David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) by David Goodis Read Free Book Online Page A

it was logical for them to have taken the Pontiac’s license number as the car went away from them. It was easy to sketch—them talking it over, telling each other they should have looked further under the blanket to see what was in those old clothes for China, then congratulating each other on their brains in taking the license number, and now coming here to have a talk with Irene Janney.
    He turned and looked around the room and tried to see something. The window was the only thing he saw.
Shorty George
was rounding the far turn and coming toward the homestretch, but he didn’t hear it, he was staring at the window.
    The fourth series of raps got through the door and bounced around the room, and following the raps a voice said, “Irene—are you there?”
    It belonged to a woman. Then it couldn’t be the police. And yet there was something about the voice that was worse than the police.
    “Irene—open the door.”
    The music was music again. Parry figured if he made the music louder he wouldn’t hear the voice.
    It was a voice he knew and he was trying to place it and he didn’t want to place it. He made the music louder.
    “Irene—what’s the matter? Let me in.”
    Shorty George
was coming down the homestretch. The voice outside the door was louder than
Shorty George
.
    “Irene—I know you’re in there and I want you to let me in.”
    The voice was getting him now, closing in on him, forceps of sound that was more than sound, because now he recognized the voice, the pestering voice that belonged to Madge Rapf.

5

    I T WAS as if the door was glass and he could see her standing out there, the Pest. His eyes made a turn and looked at the ball of yellow glass with the lighter attachment. All he had to do was grab hold of that thing and open the door, go out there and start banging her over the head to shut her up. This wouldn’t be the first time he had liked the idea of banging her over the head.
    “Irene—I don’t think this is a bit funny and I want you to open the door.”
    Parry reached over and picked up the heavy ball of yellow glass.
    “Irene—are you going to open the door?”
    Parry tested the weight of the ball of yellow glass.
    “Irene—you know I’m out here. What’s the matter with you?”
    Parry took a step toward the door. He wasn’t shaking and he wondered why. He wasn’t perspiring and he wasn’t shaking and the ball of yellow glass was steady and all set in his right hand. He wondered why he felt so glad about this and all at once he understood he was about to do mankind a favor.
    “Irene—do you intend to open the door?”
    Shorty George
crossed the finish line and the glazed center spun soundlessly under the needle.
    Rapping again. Angry, puzzled rapping.
    “Irene—open the door.”
    Parry took another step toward the door and he began to shake. He began to perspire. His teeth were vibrating. A grinding noise started deep in his belly and worked its way up toward his mouth.
    “Irene——”
    “Shut up,” Parry yelled, realized that he was yelling, tried to hold it, couldn’t do anything about it. “For God’s sake—shut up.”
    “What?”
    “I said shut up. Go away.”
    He knew that she was stepping back and away from the door, looking at the number to see if she had the right apartment.
    Then she said something that was Madge Rapf all over. She said, “Irene, is someone in there with you?”
    “Yes, someone’s in here with her,” Parry said. “Now go away.”
    “Oh, I didn’t know.”
    “Well, now you know. So go away.”
    She went away. Parry had an ear next to the door crack and he could hear her footsteps going down the corridor toward the elevator. He moved to the phonograph and picked up the needle from the silent record. He lit another cigarette and then took a position near the window and waited there. He estimated two minutes and it was slightly under two minutes when he saw Madge Rapf getting past the partition of yellow brick. He knew she was