Read Online Clemmie by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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sedan drew up to the curb two houses away. The horn blasted the night twice. A girl came quickly out of the door, hurried down the steps and into the car. It was moving before she could pull the door shut.
“You wait here,” Bill said. He climbed the steps and thumped on a door. When the door opened he said, “This Connie’s place?” The door slammed in his face. He came down the steps. “Bad guess.”
He tried the next house and the next, without luck. He was getting angry. He was kicking the doors instead of knocking. He said, “You know, I’ll bet you the damn place is across the street. You wait here, pal.” Craig waited and watched him. Craig felt the whole street was watching them, watching the pair of noisy drunks.
Finally, Bill lifted his head and filled the night with a brass roar. “Connie! Oh, Connie! Where the hell do you live?”
It was at that moment the prowl car came around a corner, moving swiftly and almost silently. A white spotlight swung onto Bill Chernek and the car stopped close to him. Craig saw Bill glare into the light and heard him yell, “Get that damn light off me!”
Craig had been leaning against the side of a building in the shadows. As he pushed himself away from the wall to cross the street he felt a twist of dizziness. He staggered sideways and tumbled down an unseen flight of stone steps, landing on his hip and shoulder. The fall jolted him and sickened him and he lay there for a moment. He came up the steps, swallowing hard, and when his eye was above sidewalk level he saw the two cops tumbling the unconscious body of Bill Chernek into the back of the prowl. The people on the shallow porches had moved quietly indoors. Craig could hear the cops’ voices clearly.
“Big bastard, isn’t he?”
“Two bits says he’s from that furniture convention. We’ll get the I.D. when we get him in.”
“Figure he was alone?”
“Looks that way.” The sedan doors chunked shut. The car moved off.
Craig stood in the shadows, down in the blackness. The small sounds of living began to be audible again on the street. He told himself it would have done no good to cross the street after Bill had already been knocked out. The damage was already done by the time he had started back up the stairs. They would have taken him in too. He suspected he would have been unable to conceal his intoxication. The fall had sobered him, but only slightly. He felt dulled and witless standing there in the stale night air. The buildings were out of perspective, leaning toward him. A drop of chilled sweat ran down his ribs and he wondered if he was going to be sick. He took several deep breaths, squared his shoulders, marched up the stairs and down the street. He tried to look sober, purposeful, a man with a place to go.
He had enough idea of direction, enough knowledge of the texture of the city to know that he should walk away from the river. There was no chance of stopping a cab down in this area. He walked through the fringe of a Negro district, past jukes turned to maximum volume, past a white-haired white woman who vomited in the gutter, past a child who wept, past a woman who spoke to him insinuatingly. He walked the narrow blocks away from the river and found a small grocery store that was open and put a dime in a pay phone fastened to a sidewall and phoned Al Jardine.
“Al, this is Craig Fitz. I think I’ve got a little problem.”
“
You’re
not in some kind of trouble!”
“No. Not steady old reliable Craig. Not me. Bill Chernek. I was with him. We were drunk. The cops knocked him out and took him in.”
“And let you go? You sound funny.”
“They didn’t spot me. It happened about two blocks from the corner of River Street and State Street. He was looking for a place called Connie’s.”
“Sane people don’t go down there, and Connie moved away over a year ago, I hear. She runs a call business. Is it just a D and D?”
“I don’t know. I guess he fought. They knocked him
“You wait here,” Bill said. He climbed the steps and thumped on a door. When the door opened he said, “This Connie’s place?” The door slammed in his face. He came down the steps. “Bad guess.”
He tried the next house and the next, without luck. He was getting angry. He was kicking the doors instead of knocking. He said, “You know, I’ll bet you the damn place is across the street. You wait here, pal.” Craig waited and watched him. Craig felt the whole street was watching them, watching the pair of noisy drunks.
Finally, Bill lifted his head and filled the night with a brass roar. “Connie! Oh, Connie! Where the hell do you live?”
It was at that moment the prowl car came around a corner, moving swiftly and almost silently. A white spotlight swung onto Bill Chernek and the car stopped close to him. Craig saw Bill glare into the light and heard him yell, “Get that damn light off me!”
Craig had been leaning against the side of a building in the shadows. As he pushed himself away from the wall to cross the street he felt a twist of dizziness. He staggered sideways and tumbled down an unseen flight of stone steps, landing on his hip and shoulder. The fall jolted him and sickened him and he lay there for a moment. He came up the steps, swallowing hard, and when his eye was above sidewalk level he saw the two cops tumbling the unconscious body of Bill Chernek into the back of the prowl. The people on the shallow porches had moved quietly indoors. Craig could hear the cops’ voices clearly.
“Big bastard, isn’t he?”
“Two bits says he’s from that furniture convention. We’ll get the I.D. when we get him in.”
“Figure he was alone?”
“Looks that way.” The sedan doors chunked shut. The car moved off.
Craig stood in the shadows, down in the blackness. The small sounds of living began to be audible again on the street. He told himself it would have done no good to cross the street after Bill had already been knocked out. The damage was already done by the time he had started back up the stairs. They would have taken him in too. He suspected he would have been unable to conceal his intoxication. The fall had sobered him, but only slightly. He felt dulled and witless standing there in the stale night air. The buildings were out of perspective, leaning toward him. A drop of chilled sweat ran down his ribs and he wondered if he was going to be sick. He took several deep breaths, squared his shoulders, marched up the stairs and down the street. He tried to look sober, purposeful, a man with a place to go.
He had enough idea of direction, enough knowledge of the texture of the city to know that he should walk away from the river. There was no chance of stopping a cab down in this area. He walked through the fringe of a Negro district, past jukes turned to maximum volume, past a white-haired white woman who vomited in the gutter, past a child who wept, past a woman who spoke to him insinuatingly. He walked the narrow blocks away from the river and found a small grocery store that was open and put a dime in a pay phone fastened to a sidewall and phoned Al Jardine.
“Al, this is Craig Fitz. I think I’ve got a little problem.”
“
You’re
not in some kind of trouble!”
“No. Not steady old reliable Craig. Not me. Bill Chernek. I was with him. We were drunk. The cops knocked him out and took him in.”
“And let you go? You sound funny.”
“They didn’t spot me. It happened about two blocks from the corner of River Street and State Street. He was looking for a place called Connie’s.”
“Sane people don’t go down there, and Connie moved away over a year ago, I hear. She runs a call business. Is it just a D and D?”
“I don’t know. I guess he fought. They knocked him
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