”

“Is not close enough,” Gerardo said. “The river is three blocks away.”

Carlos looked disappointed. Then all at once his eyes lit up and he said eagerly, “Listen, Gerardo. I have answer to problem. We kill him and keep him here.”

“Here? In this house?”

“Sure,” Carlos said. “We put him in closet. We put him under bed. Plenty of places to put him.”

Gerardo was thoughtful for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“But why not?” Carlos asked.

“Dead body make smell,” Gerardo said. “Is enough stink in this house without more stink.”

“
It no have stink,” Carlos persisted. “We steal perfume from dime store. We—”

“Oh, shut up,” Gerardo said wearily. “You sometimes talk like damn fool.” And then, slowly and emphatically, “Is no good to kill him here. Is much risk. Would not be risk if we had plumbing. Easy that way. Down the drain. In pieces cut him up and put it down the drain. But we no have plumbing. I think of that when I tell you many times, you kill a gringo, you do it in gringo section of Hellhole.”

Carlos slowly lowered the meat cleaver. He tossed it onto the pile of weapons in the center of the floor.

During the conversation between Gerardo and Carlos, it had been difficult for Whitey to breathe. For the past several moments he’d been holding his breath. Now he let it out and it came out fast.

But he knew the relief was only temporary. He was watching Gerardo’s face and focusing on Gerardo’s eyes. He saw what was in Gerardo’s eyes and again he had trouble breathing. His chest felt tight and it seemed his lungs were out of commission.

Gerardo turned to Luis and said, “You see what bad mistake you have made? You bring him here and now we have big problem.”

Luis wet his lips. He didn’t say anything. He was looking at the knife in Gerardo’s hand.

“Big serious problem,” Gerardo said. “And all because you no listen to what I say. I think maybe I teach you something, Luis. I teach you to listen.”

Gerardo took a step toward Luis. He’d been holding the knife loosely and now his fingers tightened on the handle.

“Gerardo—” Luis was barely able to produce sound. His eyes widened as he saw the blade coming closer. And then in a frenzy of trying to prevent himself from getting cut, he gasped, “No problem, Gerardo.” His arm trembled as he pointed to Whitey. “No problem with this man. This man friend.”

“Friend?” Gerardo was in the midst of taking another step toward Luis. He stopped and murmured, “You make joke, Luis? This gringo here, you call him a friend?”

“Is many gringos no hate Puerto Ricans,” Luis said.

Gerardo smiled. He folded his arms. “So,” he said with thin sarcasm. “
So now we hear speech. Go ahead, Luis. Make speech.”

“This man,” Luis began, speaking slowly and carefully, working hard to choose the right words, “he is very good friend of Puerto Ricans. He do us big favor tonight. In station house he play trick on cops and is much excitement and we make escape. Me and Carlos and other Puerto Ricans run out the door. We make good getaway. And so you see, Gerardo. If not for this man, we still there in station house and then we go to prison.”

Gerardo turned slowly and looked at Whitey. “Is true?”

Whitey nodded.

“You were arrested in riot?” Gerardo asked.

“No,” Whitey said. “I wasn’t mixed up in the riot. I ain’t been in any of these riots.”

“Why were you arrested?”

“They said I—” He thought about the dead policeman. It occurred to him that maybe he had a chance now. There was no friendship between these men and the Thirty-seventh District. It was possible that Gerardo would be favorably impressed with a cop-killer. “Well, I might as well tell you. I killed a policeman.”

“You did what?”

“He killed a cop,” Luis said. “You hear what he tells you? He no fight the Puerto Ricans. Only thing he do is kill a cop.”

“Be quiet,” Gerardo told Luis. “I let this man talk for himself.” He went on looking at Whitey. “Tell me, now. About this cop. When you kill him?”

“Tonight,” Whitey said.

“Where?”

“In an alley.”

“What alley?” Gerardo’s eyes were getting narrow. “I am adding the numbers again, mister. I am listening to you very careful. Be sure you give me the right numbers so is adding up so everything fits. Maybe it winds up you get a break, after all. If this is all true what you say, is possible you live to be old man. If not true, is gonna be very bad. I no like to be played for fool. I take you for a walk somewhere and you die slow. Is not pleasant to die slow. Sometimes it hurts so much you go crazy before you die.”

“
I get the idea,” Whitey said. He told himself to stay as close to the truth as possible. “It was an alley not far from here.”

“In this neighborhood? In Hellhole?”

“That’s right.”

“Give me location,” Gerardo said. “I want location of alley.”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

“You can’t?” Gerardo murmured. “I think you can. A man kills someone, he remembers the exact location.”

“I ain’t familiar with this neighborhood,” Whitey said. “I don’t live around here. There’s so many alleys—”

“All right, we’ll forget the alley. We’ll come back to it later. So now we talk about the cop. What happens with the cop? How you kill him?”

“I hit him on the head.”

Gerardo was quiet for a long moment. Then, scarcely moving his lips, “With what?”

