The Moon in the Gutter

2

Dugan’s den was twice as old as its proprietor, who was past sixty. The place had never been renovated and it retained its original floor and chairs and tables and bar. All the paint and varnish had vanished long ago, but the ancient wood glimmered with a high polish from the rubbing of countless elbows. Yet, aside from the shiny surfaces of the tables and the bar, Dugan’s Den was drab and shabby. It was the kind of room where every timepiece seemed to run slower.

But few of the customers owned watches, and as for the clock on the wall, it wasn’t even running at all. At Dugan’s there was very little interest in time. They came here to forget about time. Most of them were very old men who had nothing to do and no place to go. And some were white-haired women with no teeth in their mouths and nothing in their heads except the fumes of cheap whisky. The specialty of the house was a double shot of fierce-smelling rye for twenty cents.

There was no jukebox and no television set, and the only entertainment came from Dugan himself. He was a skinny little man with only a few strands of hair on his head and he was always whistling or humming or singing off key. It was a habit he’d developed long ago to keep the place from becoming too quiet. Most of the drinkers were not talkers, and when they did talk it was generally a meaningless jumble of incoherencies that made Dugan wish he were in another line of business. Occasionally there was a loud argument, but it seldom grew to anything really interesting. And on the few occasions when they’d throw fists or bottles, Dugan never made a move to stop them. He led a very monotonous life and he could stand to see a little action now and then.

There were only a few patrons at the bar when Kerrigan came in with Nick and Mooney. Behind the bar, Dugan was dozing standing up, with his arms folded and his chin on his chest. Nick banged his fist on the bar and Dugan opened his eyes and Kerrigan ordered three bottles of beer.

“No bottles,” Dugan said. “Ran out of stock late this afternoon. This is a thirsty neighborhood today.”

“I’m a thirsty man tonight,” Mooney stated. “Let’s have it from the tap.”

Dugan filled three big glasses and Kerrigan put money on the bar. Behind the bar there was a dirty mirror and he looked in it and saw a man sitting at one of the tables against the wall on the other side of the room. The man had his head lowered to his folded arms on the table and he seemed to be sleeping. Kerrigan noticed that the man was neatly dressed.

“This beer is warm,” Mooney was saying.

“There’s a shortage of ice,” Dugan said.

“You’re always short of ice,” Mooney complained. “What good is beer if it ain’t cold?”

Dugan looked at Mooney. “Did you come in here to raise an issue?”

“I came in to cool off,” Mooney said loudly.

“Then cool off,” Dugan said. “Just relax and cool off.”

“Might as well be drinking hot soup,” Mooney grumbled. “It’s a damn shame when a man can’t get relief from the heat.”

Through the mirror Kerrigan was studying the huddled figure on the other side of the room. He saw that the man had yellow hair cut short, with some silver showing through the yellow. He told himself to stop looking at the man, and he went on looking at him.

“I’m suffocating,” Mooney was saying. “It’s a goddamn furnace in here. And this beer makes it worse. I feel like I’m melting away to nothing.”

A white-haired gin-drinker raised his head from the glass and looked at Mooney. “Why don’t you walk down to Wharf Street and jump in the river?”

Nick laughed. But Mooney looked thoughtful, and after a moment he said solemnly, “That ain’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.”

Mooney turned away from the bar and started out of the taproom. Nick went after him and pulled at his arm.

“Let go,” Mooney said. “I need relief from this heat and I’m gonna get it if I have to stay in the river all night.”

“It’s a cinch you’ll stay longer than that,” Nick said. “You know you can’t swim.”

“Well, I’ll float.” Mooney released his arm from Nick’s grasp. He continued toward the door. At the door he turned and looked at Nick and Kerrigan. “You coming with me?”

Nick sighed. “I better be there when you jump in. You’ll need someone to pull you out.” He went back to the bar and gulped the rest of his beer. Then he looked at Kerrigan. “You coming?”

Kerrigan wasn’t listening, and Nick repeated it, and then Nick saw that Kerrigan had his mind on something else. He saw what Kerrigan was looking at in the mirror. Nick’s face was expressionless as he watched Kerrigan staring at the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room. Mooney had already made an exit, and after some moments Nick went to the door and opened it and walked out.

