Learning to Kill: Stories

Chalk

Nobody in police work likes to deal with lunatics. There’s no predictability to the crimes committed by madmen. Moreover, in most mystery novels, there’s a murder to be solved, a puzzle to be unraveled. Loose cannons present no such challenge, so I try to avoid them in the police novels I write today. But back in the fifties, I wrote several stories that...

Well, let me take that back.

Yes, the stories that follow were all published in the fifties. “Chalk” by Evan Hunter in 1953, in a Manhunt imitator called Pursuit; then “Association Test” and “Bedbug,” both in Manhunt itself, both in 1954, the first under the Hunt Collins byline, the next under my already-legal name, Evan Hunter; and finally, in 1957 and again in Manhunt, another Evan Hunter story titled “The Merry Merry Christmas.” So... er... what is there to take back?

“Chalk.”

Although this was finally published in 1953 (under the title “I Killed Jeannie,” can you believe it!), I wrote this story in 1945, aboard a destroyer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. When it circulated among my shipmates, it caused no small degree of apprehension. That’s because loose cannons are unpredictable.

Here it is now, followed by the others in uninterrupted chronological order.

Her face was a piece of ugly pink chalk, and her eyes were two little brown mud puddles. Her eyes were mud puddles and they did not fit with the pink chalk. The chalk was ugly, and her eyes were mud puddles, and they made the chalk look uglier.

“Your eyes are mud puddles,” I said, and she laughed.

I didn’t like her to laugh. I was serious. She shouldn’t have laughed when I told her something serious like that.

I hit the pink chalk with my fist but it didn’t crumble. I wondered why it didn’t crumble. I hit it again and water ran out of the mud puddles. I pushed my hand into one of the mud puddles and it turned all red, and it looked prettier with water coming out of it and red.

I tore the beads from her neck and threw them at the chalk. I felt her nails dig into my skin and I didn’t like that. I twisted her arm and she struggled and pushed, and her body felt nice and soft up tight against mine. I wanted to squeeze her and when I began squeezing her she screamed, and the noise reminded me of the Third Avenue El when it stops going, and the noise reminded me of babies crying at night when I’m trying to sleep. So I hit her mouth to stop the noise but instead it got louder.

I ripped her dress in the front and I swore at her and told her to stop the noise, but she wouldn’t stop so I kicked her in the leg and she fell. She looked soft and white on the floor. All except her face. It was still pink chalk.

Ugly pink chalk.

I stepped on it with all my might and the mud puddles closed and red came from her nose.

I stepped on her again and the pink chalk was getting red all over and it looked good and I kept stepping. And the red got thicker and redder, and then she started to twitch and jerk like she was sick and I bent down and asked, “Are you sick, Jeannie?”

She didn’t answer except like a moan, and then she made a noise that sounded like the Third Avenue El again, and I had to hit her again to make her stop.

I kept punching her in the face and the noise stopped.

It was very quiet.

Her eyes weren’t mud puddles. Why did I think they were mud puddles? They were two shiny glass marbles and they were looking right at me, only they couldn’t see me because they were glass and you can’t see out of glass.

The pink chalk was all red now except for white patches here and there. Her mouth was open but there was no noise.

Then I heard the ticking.

It was loud, like an ax splitting wood, and I was afraid it was going to wake her up and then she would make the noise all over again, and I would have to tell her to stop and hit her again. I did not want to hit her again because her eyes were only marbles and you can’t see out of marbles, and her face was a pretty red and not made of chalk that would not crumble.

So I stepped on the ticking. I stepped on it twice so that I could be sure. Then I took off her clothes and she looked all red and white and quiet when I put her on the bed. I doused the light and then I left her to sleep. I felt sorry for her.

She couldn’t see because her eyes were only marbles.

It was cold in the night. It shouldn’t have been cold because the sky was an oil fire, all billowy and black. Why was it cold?

