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

way back. It was doing about thirty and Parry had an idea it couldn’t do any more no matter how hard it tried. Again he was out in the center of the road, waving his arms.
    The Studebaker stopped. Its only occupant was the driver, a man inold clothes, a man who looked Parry up and down and finally opened the door.
    Parry stepped in. He closed the door and the man put the car in gear and got it up to thirty again. Parry had already noticed that the Studebaker was a coupé and the man was about forty or so and he was about five eight and he didn’t weigh much. He wore a felt hat that had been dead for years.
    For a few minutes there was no talk. Then the man half looked at Parry and said, “Where you going?”
    “San Francisco.”
    The man looked at him directly. Parry looked straight ahead. He was thinking that approximately four hours had passed since he had stepped into the barrel. Perhaps by this time it was already in the papers. Perhaps the man had already seen a paper. Perhaps the man wasn’t going to San Francisco. Perhaps anything.
    “Whereabouts in Frisco?” the man said. He pushed the hat back an inch or so.
    Parry was about to say Civic Center. Then he changed his mind. Then he took another look at the man and he came back to Civic Center. It really didn’t make much difference what he said, because he was going to get rid of this man and he was going to take the car.
    He said, “Civic Center.”
    “I’ll get you there,” the man said. “I’m taking Van Ness to Market. How come you’re using this road?”
    “Fellow gave me a lift. He said it was a short cut.”
    “How come he left you off back there?”
    “We had an argument,” Parry said.
    “What about?”
    “Politics.”
    “What are you?”
    “Well,” Parry said, “I’m non-partisan. But this fellow seemed to be against everything. He couldn’t get me to agree with him and finally he stopped the car and told me to get out.”
    The man looked at Parry’s bare ribs. The man said, “What did he do—steal your shirt?”
    “No, I always dress this way in summer. I like to be comfortable. You got a match?”
    The man fished in a coat pocket and two fingers came out holding a book of matches.
    “Want a cigarette?” Parry said as he scratched a match.
    “I don’t smoke. Mighty funny looking pants you got there.”
    “I know. But they’re comfortable.”
    “You like to be comfortable,” the man said, and then he laughed, and he kept on looking at the grey cotton pants.
    “Yes,” Parry said. “I like to be comfortable.”
    “You can keep the matches,” the man said. He kept on looking at the grey cotton pants. He dragged the Studebaker back to twenty-five, then to twenty. His eyes went down to Parry’s heavy shoes.
    Parry said, “How come you got matches if you don’t smoke?”
    The man didn’t answer. Parry kept his face frontward but his gaze was sideways and he could see the man’s weather-darkened features and the short thin nose and the long chin. He got his gaze a little more to the side and he could see the ear and the mixture of black and white hair beneath the rippling brim of the felt hat. The right temple, he was thinking. Or maybe just under the right ear. He had heard somewhere that just under the ear was the best place.
    “Where you from?” the man said.
    “Arizona.”
    “Whereabouts in Arizona?”
    “Maricopa,” Parry said truthfully.
    “Hitched all the way from Maricopa, eh?”
    “That’s right,” Parry said. He eyed the rear-view mirror. The road back there was empty. He got ready. His right hand formed a fist and he tightened it, making it hard. His right arm quivered.
    The man said, “Why Frisco?”
    “What?”
    “I said why are you going to Frisco?”
    Parry rubbed the fist against his thigh. He turned his body and leaned against the door as he looked at the man. He said, “Mister, you get on my nerves with all these questions. I don’t need to be bothered with you. I can get another