Dugan was dozing again, his head down and his arms folded on his chest as he stood behind the bar and hummed a squeaky tune. The white-haired gin-drinker was gazing tenderly at the few drops remaining in the glass. The other drinkers were bent over the bar and looking at nothing in particular. Then the door of the men’s room opened and Frank came out and saw Kerrigan and walked toward him, saying, “What are you doing here?”

Kerrigan took his gaze away from the mirror. He looked at Frank.

“You never come to this place,” Frank said. The corner of his mouth went up and came down and went up again. “Why’d you come here tonight? You don’t hafta put any tracers on me. I know how to take care of myself. What’s your point, anyway? Were you worried how I’d spend your fifty cents?”

“I came here to drink a glass of beer,” Kerrigan said.

“Then why don’t you drink it?”

Kerrigan lifted the glass to his lips and took a long drink. He put the glass down and Frank was still standing there, breathing hard, the mouth still moving in up-and-down spasms. Frank’s eyes were shiny and he was having difficulty standing still.

“What’s the matter, Frank?”

“You see anything the matter?”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“Quit digging.” Frank spoke jerkily, as though he’d been running and was out of breath. “You been watching me lately as if you’re waiting for some kind of flash news. Every time I look at you, I see you watching me. I’m warning you to lay off.”

Kerrigan stood motionless. Frank was moving past him and out of the taproom. He heard a sound that was something like a rumbling roar and it became louder and then he realized it was the dense quiet and stillness that made all the noise. But gradually he was aware of another sound and he concentrated on it, the squeaky little tune that came humming from Dugan’s lips. He tried to stay with the music, tried to think of the words that went with the melody, but while his brain moved in that direction his eyes moved to the mirror that showed the man at the table on the other side of the room.

He turned away from the bar and walked slowly toward the table.

He sat down facing the yellow-haired man, who was still slumped over, head buried in folded arms. For almost a full minute he sat there looking at the man. Then he touched the man’s wrist and said, “Hey, Johnny, wake up.”

“Go away.” The man didn’t look up. He scarcely moved, except to draw back his wrist from Kerrigan’s hand.

“Come on, Johnny. Get with it.”

“Leave me alone,” the man said.

“Don’t you know your old friend Bill?”

The man lifted his head just a little, but his arms still covered his face. He spoke slowly, more distinctly now, measuring his words. “I’m not acquainted with anyone named Bill. And I don’t have any old friends.”

“But this is Bill Kerrigan. You remember Bill Kerrigan.”

“I don’t remember anybody,” the man said. “I don’t like to remember people. All the people I’ve known I’d rather forget.”

“Is it that bad?” Kerrigan wondered if he could really make contact with this man.

“It isn’t bad at all,” the man said. “It’s delightful. It’s positively delightful.”

“What’s delightful, Johnny?”

“The calendar,” the man said. “The calendar with the picture of the girl on it. She wore an ermine wrap and it was unbuttoned and she didn’t have anything on underneath. That’s what I was dreaming about when someone wakes me up and starts calling me Johnny. It so happens my name isn’t Johnny.”

“What was the name of the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the dream.”

“She didn’t have a name,” the man said. “None of them have names. They’re just a lot of telephone numbers. This one didn’t even have a telephone. I like them better when they don’t have telephones. And the ones I like best are the dead ones. The dead ones never come around to bother me, not even in dreams.”

“But you said it was delightful.”

“That’s why it bothers me,” the man said. “It gets too delightful. It gets so damned delightful that it becomes anguish. Maybe I owe you something for breaking up the dream. You want me to buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

The man raised his head. He had a sallow complexion, and his features were fragile and sensitive. The shadows under his eyes were like a dark reflection of what he had in mind most of the time. He was of average height and weight and he looked to be in his early thirties.

He offered Kerrigan a weary smile. “What are you drinking?”

“I’ll have a beer, Johnny.”

The smile became dim and sort of sad. “You still think it’s Johnny?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He got up and went to the bar. Kerrigan watched him as he stood there talking quietly to Dugan. Then he was back at the table with the beer, and a water glass half filled with whisky for himself.

Kerrigan raised his glass. “Good luck, Johnny.”

“There’s no such thing,” the man said. “It’s all bad.” He grinned at the whisky. Then he took a big gulp of it. He had trouble getting it down and he tried to curse while he was coughing and began to choke. He put a stop to that with another gulp. While it went down he had his eyes shut tightly. Then he was grinning again and he said, “You’re lonesome too, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Kerrigan said.

