Street of No Return Read Free

told himself to stop thinking about it. After all, it was a matter of geography and this was Skid Row and the Hellhole was three blocks away. He was here on Skid Row and the Hellhole was a million miles away. And so was yesterday, and so were all the memories of the little mining town.
The thing to do was play it Whitey's way and not let it touch him, let nothing touch him. He turned his head and looked at Whitey, knowing that Whitey's eyes would be aimed at the empty bottle and the only thought in Whitey's brain would be the need for another drink.
But Whitey wasn't looking at the bottle. Whitey sat there sort of stiffly, his mouth halfway open. He was staring at something on the other side of the street.

2
Phillips frowned slightly. He studied the look of rapt attention on Whitey's face. Then he looked across the street to see what Whitey was staring at. He didn't see anything unusual over there. It was just some Tenderloin scufflers coming out of a hash house and a man walking south on River street and a woman walking north. The woman was nothing to look at. She was fat and shapeless and walked with the exaggerated wiggle of a very lonely female hoping for company.
Bones was saying, "We gotta find a way to get a drink. That's all it amounts to. We just gotta get a drink."
"That's right," Whitey said. But he didn't seem to realize he was saying it. The words came out mechanically. He sat there stiffly and went on staring at something on the other side of the street.
"What is it?" Phillips asked. "What're you looking at?"
Whitey didn't answer.
"The woman?" Phillips asked. "You looking at the woman?"
Whitey shook his head very slowly. Then, more slowly, he started to get up from the pavement. He was almost on his feet when he changed his mind and sat down again. He shrugged and turned his head and looked at the empty bottle. He grinned at the bottle as though it were telling him something funny. He spoke to the bottle, saying "All right, I'll try it."
"Try what?" Phillips said.
"I'll try it and see what happens," Whitey said to the bottle. The grin on his face was vague and it went along with the dragging whisper coming from his lips.
"What is this?" Phillips said. He touched Whitey's shoulder. "What's wrong with you?"
Whitey didn't seem to hear. He went on grinning at the bottle and he said, "Sure, I might as well try it."
Then it was quiet and Phfflips and Bones looked at each other. Bones shrugged as though to say there was no way to figure Whitey, and no use asking him what was on his mind.
Whitey stood up again. He put his hands in the pockets of his ragged overcoat and hunched his shoulders against the wind coming from the river. He approached the curb and then stopped to pick up a cigarette stub. The cigarette was less than half smoked and he started to put it in his pocket, then tossed the stub to Bones.
Bones reached inside his coat and found a safety match and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag and handed the cigarette to Phillips. They sat there on the pavement sharing the cigarette and watching Whitey as he crossed the street. They were waiting to see what he would do when he was on the other side. He looked very small and shabby as he crossed River Street and it didn't seem to matter who he was or where he was going or what he intended to do. But they watched him as though it were very important that they pay careful attention. They had the unaccountable feeling that he was something special to watch.
They saw him arriving on the other side of the street. On the sidewalk he stopped for a moment to pull up the collar of his overcoat. Then again his hands were in his pockets and he was walking. He was walking slowly, his white hair wind-blown, his legs moving off stride as he went along River Street in a sort of lazy shuffle.
"South," Phillips murmured. "He's headed south."
"That's going toward the Hellhole."
"No," Phillips said. "He wouldn't go there."
"Well, where's he going?"
Phillips didn't reply. He