Read Online Street of No Return by David Goodis, Robert Polito - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Goodis, Robert Polito
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approvingly like a show-window expert satisfied with the display.
"It's high-grade merchandise," Jones said, as though he were talking to a potential customer. But his tone was sort of forced. He was trying to get Whitey's mind away from Whitey. He made a stiff-armed gesture, pointing to the gallon jugs, and went on: "I manufacture it myself. Know everything that goes in it, and I guarantee it's a hundred per cent pure, it's really high-grade. Just alcohol and water, but the way it's mixed is what gives it the charge. So it ain't no ordinary shake-up. It's a first class brand of goathead. Real fine goathead. The finest goddamn goathead ever made in any cellar."
He glanced at Whitey, hoping for a comment or any reaction at all. But there was nothing. Whitey just sat there with his glazed eyes staring fixedly at empty space, the wide-smile grimace now wider and crazier, way out there in left field, very far away from Jones Jarvis and the goathead and everything.
The old man gave it another try. He pointed to a hinged arrangement on the floor that indicated a floor door and he said, "That goes down to the cellar. All day long I'm down there making it, mixing it, tasting it so's I'll be sure it's just right. Sometimes it tastes so good I forget to come upstairs. Wake up a day later and wonder what the hell happened. But never sick. With Jones Jarvis' goathead it just ain't possible to get sick. That junk they sell in the stores can make a man sick as hell, he'll pay two, three, three-and-a-half a pint and wind up paying five to get his stomach pumped out. But that won't happen when he drinks my brand. No matter how much he drinks, he'll never get sick. And it sells for only six bits a pint.
"That's value, man, that's real value," he went on, trying very hard to get Whitey's mind away from Whitey. "Them big whisky people oughta be ashamed of themselves, charging what they do for that stuff they advertise. They give it a fancy name and a fancy label, with pretty pictures in the magazines, a big-shot businessman sitting there in the big fine room with all the books and a couple of highpriced hunting dogs and he's holding the glass and saying it's real good whisky and he drinks it and you oughta drink it too. What he should do is come here and buy a bottle of Jones Jarvis' goathead. He'd never touch that other junk again. He'd--"
Whitey was getting up from the cot. As he lifted himself to his feet, the wide-smile grimace began to fade from his face. His eyes gradually lost the glazed staring-at-nothing look and the stiffness was gone from his lips. It was a slow change and he went through' it quietly and calmly, and finally he stood there completely relaxed.
Then he moved toward the door.
"Where you going?" Jones said.
"Out."
"But where?"
"Station house."
The old man moved quickly to insert himself between Whitey and the door. "No," the old man said. "Don't do that."
Whitey smiled mildly and politely and waited for the old man to get away from the door.
"Listen," the old man said. "Listen, Gene--"
"Yes?" he murmured very politely.
"Stay here," the old man said. "Stay here and have a drink."
"No, thanks. Thanks very much."
"Come on, have a drink," the old man said. He gestured toward the filled bottle on the table. "There it is. Right there. Waiting for you."
"No," he said. "But thanks anyway. Thanks a lot."
"You mean you don't drink?" the old man asked. His eyes tried to pull Whitey's eyes away from the door. He was trying to make it a conversation about drinking.
"Yes," Whitey said. "I drink. I do a lot of drinking. I drink all the time."
"Sure you do." Jones Jarvis smiled companionably, as one drinker to another. "Come on, let's have a shot."
Whitey smiled back and shook his head very slowly.
"Come on, Gene. It'll do you good. You know you want a drink."
"No," Whitey said, wanting a drink very badly, his mouth and throat and belly begging for the colorless liquid in the bottle on the table just a few steps away.
"Just one," the old
"It's high-grade merchandise," Jones said, as though he were talking to a potential customer. But his tone was sort of forced. He was trying to get Whitey's mind away from Whitey. He made a stiff-armed gesture, pointing to the gallon jugs, and went on: "I manufacture it myself. Know everything that goes in it, and I guarantee it's a hundred per cent pure, it's really high-grade. Just alcohol and water, but the way it's mixed is what gives it the charge. So it ain't no ordinary shake-up. It's a first class brand of goathead. Real fine goathead. The finest goddamn goathead ever made in any cellar."
He glanced at Whitey, hoping for a comment or any reaction at all. But there was nothing. Whitey just sat there with his glazed eyes staring fixedly at empty space, the wide-smile grimace now wider and crazier, way out there in left field, very far away from Jones Jarvis and the goathead and everything.
The old man gave it another try. He pointed to a hinged arrangement on the floor that indicated a floor door and he said, "That goes down to the cellar. All day long I'm down there making it, mixing it, tasting it so's I'll be sure it's just right. Sometimes it tastes so good I forget to come upstairs. Wake up a day later and wonder what the hell happened. But never sick. With Jones Jarvis' goathead it just ain't possible to get sick. That junk they sell in the stores can make a man sick as hell, he'll pay two, three, three-and-a-half a pint and wind up paying five to get his stomach pumped out. But that won't happen when he drinks my brand. No matter how much he drinks, he'll never get sick. And it sells for only six bits a pint.
"That's value, man, that's real value," he went on, trying very hard to get Whitey's mind away from Whitey. "Them big whisky people oughta be ashamed of themselves, charging what they do for that stuff they advertise. They give it a fancy name and a fancy label, with pretty pictures in the magazines, a big-shot businessman sitting there in the big fine room with all the books and a couple of highpriced hunting dogs and he's holding the glass and saying it's real good whisky and he drinks it and you oughta drink it too. What he should do is come here and buy a bottle of Jones Jarvis' goathead. He'd never touch that other junk again. He'd--"
Whitey was getting up from the cot. As he lifted himself to his feet, the wide-smile grimace began to fade from his face. His eyes gradually lost the glazed staring-at-nothing look and the stiffness was gone from his lips. It was a slow change and he went through' it quietly and calmly, and finally he stood there completely relaxed.
Then he moved toward the door.
"Where you going?" Jones said.
"Out."
"But where?"
"Station house."
The old man moved quickly to insert himself between Whitey and the door. "No," the old man said. "Don't do that."
Whitey smiled mildly and politely and waited for the old man to get away from the door.
"Listen," the old man said. "Listen, Gene--"
"Yes?" he murmured very politely.
"Stay here," the old man said. "Stay here and have a drink."
"No, thanks. Thanks very much."
"Come on, have a drink," the old man said. He gestured toward the filled bottle on the table. "There it is. Right there. Waiting for you."
"No," he said. "But thanks anyway. Thanks a lot."
"You mean you don't drink?" the old man asked. His eyes tried to pull Whitey's eyes away from the door. He was trying to make it a conversation about drinking.
"Yes," Whitey said. "I drink. I do a lot of drinking. I drink all the time."
"Sure you do." Jones Jarvis smiled companionably, as one drinker to another. "Come on, let's have a shot."
Whitey smiled back and shook his head very slowly.
"Come on, Gene. It'll do you good. You know you want a drink."
"No," Whitey said, wanting a drink very badly, his mouth and throat and belly begging for the colorless liquid in the bottle on the table just a few steps away.
"Just one," the old
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