The Moon in the Gutter

7

At ten in the morning the sun was like a big muzzle shooting liquid fire onto the river. Near the docks the big ships glimmered in the sticky heat. On the piers the stevedores were stripped bare to the waist, and some of them had rags tied around their foreheads to keep the perspiration from running into their eyes.

Alongside Pier 17 there was a freighter that had just come in from the West Indies with a cargo of pineapples, and the dock foremen were feverishly bawling orders, spurring the stevedores to work faster. There were some wholesale fruit merchants scurrying around, screaming that pineapples were rotting on the deck, melting away in the heat, while these goddamn loafers took their time and carried the crates as though they had lead in their pants.

Kerrigan and two other workers were struggling with a six-hundred-pound crate when a little man wearing a straw hat came up and shrieked, “Lift it! For God’s sake, lift it!”

They were trying to lift the crate onto a wheeled platform. But on this side of the pier there was a traffic problem. They were surrounded by a jam-up of crates and bales and huge boxes and they had insufficient space to get leverage.

Stooped over, with the crate leaning against their backs, the two stevedores were panting and grimacing while Kerrigan knelt on the planks, his hands under the edge of the crate, trying to coax it onto the platform.

“You morons!” the little man screeched. “That ain’t the way to do it.”

The edge of the crate came onto the platform. The wheels of the platform moved just a little and the crate slipped off. Kerrigan’s hands were under the crate and he pulled them away just in time.

“I told you,” the little man yelled. “You see?”

One of the stevedores looked at the little man. Then he looked at Kerrigan and said, “All right, Bill. Let’s try it again.”

The other stevedore was arching his back and rubbing his spine and saying, “We need more room here.”

The little man shouted, “You need more brains, that’s what you need.”

Kerrigan wiped sweat from his face. He took his position at the side of the crate, pushed a smaller box against the platform to keep it from rolling, and said to the stevedores, “Ready now?”

“All set.”

“Heave,” Kerrigan grunted, and the men braced their backs under the weight of the crate, while Kerrigan strained to work it onto the platform. Again he managed to lift it over the edge, but just then a sliver of rusty metal went stabbing into his fingernail and he lost his hold on the crate. “Goddamnit,” he muttered as the crate fell off the platform and slammed onto the planks of the pier. He stood up and put the injured finger in his mouth and sucked at the blood.

“Go in deep?” one of the stevedores said.

“It’s all right.” Kerrigan winced and took his finger out of his mouth and looked at the torn cuticle. He said, “I guess it’s all right.”

“It don’t look good, Bill. You better have it bandaged.”

“The hell with it,” Kerrigan said.

The little man was hopping up and down and shouting, “What are you standing around for? What about the pineapples? Look at the pineapples. They’re rotting away in the sun.” He beckoned to a dock foreman on the other side of the pier. “Hey, Ruttman. Come here, I want you to see this.”

The dock foreman made his way through a gap in the pile-up of pineapple crates. He was a very big man in his late thirties. His head was partially bald and he had a flattened nose and thick scarred lips and a lot of chin and jaw. His arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder and the hair on his chest was like a screen of foliage in front of the large tattoo, the purple-brown-black head of an African water buffalo.

As Ruttman approached, the little man continued to hop up and down, yelling, “What kind of men you got working here? Take a look at this situation.”

“Easy, Johnny, easy.” Ruttman had a deep, furry voice. He came up to the crate, glanced at the wheeled platform, and then looked at the three stevedores. He said, “What goes on here?”

“We just can’t handle it,” one of them said. “We ain’t got enough space to work in.”

“You’re a liar,” the little man shrieked. “There’s plenty of space. You’re just goofing, that’s all, you’re trying to kill time.”

Ruttman told the little man to go away. The little man started to yelp, claiming that he had a lot of money invested in these pineapples and he’d be damned if he was going to let them get spoiled. Ruttman said the pineapples wouldn’t get spoiled and it would help matters if the little man went away. The little man folded his arms and shouted he was going to stay right here. Ruttman sighed wearily and took a slow step toward the little man. The little man scampered away.

The three stevedores moved toward the crate and Ruttman shook his head, waving them back and saying, “This ain’t no good. We gotta do it another way.” He looked at Kerrigan. “Bring me a chain and a crowbar.”

Kerrigan turned and walked down along the length of the pier, wiping sweat from his face. In the tool shed he found a roll of adhesive tape, and he cut off a strip and slipped it around his torn finger. He came out of the shed carrying the heavy chain and the crowbar. He took a few steps and stopped short and the crowbar fell out of his hand, the chain slipped away from his fingers. He stood motionless, staring at Loretta Channing.

She was sitting at the wheel of the MG. The car was parked on the pier. A few men wearing Panama hats and tropical-weave suits were leaning against the car and it was evident she’d got special permission to come onto the pier.

As Kerrigan stood there, unable to breathe, Loretta waved to him. He could feel the heavy awkwardness of the moment as the men in Panama hats turned to look at him, their faces showing vaguely puzzled smiles.

