Dark Passage (11 page)

“All right, Max,” the policeman said
soothingly. “Take it easy.”

“We don’t take it easy any more,” the
little man said. “We don't let them talk like that any
more.”

The crowd was looking at the other man.
The other man was backing away. The policeman looked at the other
man and said, “That’s right, take a walk, because I got a good mind
to let Max loose, and once he gets loose you're gonna regret the
whole thing. It happens I also had a boy in the South
Pacific.”

The man who had lived in San Francisco for
thirty-seven years was backing away, gradually turning, so that at
last he had his back to the crowd and was walking quickly down the
street.

“Now I don’t care what happens,” the
little man said. His whole body was shaking. “You can call the
ambulance, you can call the wagon. I don't care what you do. I
don't care.”

Someone said, “Why don’t we justs break it
up already?”

The policeman pushed the cap farther back
on his head, turned to Parry and said, “Look, Studebaker, are you
sure you’re all right?”

“I’m absolutely sure, officer,” Parry
said. “You'd be doing me a favor if you let it ride.”

The policeman pushed the cap farther back
on his head, stood there with uncertainty all over his face, rubbed
a big hand across his big chin. Then he pushed the cap forward on
his head, glared at the crowd and said, “All right, let’s break it
up.”

The crowd moved back as the policeman
walked forward. The crowd radiated.

Parry told himself to wait, to hold it
until the policeman crossed the street. The little man came over to
Parry and said, “Thanks, mister. You could have said it was my
fault.”

“It’s all right,” Parry said. He was
watching the policeman.

“Maybe you ought to see a doctor after
all,” the little man said. “Can I take you any place?”

“No,” Parry said. “Thanks anyway. Wait.
You going toward Post?”

“Sure,” the little man said. “I’m not
going there but I'll go there anyway. Any place you want to
go.”

They stepped into the car. Both doors
closed. The little man was still shaking and he stalled the car
twice before he really got it going. The car made a turn. Parry
took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Smoke?”

“Thanks,” the little man said. “I need
it.”

Parry gave him a light, lit his own,
leaned back and watched the street lamps parading quickly toward
the car.

“Sometimes I just get burned up,” the
little man said.

“I know.”

“I get so burned up I don’t know what I'm
doing,” the little man said. “And it's not good for me. I got high
blood pressure. I've had it for years.”

Parry was watching the rear-view
mirror.

The little man was taking something from
his pocket.

Parry tugged hard at the cigarette and
wondered if the single light he saw back there was the headlamp of
a motorcycle.

“Here, take this,” the little man said,
handing Parry a card.” I’m nobody important, but any time I can do
you a favor-”

Parry looked at the card. Glow from the
street lamps showed him Max Weinstock, Upholsterer.

“Sure you feel all right?” the little man
said.

“I’m fine,” Parry said. “I wasn't hurt at
all.”

“But maybe you should see a doctor just to
make sure.”

“No, I’m all right,” Parry
said.

The little man looked at him.

Parry looked at the rear-view
mirror.

The car made another turn, stopped for a
light, went down three blocks, stopped for another light, made
another turn and the little man said, “Whereabouts on
Post?”

Parry took the folded slip of paper from
his pocket, studied it for a few moments. He directed the little
man to

“let him off at a street that was one
block away from the address on the paper.

The car made another turn, going left on
Post.

“Do you have the time?” Parry said,
forgetting the watch on his wrist.

The little man glanced at a wrist watch.
“Two-thirty.”

“Too early,” Parry said.

“Early?”

“Nothing,” Parry said. “I was just
thinking.”

The little man was looking at him. As the
car stopped for another light the little man leaned forward
slightly so he could get a better look at Parry’s face. Parry took
out the pack, lit another cigarette, sustaining the match and
holding his left hand in front of the left side of his face.
Glancing sideways, he knew the little man was still looking at him.
He had a feeling it was going to happen now, while they were
waiting for this light to change. He told himself Post was
reasonably empty and he could handle the little man as he had
handled Studebaker. The little man was still looking at him and now
he had his cigarette going and the match was going to burn his
fingers. He blew out the match, his hand came down. The little man
was still looking at him. Parry's teeth clicked, his head turned
mechanically, he stared at the little man, his stare went past the
eyes of the little man and he was staring at a police squad car
parked there beside the little man's car.

The light changed. The police squad car
went forward.

“The light changed,” Parry
said.

The little man turned and looked at the
light. He made no move to get the car going.

“The light changed,” Parry
said.

“Yes,” the little man said. “I know.” He
made no move to get the car going.

“What’s the matter?” Parry
said.

The little man looked at him.

“Can’t we get started?” Parry
said.

The little man was leaning back now, his
head was down, he was looking at nothing.

“Won’t the car go?” Parry said.

“The car’s all right,” the little man
said.

“Then what’s the matter?” Parry said. “Why
are we standing here?”

The little man looked at Parry. The little
man said nothing.

“I don’t get you,” Parry said. He looked
at the rear-view mirror. He put fingers on the door handle. He
said, “We can't stay here in the middle of the street. We're
blocking traffic.”

“There’s no traffic,” the little man said.
It was under a whisper.

“Well, why don’t we move?” Parry said. He
gripped the door handle.