I saw a man coming and I stopped him because I wanted to know why it was so cold when the sky was burning up. He talked funny and he couldn’t walk straight and he said it was warm and I was crazy if I thought it was cold. I asked him if he was warm.

He said, “I am warm, and don’t bother me because I feel wonderful and I don’t want to lose this feeling.”

I hit him and I took his coat because he was warm and he didn’t need it if he was warm.

I ran fast down the street, and then I knew he was right. It was warm and I didn’t need his coat so I went back to take it to him because he might be cold now. He wasn’t there so I put the coat on the sidewalk in case he came back for it.

Then I ran down the street because it was nice and warm and it felt like springtime and I wanted to run and leap. I got tired and I began to breathe hard so I sat down on the sidewalk. Then I was tired of sitting and I did not want to run anymore so I began looking at the store windows but they were all dark. I did not like them to be dark because I liked to look at the things in the windows and if they were dark I couldn’t see them.

Poor Jeannie.

Her eyes were marbles and she could not see the things in the store windows. Why did God make my eyes out of white jelly and Jeannie’s out of glass? I wondered how she knew me if she couldn’t see me.

It was getting cold again and I swore at the man who had talked funny and couldn’t walk straight. He had lied to me and made me feel warm when it was really cold all along. I lifted my hand up to the light in the street because it was yellow and warm, but I couldn’t reach it and I was still cold.

Then the wet fell out of the sky and I began to run so it wouldn’t touch me. But it was all around me and the more I ran the more it fell. And the noise in the sky was like a dog growling under his teeth, and the lights that flashed were a pale, scary blue. I ran and ran and I was getting tired of running and the wet was making me wet, and the damp was creeping into my head and the dark was behind it the way the dark always was.

The damp pressed on the inside and it pushed outward, and then the dark creeped up and I screamed, and it sounded like the Third Avenue El when it stops going, and I screamed again and it sounded like babies crying, and I punched myself in the face so I would stop the way Jeannie had. But I screamed again and the damp was all in and over my head. The dark was waiting, too.

I screamed because I didn’t want the dark to come in, but I could see it was getting closer and I knew the way the damp always felt just before the dark came in. I hit my face again but the damp was heavy now and it was dripping inside my head and I knew the dark was coming and I ran away from it.

But it was there, and first it was gray like the ocean and then it got deeper like a dense fog and then it turned black and blacker, and the dark came and I knew I was falling, and I couldn’t stop because Jeannie’s eyes were only marbles.

I am lying on a sidewalk in a strange street.

The sun is just rising and the bustle of the day has not yet begun. There is a severe pain in my head. I know I haven’t been drinking, yet where did this terrible pain come from?

I rise and brush off my clothes.

It is then that I notice the blood on my hands and on my shoes. Blood?

Have I been fighting? No, no, I don’t remember any fighting. I remember... I remember... calling on Jeannie.

She did not feel like going out, so we decided to sit at home and talk. She made coffee, and we were sitting and drinking and talking.

How do I come to be in this strange street? With blood on my body?

I begin to walk.

There are store windows with various forms of merchandise in them. There is a man’s overcoat lying in the street, a ragged overcoat lying in a heap. I pass it rapidly.

It is starting to drizzle now. I walk faster. I must see Jeannie. Perhaps she can clear this up for me.

Anyway, the drizzle is turning into a heavy rain.

And I have never liked the darkness or dampness that come with a storm.

Association Test

“Boy,” the psychiatrist said.

“Girl,” the man answered.

“Black,” the psychiatrist said.

“White,” the man answered.

“Mmm,” the psychiatrist said. He jotted some notes down on a sheet of paper, and then said, “All right, Mr. Bellew, let’s go on, shall we?”

Bellew was a thin man with shaggy brown hair.

He twisted his hands nervously and said, “All right, Doctor.”

“Now then,” the doctor said, consulting his notes. “Bird.”

“Free,” Bellow said.

“Did you say ‘tree’?”