He told himself to pick up the chain and crowbar and get out of here. But as he reached down, he stiffened again. He was staring at an object in Loretta’s hands. It was a small camera. She had it focused on him.

He straightened, breathing air that seemed to burn. His arms were away from his sides, his hands were clenched, and he didn’t realize he was showing his teeth.

The camera made a clicking sound. It was a very small noise, but in his brain it was amplified. It cracked like a lash hitting him in the face.

He moved toward the MG. He walked very slowly. His head jutted like an aimed weapon. A fruit clerk wearing an apron came into his path and he pushed the man aside, not hearing the whine of protest. The men in Panama hats were moving uneasily as they detected the menace in his approach. Instinctively they got out of his way. But Loretta didn’t move. Loretta sat there at the wheel, smiling at him, waiting for him, the camera held loosely in her hand.

He came up to the door of the MG and pointed to the camera and said, “Give it to me.”

Loretta widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You want it for a gift?”

“All I want is the film.”

The mockery remained on her face. “What will you do with it?”

“I’d like to shove it down your throat.”

The men in Panama hats were swallowing hard and looking at each other. One of them braced himself and tapped Kerrigan on the shoulder and murmured, “No need to take offense, fellow. All the lady did was take your picture.”

“You keep out of it,” Kerrigan said.

The man said, “Now look here, I’m one of the owners of this pier.”

Ignoring the man, Kerrigan reached out toward the camera. But Loretta was faster. She opened the panel of the glove compartment, slid the camera in, and closed the panel.

Kerrigan gripped the door, leaned across the steering wheel, and moved his hand toward the glove compartment. The pier owner grabbed his arm and said, “Just a moment here. Just a moment.”

In the next instant the Panama hat was falling off the pier owner’s head. He was shoved backward, with Kerrigan’s flat hand covering his face. He tripped over a loose plank and sat down very hard and stared up at Kerrigan with his mouth opened wide.

Loretta hadn’t moved. She was smiling at Kerrigan and saying, “I can’t understand why you’re so upset. All I did was take your picture.”

His voice was low and even but it whipped at her. “You want it for a souvenir. You’ll show it to your uptown friends. Picture of a man, stripped almost naked, like something on exhibit in a cage.”

Again he reached for the glove compartment. Loretta sat there quietly, making no move to stop him as his finger found the chromium button. He pressed the button, the panel swung open, and he groped for the camera. His hand closed on it and he pulled it out and at that moment he felt the iron pressure coming down on his arm, gripping him above the elbow and causing him to blink.

He turned his head and saw the face of Ruttman.

“Easy, bud,” the dock foreman murmured. “Easy now.”

“Let go.” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Ruttman held him there.

The pier owner, still hatless, had come forward and was saying to Ruttman, “Throw this man off the dock. Give him his pay and get him out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Ruttman said. He took a deep breath that was like a sigh. “All right, bud. Let’s go.”

Kerrigan didn’t move. He was looking at the faces of the men with the Panama hats. They were smiling at him; they felt safe now. They saw him taken in charge by a larger man, a stronger man, a man who was obviously capable of handling him.

“I said let’s go.” Ruttman’s tone was louder.

But he didn’t hear it. He was staring at the other faces, the faces of the stevedores who’d left the crates and were moving in to see what would happen. Ruttman was the undisputed boss of Pier 17 and there were scores of dock-wallopers who’d tried their best to disprove it, only to get their teeth knocked out, their noses caved in, their jaws broken. All along the docks of Wharf Street the opinion was unanimous: It never paid to trifle with Ruttman.

Kerrigan looked at the face of Ruttman and saw the strength, the quiet confidence, saw the warning that was almost friendly. Ruttman’s eyes seemed to be saying, Don’t force me into it, I really don’t want to hurt you.

And then, as caution was mixed with the reasonable knowledge that he had no complaint against Ruttman, he turned his head, a gesture of submittal. In that instant he saw Loretta smiling at him, a mocking smile.

He let the camera fall way from his fingers, and the back of his hand cracked across her mouth.

It was a hard blow and it sent her head twisting all the way to the side. But he didn’t have time to see what damage he had done, because Ruttman was already hitting him.

Ruttman was smashing him with a straight right that caught him under the eye. He fell back with his arms wide, his feet off the ground. He collided with a crate, bounced away, started to fall, made up his mind he wouldn’t fall, and lunged at Ruttman with his fists flailing.

He found Ruttman’s head with his right hand, staggered Ruttman with another blow to the temple, then came in close and ripped both hands to the body. He heard Ruttman grunting and again he punched to the body, and Ruttman started to double up, falling forward, trying to clinch.

Kerrigan stepped back and hooked a short left to Ruttman’s jaw, followed it with another left to the side of the head, stepping back again and chopping with the right and missing, and then taking a terrible, thundering blow from Ruttman’s right hand. It was a roundhouse smash, a punch that started wide, came in short, exploded on his jaw, and knocked him down.

