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Authors: John D. MacDonald
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out.”
He could hear Jardine sigh. “Good old Bill. I’ll see what I can do. Want to meet me at the station?”
“I don’t think I should. I don’t think I’m an asset.”
“If he’s got one of those streaks on, I’m going to let him stay right there. I’d never be able to get him home alone. It won’t get in the papers. If it has to, I’ll make sure they typo the hell out of his name and address.”
“Thanks a lot, Al.”
“You take care of yourself, now. Say, how about coming around for dinner some night. Irene and I were talking about you the other day.”
“I’d like to, Al. Have Irene give me a ring at the plant.”
He debated calling a cab, decided against it. He was out of the worst of the area now. In a block or two he could cut over to Turner Street, and then it was only about five more blocks to the fringe of the theater district where he could get something to eat—if he could force it down.
When he came to an area of small frame houses with small lawns, where people sat on the front porches and kids ran whooping from lawn to lawn, he turned left and cut over to Turner. Two blocks up Turner he came to a lunchroom that looked sparkling clean. There was a low counter to sit at, and waitresses in yellow uniforms. He ordered black coffee. After that was down, and stayed down, hunger began to stir. He ordered a bowl of chili. It was hot and good. When it was gone he had a glass of milk and then another cup of coffee. He felt a great deal better. It was twenty after ten. It seemed to him that it should be much later. He realized there was nothing left to do but go home. It gave him a let-down feeling. After violence, the evening had dwindled off into nothing. He wondered about late movies and decided he had no urge to sit in the dark with strangers.
He paid and left. He walked slowly. As he passed a neighborhood bar near the corner, he paused and looked through the screen door. There was a good crowd in there, and they were watching a fight on television.
“… a left hook to the head and another right and a left to the body …”
He turned the corner, heading toward Federal Street.There was a small parking lot beside the bar, with over a dozen cars in it. He glanced idly into the lot. He heard a girl’s voice, shrill and indignant. “That’s enough, God damn it! Stop! That’s enough!”
He paused, staring into the lot. He wondered if she was in one of the cars. He walked a few steps into the lot, listening. He could hear grunts and thuds and, in remorseless rhythm, the meaty splat of fists on flesh. He moved gingerly toward the sound. Just then a car swung around the corner and as the headlights swept by, he saw movement beyond the hood of a car thirty feet away, a car parked almost against the side of the bar.
“You’re
killing
him, damn you!” the girl yelled. Craig moved more quickly and when he went around the car, he could see the tableau. Enough life came from a high window. A short, wide man had wedged a taller man into the angle formed by a fence and the side of the bar. The taller man’s arms flopped and dangled. His face was a darkened smear. The short man worked on him with the rhythmic tenacity of someone chopping wood. A slim girl was hurling herself at the wide man’s back, yelling at him, kicking at him, striking at the back of his neck with her fists. She was having no effect on him at all. Craig hurried toward them. The blows were heavy, sickening, murderous. Just as he got there the man cuffed backhand at the girl without looking at her. He hit her across the face and she stumbled and sat down hard on the cinders.
Craig locked his arms through the man’s elbows. The man was shockingly powerful. Craig was whipped around, his feet frequently leaving the ground, but he managed to hold on. The beaten man, no longer supported by the tempo of the blows, had sagged into the corner.
Suddenly the stocky man stopped struggling. He seemed to exhale at great length.
He could hear Jardine sigh. “Good old Bill. I’ll see what I can do. Want to meet me at the station?”
“I don’t think I should. I don’t think I’m an asset.”
“If he’s got one of those streaks on, I’m going to let him stay right there. I’d never be able to get him home alone. It won’t get in the papers. If it has to, I’ll make sure they typo the hell out of his name and address.”
“Thanks a lot, Al.”
“You take care of yourself, now. Say, how about coming around for dinner some night. Irene and I were talking about you the other day.”
“I’d like to, Al. Have Irene give me a ring at the plant.”
He debated calling a cab, decided against it. He was out of the worst of the area now. In a block or two he could cut over to Turner Street, and then it was only about five more blocks to the fringe of the theater district where he could get something to eat—if he could force it down.
When he came to an area of small frame houses with small lawns, where people sat on the front porches and kids ran whooping from lawn to lawn, he turned left and cut over to Turner. Two blocks up Turner he came to a lunchroom that looked sparkling clean. There was a low counter to sit at, and waitresses in yellow uniforms. He ordered black coffee. After that was down, and stayed down, hunger began to stir. He ordered a bowl of chili. It was hot and good. When it was gone he had a glass of milk and then another cup of coffee. He felt a great deal better. It was twenty after ten. It seemed to him that it should be much later. He realized there was nothing left to do but go home. It gave him a let-down feeling. After violence, the evening had dwindled off into nothing. He wondered about late movies and decided he had no urge to sit in the dark with strangers.
He paid and left. He walked slowly. As he passed a neighborhood bar near the corner, he paused and looked through the screen door. There was a good crowd in there, and they were watching a fight on television.
“… a left hook to the head and another right and a left to the body …”
He turned the corner, heading toward Federal Street.There was a small parking lot beside the bar, with over a dozen cars in it. He glanced idly into the lot. He heard a girl’s voice, shrill and indignant. “That’s enough, God damn it! Stop! That’s enough!”
He paused, staring into the lot. He wondered if she was in one of the cars. He walked a few steps into the lot, listening. He could hear grunts and thuds and, in remorseless rhythm, the meaty splat of fists on flesh. He moved gingerly toward the sound. Just then a car swung around the corner and as the headlights swept by, he saw movement beyond the hood of a car thirty feet away, a car parked almost against the side of the bar.
“You’re
killing
him, damn you!” the girl yelled. Craig moved more quickly and when he went around the car, he could see the tableau. Enough life came from a high window. A short, wide man had wedged a taller man into the angle formed by a fence and the side of the bar. The taller man’s arms flopped and dangled. His face was a darkened smear. The short man worked on him with the rhythmic tenacity of someone chopping wood. A slim girl was hurling herself at the wide man’s back, yelling at him, kicking at him, striking at the back of his neck with her fists. She was having no effect on him at all. Craig hurried toward them. The blows were heavy, sickening, murderous. Just as he got there the man cuffed backhand at the girl without looking at her. He hit her across the face and she stumbled and sat down hard on the cinders.
Craig locked his arms through the man’s elbows. The man was shockingly powerful. Craig was whipped around, his feet frequently leaving the ground, but he managed to hold on. The beaten man, no longer supported by the tempo of the blows, had sagged into the corner.
Suddenly the stocky man stopped struggling. He seemed to exhale at great length.
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