“No. No, I said ‘free.’ Free.”

“Um-huh. Knife.”

“Death.”

“Um-huh. Red.”

“Bl...”

“What did you say?”

“Blue. Blue was what I said.”

“I see,” the doctor said. “House.”

“Home.”

“Home,” the doctor said.

“Children,” Bellew answered.

“Children.”

“Kites.”

“Kites,” the doctor said.

“Free,” Bellew answered.

The doctor made a disinterested note, and then looked up. “According to your letter, Mr. Bellew, you’ve been disturbed about something, is that right?”

“Yes,” Bellew said slowly.

“Um-huh.” The doctor reached for the slitted envelope on his desk, and then pulled the letter from it. His free hand picked up a pointed letter opener and idly tapped it on the desk as he read from the sheet of stationery. “It’s curious you should write. I mean, most people call, or stop by in person.”

“I wanted to do that, but I was afraid to,” Bellew said.

“Afraid to?” the doctor asked. He continued tapping the metal letter opener. “Why?”

“I... I don’t like doctors,” Bellew said nervously.

“Oh, come now. Don’t you like me?”

“Well...”

“You did come here, didn’t you? After I called back to arrange for an appointment, you did come, didn’t you? You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Bellew said. “I’m here.”

“And it hasn’t been so terrible, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Just a few tests, that’s all.” The doctor chuckled. “Nothing at all to be afraid of.”

“I suppose not,” Bellew said.

“Then what’s been disturbing you?”

“I don’t know,” Bellew said.

“You don’t like doctors, is that it?”

Bellew hesitated. “Yes,” he said.

“Well, I’m a doctor, and we’re getting along fine, aren’t we?” The doctor smiled and dropped the letter opener. “You do like me, don’t you, Mr. Bellew?”

“I... I don’t know,” Bellew said.

“But we’re getting along fine, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said enthusiastically. “You must admit that.”

“Y... yes,” Bellew said.

“There! You see how your dislike is unfounded?”

“I... oh, I...” Bellew wet his lips.

“What is it, Mr. Bellew?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Now, now. Easy does it,” the doctor said. “Quite frankly, Mr. Bellew, the tests we’ve just taken show no indication of any personality disturbance. I’m speaking off the cuff, you understand, since the tests must still be interpreted. But I can judge fairly accurately from a casual interpretation of your answers, and I’d say you were in the pink of mental health.”

“The... the pink,” Bellow repeated blankly.

“Yes, the pink. Top shape. Excellent form. Oh, a few anxieties, perhaps, but nothing serious.” The doctor chuckled. “Nothing more than all of us are suffering in these nervous times.”

“I... I can’t believe that,” Bellow said.

The doctor lifted his eyebrows. “But the tests...”

“Then the tests must be wrong,” Bellew said firmly.

“No, I don’t think so,” the doctor said patiently. “Really, Mr. Bellew...”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m not disturbed when I know I’m disturbed?”

“There,” the doctor said. “Most seriously disturbed persons don’t even know they’re disturbed. That’s the root of all their troubles. When a person seeks the aid of a psychiatrist, seeks the doctor voluntarily, his battle is half won. Don’t you see?”

“No. You haven’t helped me at all. You’ve just told me I’m all right when I know I’m not all right.”

“I said you may have a few anxieties, but we can clear those up in just a very short time. There’s certainly nothing serious to worry about.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bellew said.

“Well...” The doctor spread his hands wide. “I don’t see how I can convince you.” He paused, a blank expression on his face.

Bellew snorted disgustedly. “You’re all the same,” he said. “All you damn doctors.”

“Now, now, Mr. Bellew...”

“Oh, don’t ‘now, now’ me. All you’re after is a fee, just like the rest. I tell you I’m sick, and you won’t believe it. What the hell am I supposed to do? You just give me your damn tests and ask me to identify inkblots and associate words and... oh, the hell with it.”

“That’s all part of your anxiety, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said. “As I said, we can clear that up in no time.”