“That winds it up,” someone said.

Kerrigan’s eyes were closed and he was flat on his back. There was no pain, only the feeling of wanting to stay here and keep sinking into the darkness.

But then he heard a voice saying, “Finished?”

He opened his eyes and looked up and saw Ruttman. He grinned and said, “Not yet.”

Ruttman sighed reluctantly and stepped back, giving him a chance to get up. He got up slowly, now feeling the pain, the grogginess, and it was as though his jaw were bolted to his skull and a wrench were tightening the bolt.

He saw Ruttman walking in to measure him, the right hand taking aim. In Ruttman’s eyes there was no satisfaction. Ruttman came in close, feinted with the left, and threw the right.

Kerrigan moved his head, got away from the big fist, blocked a left that tried to find his ribs, blocked the right coming again toward his jaw, then side-stepped going away from another right. Ruttman grunted, lunged, missed with both hands, lunged again, and missed again as Kerrigan crouched going backward, weaving and dodging, ducking and coming up and then moving away from where Ruttman wanted him to be.

Ruttman’s expression had changed. Now his eyes showed impatience. He took a deep breath and charged at Kerrigan, putting everything he had in an overhand right that whizzed toward Kerrigan’s head. The fist hit empty air and nothing else. Ruttman lost his balance and stumbled and fell to one knee.

Someone laughed.

Ruttman came up fast. He rushed again, his left arm swinging hard. Kerrigan went inside the hook, shot a short right to Ruttman’s belly, used the right again, ripping it to the ribs. Ruttman lowered his hands to protect his midsection, and Kerrigan took a backward step, took aim, and hauled off and smashed a straight right hand to the chin.

He saw Ruttman staggering sideways, the thick arms flailing. The dock foreman struggled to keep his balance, managed to hold on and stay on his feet, moving unsteadily, eyes dull, then bracing himself and coming in again.

Kerrigan was ready. He jabbed with his left, jabbed again and again, finding Ruttman’s nose and mouth. Then another vicious jab that had all his strength behind it, his fist twisting as it landed against Ruttman’s brow. He saw the flaring red streak above Ruttman’s eye, and he sent another left to the same place, that widened the cut.

The dock workers were silent, staring in disbelief as they saw Ruttman taking it and falling backward and still taking it. They were watching the downfall of a man they believed to be invincible. And they didn’t like it.

Kerrigan put another left against Ruttman’s bad eye. Ruttman let out a groan of pain, tried to cover up, and Kerrigan, working very fast now, hooked a left to the head, hooked again to the body, chopped with the right and brought more blood and a couple of teeth from Ruttman’s mouth.

Someone yelled, “Come on, Ruttman! Don’t take it. Go after him.”

“Get him, Ruttman!”

“Knock his brains out!”

As the stevedores shouted encouragement to Ruttman, it was like a heavy weight falling on Kerrigan’s chest. Suddenly he realized he was fighting a man he had no right to fight. He was defeating the man and he hated the idea.

Because the adversary was not Ruttman. The true enemy was sitting there at the wheel of the parked car, her golden hair glimmering, her eyes taunting him.

It was as though she were saying, You’re afraid of me.

He could hear the grinding of his teeth as he realized it was true. He had the feeling of facing a high fence, much too high for him to climb. The fists of Ruttman were coming toward him but it wasn’t important, he didn’t care. He scarcely felt the knuckles that bashed his face. It wasn’t a fight any longer, it was just a mess, a loused-up comedy without any laughs.

Something crashed against his mouth. He tasted blood, but he wasn’t conscious of the taste, or the grinding pain.

He was thinking, You can’t handle her, you know you can’t.

A big fist hit him on the side of the head, sent him falling back. He saw Ruttman moving in for the follow-up, saw Ruttman’s arms coming in like pistons. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even bother to lift his hands.

His head jerked to the side as Ruttman’s right hand caught him on the jaw. Ruttman hit him in the midsection with a short ripping left that caused him to double up, then straightened him with a long left, then another right to the jaw, setting him up now, gauging him, sort of propping him there, and then winding it up and sending it in, a package of thunder that became a flashing, blinding streak of light going up from his chin to his brain. He sailed back and went down like a falling plank and rolled over on his face.

The onlookers stood motionless for several moments. Then a few stevedores moved forward to join Ruttman, who was bending over Kerrigan and muttering, “He’s out. He’s out cold.”

“Is he breathing?”

“He’s all right,” Ruttman said.

They turned Kerrigan over so that he rested on his back. For a few seconds they were silent, just staring at his face.

His eyes were closed, but the men weren’t looking at his eyes. They were watching his mouth.

“He’s smiling,” one of them said. “Look at this crazy bastard. What’s he got to smile about?”

Kerrigan was deep in the soothing darkness and far away from everything, yet his blacked-out brain was speaking to him, smiling and saying derisively, You damn fool.