“I’m lonesome all the time.” The man stopped grinning and gazed at the whisky in the glass. “I’ve been everywhere, I’ve done everything, and I’ve known everybody. And what it amounts to, I’m lonesome.”

“Maybe you need a woman,” Kerrigan ventured.

The man didn’t even seem to hear it.

Then it was quiet for some moments and finally the man grinned again and said, “Who are you?”

Kerrigan decided to play it straight. He said, “I’m sorry, mister. I knew I’d never seen you before. It’s just that I wanted company. I’m Bill Kerrigan.”

“And I’m Newton Channing. Ever hear of Newton Channing? Does the name mean anything?”

Kerrigan shook his head.

Channing said, “You know, it means nothing to me, either.”

There was a long silence. Kerrigan took a sip of beer, and then he said, “Where do you live?”

“Uptown,” Channing answered absently. And as he went on talking, it was obvious that his thoughts had nothing to do with what he was saying. “Nice clean neighborhood. Too goddamn clean. Strictly middle-class. House and garage and a lawn in front. I live there with my sister. Just the two of us. She’s a nice girl and we get along fairly well. One night last week she knocked me cold.”

Kerrigan didn’t say anything.

“She’s really a very nice girl,” Channing said. He lifted the glass to his mouth and finished the whisky. Then he got up from the table and went to the bar and came back with another beer and a pint bottle of whisky. Pouring the whisky, he went on in the detached tone, “I was trying to set fire to the house and she used the heel of her shoe on my head. I was out for at least ten minutes.”

“Well, there’s nothing like a happy home.”

Channing filled the water glass to the brim. He lifted the glass very carefully and drank the whisky as though he were drinking water. He consumed more than a third of the glass before he said, “You know, I admire my sister. I really do. Only thing I object to, she has some notion I can’t take care of myself. It makes her maternal. Lately she’s been coming here to pick me up and drive me home.”

“Can’t you make it alone?”

Channing shrugged. “Usually I’m too drunk to handle a car. When that happens, Dugan calls for a taxi. I don’t like to see my sister coming down here. I’d much rather go home in a taxi.”

“It’s a lot safer,” Kerrigan said. “I mean, it’s safer for your sister. After all, this is a rough neighborhood.”

“She doesn’t care about that.”

“The point is,” Kerrigan said, “it’s a very rough neighborhood and it’s especially bad for a woman.”

Channing inclined his head and gave Kerrigan a side glance. “Maybe you’re just sitting here and pulling my leg.”

Kerrigan didn’t reply.

“Something bothers you,” Channing said. “You’re not chatting with me just to pass the time.” He leaned forward, and his gaze was intent. “What’s really on your mind?”

“Nothing special,” Kerrigan said.

Channing drank more whisky. He kept the glass in his hand and stared at it. “Maybe you’re a mugger. Maybe you’re building up to some clever dodge. Like getting me alone somewhere and knocking my brains out and taking my wallet.”

“Could be,” Kerrigan agreed. “In a neighborhood like this, you never know who you’re dealing with. It’s always smart to be careful.”

Channing laughed softly. “My friend, let me tell you something. I don’t give a damn what happens to me.”

Kerrigan watched him as he finished the whisky in the glass and lifted the bottle to pour some more. The glass was filled again and Channing had it almost half empty when there was the sound of a door opening and Kerrigan looked up and saw the woman coming into Dugan’s Den.

She was walking toward the table. She moved slowly, casually, with a certain poise that blended with her face and body. She had a very beautiful face and her figure was slender and elegant. She had long wavy hair and greenish eyes. Her height was around five-four and she appeared to be in her middle twenties.

But he wasn’t thinking about her age. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking. He could feel the tingling fascination of her physical presence and at the same time he was irritated with himself for staring at her.

He didn’t realize that she was returning his stare. Whatever her reaction was, she did a nice job of hiding it. It lasted that way for a few minutes or so, then she was looking at her brother and saying, “All right, Newton. Finish your drink and let’s go home.”

Channing smiled at the whisky glass. “I ought to pay you a salary. What are nursemaids getting these days?”

“It isn’t that kind of job.” Her tone was quiet and amiable. “It isn’t a job at all. I don’t mind it in the least.”

Channing shrugged. “You might as well sit down and have a drink. I’m not ready to go yet. I still have some drinking to do.”

“How much have you had?”