“That’s what you say. On the basis of your damn tests,” Bellew said, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“The tests are usually valid, Mr. Bellew,” the doctor said. He paused, and then an inspired look crossed his face. “Say, look, I’ll show you. I mean, I can show you just how normal you are, all right?”

“Go ahead,” Bellew said tightly, his fists clenched now.

“Just give me the first word that pops into your mind when I give you a word. The way we just...”

“We did this already,” Bellew said, a tic starting at the corner of his mouth.

“I know. But I want to show you one thing. Let’s try it, shall we?” He paused and then said, “Boy.”

“Girl,” Bellew said.

“A perfectly normal response,” the doctor said happily. “Girl.”

“Woman,” Bellew said.

“Again, a normal response. Woman.”

“Bed,” Bellew said.

“You see, Mr. Bellew, these are normal responses.” He rose from his desk and began walking around the room. “Bed.”

“Sheet,” Bellew answered.

“Fine, fine,” the doctor said. “Sheet.”

“White.”

“White,” the doctor said.

“Flesh,” Bellew answered.

“Flesh,” the doctor said.

“Blood.”

“All quite normal,” the doctor said, turning his back and examining a picture hanging on the wall. “Flesh and blood, a normal association.”

Bellew rose from his seat and stared at the doctor’s back.

“Blood,” the doctor said, still studying the picture.

“Knife,” Bellew answered. His eyes fled to the desktop, and he reached for the letter opener there, grasping it in firm fingers.

“Knife,” the doctor said wearily.

“Death,” Bellew answered, walking swiftly around the desk and raising the sharp metal letter opener over his head.

“Death,” the doctor repeated softly.

The letter opener sped downward with a terrible rush. It sank between the doctor’s shoulder blades, and Bellew screamed, “Death, death, death, death!” as the doctor sank to the floor.

Bedbug

My wife was watching me again. She pretended to be reading her newspaper, but I knew she was watching me. I could feel her eyes boring through the printed page. She was very clever, and so she kept the paper in front of her face, but she wasn’t fooling me, not anymore she wasn’t.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

I was sitting in the chair opposite her. She had her legs crossed, and I thought what a shame such a pretty girl and with a sickness like that, and the worst kind, the kind they can’t fix, even with all their drugs and their shocks.

“The comics,” she answered.

“Which? Which comic?”

“Pogo,” she said. “Why?”

She was being tricky again. She was always like a defense attorney, always with a comeback, always trying to twist whatever I said. I understand they get clever that way. The minute they get twisted, they start getting clever, too. Only I was just a little bit cleverer than her.

“Why what?” I asked.

“I mean, what difference does it make which comic I’m reading?”

“I thought you might be reading something gory,” I said. I smiled, and she lowered the paper and looked at me curiously, and maybe she suspected I was on to her in that moment.

“Gory?”

“Yes, gory. Death and violence. Something with blood in it. Gory. Don’t you know what gory means, for God’s sake?”

“Of course I know what gory means.”

“Then why did you say it as if you didn’t know what it meant? Were you trying to test me? Were you trying to find out if I knew?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Everybody knows what gory means. I was just surprised that you asked.” She shrugged and lifted the paper again, but I could feel her eyes through the page, watching me, always watching me. I stared at the paper until she lowered it again.

“What’s the matter with you, Dave?” she asked.

I chuckled a little, and then I narrowed my eyes. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” I said.

“You’ve been behaving so... so strangely lately,” she said.

“Maybe I’m just beginning to wise up,” I said.

“I don’t understand you. That’s what I mean, the things you say. They don’t make sense.”

“Does soup make sense?” I asked her.

“What?” She was playing it innocent, as if she didn’t know about the soup, as if she had no idea what I was talking about.

“Soup,” I said. “Soup. What the hell’s wrong with you? Can’t you understand English?”

“Well, what about soup? I don’t understand.”