With what? Whitey asked himself. In his mind he saw the dying policeman, the wet red seeping through the scalp, and shiny streams of it flowing down the cop’s face. Well, it needed something heavy to crack a skull that badly, so maybe the weapon was a brick, or a hammer, or then again it could have been a baseball bat.

“Baseball bat,” Whitey said.

Gerardo looked at the collection of knives and lead pipes and baseball bats resting in a heap in the center of the floor. “Now tell me,” he said. “Where you get the baseball bat?”

“I found it in the alley,” Whitey said. He waited for Gerardo to ask another question. Gerardo was smiling at him. There was something in the smile that told him to keep talking. Or maybe it wasn’t that kind of smile. Maybe he’d loused it up already and further talk was useless. He gazed past Gerardo’s smiling lips and begged himself to keep talking, to make it clear and brief and fully logical. He said, “The cop was chasing me. I tried to rob a store and the job went haywire and this cop was chasing me down the alley. So then I tripped and fell and he closed in on me. I looked for something to hit him with and I saw the baseball bat. It was busted, it was broken off at the handle. I got a grip on it and when he grabbed for me I let him have it and it cracked his head wide open. Before I could get away there were other cops moving in. They put cuffs on
me and took me to the station house.”

He told himself it sounded all right. He wondered if Gerardo thought it sounded all right.

He heard Gerardo saying, “You tell me more about this cop. What he look like?”

“He had gray hair,” Whitey said. “Well, anyway, it was mostly gray. He was sort of beefy, and he looked around forty-five or so. Or maybe older. It was hard to tell, there was so much blood on his face.”

“All right,” Gerardo interrupted. “Is enough about the cop. So now we come back to alley where it happen. You give me location of alley.”

“I told you, I can’t remember.”

“Is important that you remember. Is very important.”

“Well—” Whitey frowned and bit his lip. He wasn’t trying to remember the location of the alley. He told himself he damn well knew the location. And it would be nice if he could also know what Gerardo was getting at. He was trying very hard to figure what Gerardo had in mind.

“Come on,” Gerardo said. “Is no good this stalling. I no like stalling.”

“The alley . . .” He hesitated. He wondered why he hesitated.

“Come on,” Gerardo said. “Quick now. Where this alley is?”

“Near River Street.” And then, as he said it, he had the feeling it was an error to be truthful about the location.

But Gerardo seemed satisfied. Gerardo was nodding slowly and saying, “We getting closer now. Is very good.” He turned and looked at the other Puerto Ricans. He gave them a pleasant smile and held it for some moments while he went on nodding. Finally, still looking at the Puerto Ricans, he said to Whitey, “Now tell me, mister. This alley, it is east or west of River?”

“East,” Whitey said. But to himself, without sound: What goes on here? What the hell is he building? Maybe you should have said west instead of east. Well, you can fix that if you want to. You can still give him a false location. Trouble is, you don’t know what to give him. Hell, you’re sure having a bad time tonight. And all because you had to see her again. All right, let’s
not start with that. You’ve had enough of that. What you hafta do now is think in terms of staying alive. Maybe if you use your brains you can save your ass. All right, then, what’s it gonna be? You gonna switch the location of the alley? Come on, make up your mind, the man’s waiting. I think the best thing is to play it straight with the geography. He wants the exact location of the alley and you better give him what he wants. But why does he want it? Oh, well, the hell with it, you’ll hafta take your chances and give it to him.

Gerardo was saying, “How far, mister? How far east of River Street?”

“One block,” he said. “Make it the middle of the block. It’s a very narrow alley and it’s off a little side street.”

Gerardo started to laugh. It wasn’t much of a sound, it was almost no sound at all.

“Yes,” Gerardo said. And then he laughed just a bit louder. “Is very funny, you know?”

“What’s funny?” Whitey murmured.

“Is same alley,” Gerardo laughed. “Same policeman.”

“What?” Whitey said. He blinked several times. “What are you talking about?”

Gerardo didn’t answer. Now he was laughing loudly. The other Puerto Ricans had no idea why he was laughing and they looked at one another. A few were frowning puzzledly. And some were trying to get with it, grinning and looking foolish and uncertain. The ones who were fanatically loyal to Gerardo were imitating his laughter. Carlos was laughing the loudest and holding his sides and choking on his forced guffaws as he wondered what all this comedy was about.

Suddenly Gerardo stopped laughing. Then all the laughing stopped and they waited for Gerardo to speak. He was in no hurry to speak, and for some moments all he did was run his finger along the edge of the bread knife in his hand.

Whitey looked at the knife. He looked at the tattered and scraggly fabric of Gerardo’s camel’s-hair overcoat. He thought: It’s funny about the coat. And the knife is funny, too. Yes, everything here is very funny. It’s just as funny as rain coming down on a graveyard.

Then Gerardo was saying, “You tell good story, mister. Very much truth in it.
But not truth enough. Not hardly truth enough.”

Whitey took a deep breath. He held it.

“You no kill policeman,” Gerardo said.

Oh, Whitey said without sound. Oh, God. God Almighty.

“Because,” Gerardo said very slowly, “I know who kill policeman. Name of killer is Gerardo.”