“Very little, really.”

“That means you’ve had almost a quart.”

“It hasn’t hit me yet,” Channing said. “I’ve got to stay here until it hits me.”

“One of these nights it’ll really hit you and you’ll be carried out on a stretcher.” She was looking down at her brother as though examining a curious exhibit. “I’m absolutely certain you’ll wind up in a hospital. Is that what you want?”

“I want you to leave me alone.” He looked up at her, smiling faintly. “I hope it’s not asking too much, but I’d really be grateful if you’d leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “I’m much too fond of you.”

“That’s awfully sweet,” Channing said. He looked at Kerrigan. “Don’t you think that’s sweet? Wouldn’t you say I’m fortunate to have such a nice sister?”

Kerrigan was silent.

He heard her saying, “You’re not polite, Newton. You ought to introduce your friend.”

“By all means,” Channing said. Then, to no one in particular, “Please forgive my bad manners.” He half stood, and waited for Kerrigan to stand. But Kerrigan sat there. Channing shrugged, lowered himself to the seat, and poured more whisky into the glass. Then he went to work on the whisky.

“I’m still waiting,” she said. “I’m waiting for the introduction.”

“Oh, the hell with it.” Channing took a big gulp of whisky. “As a matter of fact, the hell with everything.”

She looked at Kerrigan. She said, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t really mean that. It’s just that he’s drunk.”

“It’s all right.”

She studied Kerrigan’s face. “Please don’t be offended.”

He spoke a trifle louder. “I said it’s all right.”

“Sure it’s all right,” Channing said. “Why shouldn’t it be all right?”

She looked at Channing. “You be quiet,” she said. “Just sit there and drink your whisky and don’t say anything. You’re in no condition to say anything.”

Channing sat up stiffly. He stared off to the side, his eyes focused on nothing. “What do you know about my condition?”

She didn’t bother to answer. She turned to Kerrigan. “May I introduce myself? I’m Loretta Channing.”

“That means a lot to him,” Channing said. “It’s very important that he should know your name. Why don’t you give him your address? Tell him he’s welcome any time. Invite him to dinner.”

She went on looking at Kerrigan.

And Channing said, “He doesn’t think you mean it. You’ve got to make it more sincere. Don’t stand there looking down at him. Sit beside him.”

“I told you to be quiet.”

“Go on, sit beside him. Take hold of his hand.”

“Will you shut your mouth?”

Channing was laughing. “Prove it to him, let him know you’re on the level. Maybe you’ll convince him if you drink from his glass.”

“Maybe I’ll slap your face,” she told Channing. “You’re not too drunk to get your face slapped.”

Channing went on laughing. It was almost soundless laughter and gradually it subsided and became a series of little gasps, more like sobs. He made a grab for the glass and tossed more whisky down his throat. Then he turned so that he faced the wall. He sat there drinking and staring at the wall as though he were in a room alone with himself.

She was looking at Kerrigan, waiting for him to tell her his name.

He swallowed hard. “My name is Kerrigan.” He said it through his teeth. “William Kerrigan. I live right here on Vernon Street. The address is Five-twenty-seven.”

Then he got up from the table, and he was facing her and standing close to her. There was a heaviness on his chest and it caused him to breathe hard.

He said, “Got it straight? It’s five-twenty-seven Vernon.” He was trying to say it calmly and softly, with velvety sarcasm, but his voice trembled. “You’re welcome to visit there any time. Come over some night for dinner.”

She winced and took a backward step. He moved past her and headed for the door and walked out.

As he hit the street he felt better, remembering the way she’d winced. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It offered a little satisfaction. But all at once she faded from his mind and everything faded except the things in front of his eyes, the rutted street and the gutter and the sagging doorsteps of decaying houses.

It struck him full force, the unavoidable knowledge that he was riding through life on a fourth-class ticket.

He stared at the splintered front doors and unwashed windows and the endless obscene phrases inscribed with chalk on the tenement walls. For a moment he stopped and looked at the ageless two-word phrase, printed in yellow chalk by some nameless expert who’d put it there in precise Gothic lettering. It was Vernon Street’s favorite message to the world. And now, in Gothic print, its harsh and ugly meaning was tempered with a strange solemnity. He stood there and read it aloud.

The sound was somehow soothing. He managed to smile at himself. Then he shrugged, and turned away from the chalked wall, and went on walking down Vernon Street.