“The soup last night,” I said. I watched her carefully, my eyes slitted.

“Yes, we had soup last night.”

“No,” I corrected her. “We did not have soup last night. I had soup last night.”

“It was too hot last night,” she said, trying to appear tired, trying to pretend she didn’t know what I was driving at. “Much too hot to be having soup. I just didn’t feel like any, that’s all.”

“But I did, huh?”

“You said you wanted soup.”

“Yes, but that was before I knew you weren’t having any.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I said. I paused and waited to see what she’d say next. She didn’t say anything, so I prompted her. “Were you surprised I didn’t finish the soup?”

“Not particularly. It was a hot night.”

“Yes, but I only had two spoonfuls. Weren’t you surprised?”

“No,” she said.

She was being very cagey now, because we were getting closer to the heart of the matter, and she didn’t like that. I had to go on with what I was doing, but I felt sorry for her at the same time. It wasn’t her fault, her illness, and it was a shame they wouldn’t be able to do anything for her. I felt really sorry.

“But didn’t you wonder why I stopped after only two spoonfuls?”

“Are we back to that damned soup again?”

“Yes. Yes, we are back to that damned soup again. It’s a good thing I have excellent taste buds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My reasons for not finishing the soup. After I tasted it. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Was there something wrong with the soup?”

That I liked. Oh, that I liked. That innocent look on her face, that little small voice, pretending ignorance, pretending the soup was all right.

“No, nothing,” I lied. “Nothing wrong with it at all. There was nothing wrong with the brake lining on the car, either. Nothing that sixty bucks couldn’t fix after I discovered it.”

“Here we go on the brake lining again,” she said.

“You don’t like me to talk about it, do you?”

“We’ve only talked about it for the past three weeks. What the hell is wrong with you anyway, Dave?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me, honey,” I said. “No, nothing’s wrong with me.”

“Then why do you keep harping on things? How did I know the brake lining was shot? How could I possibly know that?”

“Oh no, you couldn’t know,” I said.

“You see? You’re implying that I did know.”

“I’m not implying anything. Stop trying to twist what I say.”

“You had the brakes fixed, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Because I discovered them in time. Like the soup. Just in time.”

“Dave...”

She stopped talking and shook her head, and I felt sorry for her again, but what could I do about it? How could I continue living with her, knowing what I did about her? And how could I turn her over to people I knew could not help her? I loved her too much for that, far too much. I could not bear seeing her waste away, unhelped, curling into a fetal ball, cutting herself off from reality, escaping the world we both knew. But at the same time, I recognized the danger of having her around, watching me, waiting for her chance.

“You watch me all the time, don’t you?” I asked.

“No, I do not watch you all the time. Christ knows I’ve got better things to do than watch you.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“That’s just what I’d like to know, believe me,” she said emphatically.

“I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it. You’re twisting again. You always twist. For Christ’s sake, Anne, can’t you see that you’re all mixed up? These attempts you made on my...”

“Me mixed up? Me?” she said, and sighed heavily.

I got out of my chair and walked toward her.

“Why’d you make those attempts on my life, Anne?” I asked.

“What? What!”

“The poisoned soup, and the...”

“Poisoned soup! Dave, what on earth are you...?”

“...and the brake lining, and that loose step on the basement stairs, and oh, all the other little things. Don’t you think I spotted them all? Don’t you think I’ve known for a long time now?”

She stared up at me, bewildered, and I felt immensely sorry for her again, but I could not see turning her over to people who could not help her, I could not see committing her.

I reached down for her throat and pulled her out of the chair, and her eyes opened wide in fright, and she tried to scream “Dave!” but my hands tightened on her windpipe.

She kept watching me all the while, watching me, her eyes bulging, watching, watching, always watching me while I squeezed all the twisted rottenness out of her head until she went limp at the end of my arms.

I dropped her to the floor and looked at her, and in death she did not look as crazy as a bedbug, but I knew she was, and now she would not be watching me anymore, but at the same time I couldn’t keep myself from crying.

