The Gutter and the Grave Read Free Page A

years?
    “No,” I said to Johnny. “I’m busy. I can’t help you.”
    “Busy doing what?” Johnny asked. He paused, seemed to weigh his next question, and then said, “Getting drunk?”
    “Yes,” I said, “getting drunk. Do you have any objections?”
    “It seems to me…”
    “It seems to me a smart man stops when he’s ahead,” I told him. “I’d hate like hell to have to knock down an old neighbor.”
    “You talk a good game, Matt,” he said, and he stood up. He reached into his pocket for some change to leave on the table. “What are you afraid of?” he said. “The police? This wouldn’t be an official investigation. It would just be an old friend doing a favor.”
    “When did we become such good old buddies?” I said.
    “For Christ’s sake, we grew up together.”
    “Does that make us brothers? Go to the police. Or else get yourself a bona fide private detective. Don’t come running to a Bowery bum.”
    “Is that what you are, Matt?”
    “What the hell did you think I was? A society swordsman? A pedigreed dog trainer? I’m a bum. Me. Matthew Cordell, bum. I sleep in flophouses or on park benches when I can’t afford a pad. I’m drunktwenty-five hours out of twenty-four, and I get my whiskey money by panhandling. I’m a bum. Do you want me to yell hallelujah?”
    He shook his head and looked at me. “I didn’t think it was possible,” he said. “I didn’t think a dame…”
    “Shut up, Johnny.”
    “…could take a guy who was a
man
and turn him into…”
    “Shut up!”
    “Sure. Thanks for listening, Matt. I’ll work it out some way. Thanks a lot.”
    “Get the pity out of your eyes,” I said. “I don’t need it.”
    “You need something, pal,” he said.
    “Oh, go the hell back to 118th Street. Who asked you to come down here, anyway? Who needs you?”
    “I need you,” he said.
    “Sure.”
    “I do. Matt…please. Won’t you help me?” He put his arm on my sleeve, and I’ve never been able to kick a man in the teeth when he suddenly begins begging. “Please, Matt, I’m…I’m ready to lose my mind with this damn thing. Please. Help me.”
    “No.”
    “I’ll pay you. I can’t afford much but…”
    “I don’t want your money.”
    “Then will you help me? Will you please…”
    “Jesus Christ, can’t you leave me alone?” I said.
    The table was suddenly silent. Johnny kept looking at me. I kept looking at my hands.
    In a small voice, I said, “Can’t you just leave me alone?” He didn’t answer. He kept staring at me. Finally, I raised my head and met his eyes. “I’ll…I’ll just take a look at the…the windows and doors,” I said. “And the cash register. Just to let you know if…if someone’s been getting in at night. But that’s all. I don’t want…”
    “Thank you, Matt,” he said.
    * * *
    The sky had turned black outside. Clouds had moved in over the river and were banked overhead now, ready to burst. There was a smell in the air, the sweet air-rushing smell a city gets just before an electric storm. The lights in some of the shops had already come on as the city grew darker. It was going to rain like hell.
    We caught a cab and headed uptown. The tailor shop was on First Avenue between 118th and 119th. It was just a small shop, with the usual dry-cleaning posters in the window, the posters that somehow never look professional but seem to have been run off by an art student in a basement. There was also a small sign in the window which read: WE DO EXPERT HAND TAILORING . A heavy padlock hung on the front door.
    “Nobody here?” I said.
    Johnny looked at his watch. “We close at six,” he said. “Dom is probably home already.”
    “Were you in the shop today?”
    “Yes.” Johnny took out a key ring and began searching for the right key.
    “When?” I said.
    He found the key and unlocked the padlock. “I came in around noon, and left at two. I went down to the Bowery. To look for you.” He swung open the door and snapped