The little man said nothing. He was
leaning back again. His head was down again. He was looking at
nothing again.

“What’s the matter with you?” Parry said.
“Are you sick or something?”

“I’m not sick.” It was way under a
whisper.

“Then what’s the matter? What are you
sitting there like that for? What's wrong with you? What are you
doing sitting there like that? What are you doing? Answer me, what
are you doing? What are you doing?”

The little man raised his head slowly and
he was gazing straight ahead and still he looked at nothing. Then
he said, “I’m thinking.”

CHAPTER 10

The light changed again.

Parry tried to put pressure on the door
handle. He couldn’t collect any pressure.

The motor stopped.

Parry wanted to hear the motor going. He
said, “Start the car.”

The little man pressed his foot against
the starter. The car jumped forward and stalled. The little man
started the motor again, the car inched forward.

“Don’t go against the light,” Parry said.
“Wait for the light to change.”

The little man crossed his arms on the
steering wheel, leaned his head on his arms. Parry got some
pressure on the door handle, got the door handle moving, then took
his hand away, wondered why he was taking his hand away, wondered
why he was staying in the car.

The light changed.

“All right,” Parry said. “the light
changed. Let’s go.”

The little man brought his head up, looked
at the light, looked at Parry. Then he had the car in first gear
and he was letting the clutch out. He was driving the car across
the intersection, turning the wheel slowly, bringing the car to a
stop at the curb.

Again Parry had his fingers on the door
handle. He looked at the little man and said, “What are we stopping
for?”

“Let me look at you,” the little man
said.

“What?”

“Let me take a good look at
you.”

They faced each other and Parry had his
right hand hardening slowly, shaping a fist. And the fist trembled.
He wondered if he had the strength to go through with
it.

The little man said, “Are you sure you’re
all right?”

“I didn’t do it,” Parry said. “I didn't do
it and I won't go back.”

“You won’t go back where?”

“I won’t go back.”

The little man put a hand to his forehead,
rubbed his forehead, rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. He
said, “Nobody claimed it was your fault. It was just one of those
things. It was an accident.”

“That’s right,” Parry said. “That's what I
told them. It was an accident.”

The little man brought his face closer to
Parry’s face and said, “You don't look so good to me.”

Parry was trying to make his way through a
huge barrel that rolled fast and messed up his footing. He heard
himself saying, “What are you going to do about it?”

And he heard the little man saying, “I
think you better let me take you to a hospital.”

The barrel stopped rolling. Parry said,
“Stop worrying about it.”

“I can’t help worrying,” the little man
said. “Will you do me a favor? Will you let a doctor look you
over?”

Parry was working the door handle. He had
it down now and he was getting the door open. He said, “I’ll do
that,” and then the door was open and he was out of the car, the
door was closed again, the light was changing and the car was going
away from him.

He got his legs working. The pain in his
head was going away, and he found it easy to breathe, easy to walk,
easy to think. The whole thing was beginning to lean toward his
side of it. He really had a grip on it now and it was going along
with him. Everything was going along. And everybody, so far.
Beginning with Studebaker, although with Studebaker it was
involuntary. With the policeman who had looked under the blanket it
was sheer carelessness. With Irene it was her own choice and the
reason for that choice was an immense question mark despite the
things she had told him. With the taxi driver it was human
kindness. With George Fellsinger it was friendship. With the old
woman in the candy store it was bad eyesight, because if her eyes
were halfway decent she would have checked his face with that
picture on the front page. And he knew she hadn’t checked it,
because if she had it would have brought a parade of police cars to
the scene of the accident a few blocks away from the candy store.
With Max it was as Max had put, just one of those things. He had to
forget about it, because it didn't matter now and he had to check
off everything that didn't matter. He remembered his wrist watch
and the hands showed him 2: 55.

The slip of paper came out of his pocket
and he glanced at the address, pushed the paper back in his pocket
and walked faster. In a few minutes he was there. He looked up
along the windows of a dilapidated four-story building. The windows
were dark, except for reflected light from dim street lamps that
showed dirt on the glass. The alley bordering the building was very
black and waiting for him. He walked down the alley.

The alley branched off to the right at the
rear of the building. He went that way, came to the door. He
touched the door. He touched the knob. He handled the knob, turned
it. He opened the door.

He went in and closed the door. Weak
greenish light from one of the upper floors came staggering down a
narrow stairway. The place was very old and very ne-glected. Parry
went over to the stairway and let some of the greenish light get on
the wrist-watch dial. The hands said 2: 59. He was on time. He was
all set. He started up the stairway.

The greenish light didn’t come from the
first floor. It didn’t come from the second floor. It came from a
hanging bulb on the third floor, and it illuminated several of the
mottled glass panels in splintered doors. There was an advertising
specialty company and a firm of mystic book publishers and an
outfit that called itself Excelsior Enterprises. Parry walked down
the corridor. He came to a glass panel that had the words— Walter
Coley. And underneath—Plastic Specialist. A suggestion of yellow
glow came from the other side of the glass. Parry tapped fingers
against the glass.There were footsteps from inside, a trading of
voices. Then more footsteps, and then the door opened, and the taxi
driver stood there. The taxi driver had a half-smoked cigar between
his teeth.

“How’s it going?” the taxi driver
said.