The Merry Merry Christmas

Sitting at the bar, Pete Charpens looked at his own reflection in the mirror, grinned, and said, “Merry Christmas.”

It was not yet Christmas, true enough, but he said it anyway, and the words sounded good, and he grinned foolishly and lifted his drink and sipped a little of it and said again, “Merry Christmas,” feeling very good, feeling very warm, feeling in excellent high spirits.

Tonight, the city was his. Tonight, for the first time since he’d arrived from Whiting Center eight months ago, he felt like a part of the city. Tonight, the city enveloped him like a warm bath, and he lounged back and allowed the undulating waters to cover him. It was Christmas Eve, and all was right with the world, and Pete Charpens loved every mother’s son who roamed the face of the earth because he felt as if he’d finally come home, finally found the place, finally found himself.

It was a good feeling.

This afternoon, as soon as the office party was over, he’d gone into the streets. The shop windows had gleamed like potbellied stoves, cherry hot against the sharp bite of the air. There was a promise of snow in the sky, and Pete had walked the tinseled streets of New York with his tweed coat collar against the back of his neck, and he had felt warm and happy. There were shoppers in the streets, and Santa Clauses with bells, and giant wreaths and giant trees, and music coming from speakers, the timeless carols of the holiday season. But more than that, for the first time in eight months, he had felt the pulse beat of the city, the people, the noise, the clutter, the rush, and, above all, the warmth. The warmth had engulfed him, surprising him. He had watched it with the foolish smile of a spectator and then, with sudden realization, he had known he was a part of it. In the short space of eight months, he had become a part of the city — and the city had become a part of him.

He had found a home.

“Bartender,” he said.

The bartender ambled over. He was a big redheaded man with freckles all over his face. He moved with economy and grace. He seemed like a very nice guy who probably had a very nice wife and family decorating a Christmas tree somewhere in Queens.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Pete. Call me Pete.”

“Okay, Pete.”

“I’m not drunk,” Pete said, “believe me. I know all drunks say that, but I mean it. I’m just so damn happy I could bust. Did you ever feel that way?”

“Sure,” the bartender said, smiling.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Bartenders never drink, I know, but let me buy you one. Please. Look, I want to thank people, you know? I want to thank everybody in this city. I want to thank them for being here, for making it a city. Do I sound nuts?”

“Yes,” the bartender said.

“Okay. Okay then, I’m nuts. But I’m a hick, do you know? I came here from Whiting Center eight months ago. Straw sticking out of my ears. The confusion here almost killed me. But I got a job, a good job, and I met a lot of wonderful people, and I learned how to dress, and I... I found a home. That’s corny. I know it That’s the hick in me talking. But I love this damn city, I love it. I want to go around kissing girls in the streets. I want to shake hands with every guy I meet. I want to tell them I feel like a person, a human being, I’m alive, alive! For Christ’s sake, I’m alive!”

“That’s a good way to be,” the bartender agreed.

“I know it. Oh, my friend, do I know it! I was dead in Whiting Center, and now I’m here and alive and... look, let me buy you a drink, huh?”

“I don’t drink,” the bartender insisted.

“Okay. Okay, I won’t argue. I wouldn’t argue with anyone tonight. Gee, it’s gonna be a great Christmas, do you know? Gee, I’m so damn happy I could bust.” He laughed aloud, and the bartender laughed with him. The laugh trailed off into a chuckle, and then a smile. Pete looked into the mirror, lifted his glass again, and again said, “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.”

He was still smiling when the man came into the bar and sat down next to him. The man was very tall, his body bulging with power beneath the suit he wore. Coatless, hatless, he came into the bar and sat alongside Pete, signaling for the bartender with a slight flick of his hand. The bartender walked over.

“Rye neat,” the man said.

The bartender nodded and walked away. The man reached for his wallet.

“Let me pay for it,” Pete said.

The man turned. He had a wide face with a thick nose and small brown eyes. The eyes came as a surprise in his otherwise large body. He studied Pete for a moment and then said, “You a queer or something?”

Pete laughed. “Hell, no,” he said. “I’m just happy. It’s Christmas Eve, and I feel like buying you a drink.”

The man pulled out his wallet, put a five-dollar bill on the bar top, and said, “I’ll buy my own drink.” He paused. “What’s the matter? Don’t I look as if I can afford a drink?”

“Sure you do,” Pete said. “I just wanted to... look, I’m happy. I want to share it, that’s all.”

The man grunted and said nothing. The bartender brought his drink. He tossed off the shot and asked for another.

“My name’s Pete Charpens,” Pete said, extending his hand.

“So what?” the man said.

“Well... what’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“Glad to know you, Frank.” He thrust his hand closer to the man.

“Get lost, Happy,” Frank said.

Pete grinned, undismayed. “You ought to relax,” he said, “I mean it. You know, you’ve got to stop...”

“Don’t tell me what I’ve got to stop. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Pete Charpens. I told you.”

“Take a walk, Pete Charpens. I got worries of my own.”

“Want to tell me about them?”

“No, I don’t want to tell you about them.”

“Why not? Make you feel better.”

“Go to hell, and stop bothering me,” Frank said.

The bartender brought the second drink. He sipped at it, and then put the shot glass on the bar top.

“Do I look like a hick?” Pete asked.

“You look like a goddamn queer,” Frank said.

“No, I mean it.”

“You asked me, and I told you.”

“What’s troubling you, Frank?”

“You a priest or something?”

“No, but I thought...”

“Look, I come in here to have a drink. I didn’t come to see the chaplain.”

“You an ex-Army man?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in the Navy,” Pete said. “Glad to be out of that, all right. Glad to be right here where I am, in the most wonderful city in the whole damn world.”

“Go down to Union Square and get a soapbox,” Frank said.

“Can’t I help you, Frank?” Pete asked. “Can’t I buy you a drink, lend you an ear, do something? You’re so damn sad, I feel like...”

“I’m not sad.”

“You sure look sad. What happened? Did you lose your job?”

“No, I didn’t lose my job.”

“What do you do, Frank?”

“Right now, I’m a truck driver. I used to be a fighter.”

“Really? You mean a boxer? No kidding?”

“Why would I kid you?”

“What’s your last name?”

“Blake.”

“Frank Blake? I don’t think I’ve heard it before. Of course, I didn’t follow the fights much.”

“Tiger Blake, they called me. That was my ring name.”

“Tiger Blake. Well, we didn’t have fights in Whiting Center. Had to go over to Waterloo if we wanted to see a bout. I guess that’s why I never heard of you.”

“Sure,” Frank said.

“Why’d you quit fighting?”

“They made me.”

“Why?”

“I killed a guy in 1947.”

Pete’s eyes widened. “In the ring?”

“Of course in the ring. What the hell kind of a moron are you, anyway? You think I’d be walking around if it wasn’t in the ring? Jesus!”

“Is that what’s troubling you?”

“There ain’t nothing troubling me. I’m fine.”

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

“I got no home.”

“You must have a home,” Pete said gently. “Everybody’s got a home.”

“Yeah? Where’s your home? Whiting Center or wherever the hell you said?”

“Nope. This is my home now. New York City. New York, New York. The greatest goddamn city in the whole world.”

“Sure,” Frank said sourly.

“My folks are dead,” Pete said. “I’m an only child. Nothing for me in Whiting Center anymore. But in New York, well, I get the feeling that I’m here to stay. That I’ll meet a nice girl here, and marry her, and raise a family here and... and this’ll be home.”

“Great,” Frank said.

“How’d you happen to kill this fellow?” Pete asked suddenly.

“I hit him.”

“And killed him?”

“I hit him on the Adam’s apple. Accidentally.”

“Were you sore at him?”

“We were in the ring. I already told you that.”

“Sure, but were you sore?”

“A fighter don’t have to be sore. He’s paid to fight.”

“Did you like fighting?”

“I loved it,” Frank said flatly.

“How about the night you killed that fellow?”

Frank was silent for a long time.

Then he said, “Get lost, huh?”

“I could never fight for money,” Pete said. “I got a quick temper, and I get mad as hell, but I could never do it for money. Besides, I’m too happy right now to...”

“Get lost,” Frank said again, and he turned his back. Pete sat silently for a moment.

“Frank?” he said at last.

“You back again?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you about something that’s painful to you. Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s...”

“Forget it.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“No. I told you no a hundred times. I buy my own damn drinks!”

“This is Christmas E...”

“I don’t care what it is. You happy jokers give me the creeps. Get off my back, will you?”

“I’m sorry. I just...”

“Happy, happy, happy. Grinning like a damn fool. What the hell is there to be so happy about? You got an oil well someplace? A gold mine? What is it with you?”

“I’m just...”

“You’re just a jerk! I probably pegged you right the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re probably a damn queer.”

“No, no,” Pete said mildly. “You’re mistaken, Frank. Honestly, I just feel...”

“Your old man was probably a queer, too. Your old lady probably took on every sailor in town.”;

The smile left Pete’s face, and then tentatively reappeared.

“You don’t mean that, Frank,” he said.

“I mean everything I ever say,” Frank said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. He studied Pete carefully.

“About my mother, I meant,” Pete said.

“I know what you’re talking about. And I’ll say it again. She probably took on every sailor in town.”

“Don’t say that, Frank,” Pete said, the smile gone now, a perplexed frown teasing his forehead, appearing, vanishing, reappearing.

“You’re a queer, and your old lady was a...”

“Stop it, Frank.”

“Stop what? If your old lady was...”

Pete leaped off the barstool.

“Cut it out!” he yelled.

From the end of the bar, the bartender turned. Frank caught the movement with the corner of his eye. In a cold whisper, he said, “Your mother was a slut,” and Pete swung at him. Frank ducked, and the blow grazed the top of his head. The bartender was coming toward them now. He could not see the strange light in Frank’s eyes, nor did he hear Frank whisper again, “A slut, a slut.”

Pete pushed himself off the bar wildly. He saw the beer bottle then, picked it up, and lunged at Frank.

The patrolman knelt near his body.

“He’s dead, all right,” he said. He stood up and dusted off his trousers. “What happened?”

Frank looked bewildered and dazed.

“He went berserk,” he said. “We were sitting and talking. Quiet. All of a sudden, he swings at me.” He turned to the bartender. “Am I right?”

“He was drinking,” the bartender said. “Maybe he was drunk.”

“I didn’t even swing back,” Frank said, “not until he picked up the beer bottle. Hell, this is Christmas Eve. I didn’t want no trouble.”

“What happened when he picked up the bottle?”

“He swung it at me. So I... I put up my hands to defend myself. I only gave him a push, so help me.”

“Where’d you hit him?”

Frank paused. “In... in the throat, I think.” He paused again. “It was self-defense, believe me. This guy just went berserk. He musta been a maniac.”

“He was talking kind of queer,” the bartender agreed.

The patrolman nodded sympathetically.

“There’s more nuts outside than there is in,” he said.

He turned to Frank. “Don’t take this so bad, Mac. You’ll get off. It looks open and shut to me. Just tell them the story downtown, that’s all.”

“Berserk,” Frank said. “He just went berserk.”

“Well...” The patrolman shrugged. “My partner’ll take care of the meat wagon when it gets here. You and me better get downtown. I’m sorry I got to ruin your Christmas, but...”

“It’s him that ruined it,” Frank said, shaking his head and looking down at the body on the floor.

Together, they started out of the bar.

At the door, the patrolman waved to the bartender and said, “Merry Christmas, Mac.”