The Moon in the Gutter

8

They lifted Kerrigan and carried him into the pier office and put him on a battered leather sofa in the dusty back room that was used for infirmary purposes. They splashed water in his face and worked some whisky down his throat, and within a few minutes he was sitting up and accepting a cigarette from Ruttman. He took a long drag and smiled amiably at the dock foreman.

Ruttman smiled back. “Hurt much?” Kerrigan shrugged.

The other stevedores were slowly leaving the office. Ruttman waited until all of them were gone and then he said, “You gave me a damn nice tussle. For a while there you had me going. But all of a sudden you quit cold. Why?”

Kerrigan shrugged again. “Ran out of gas.”

“No, you didn’t. You were doing fine.” Ruttman’s eyes narrowed. “Come on, tell me why you quit.”

“I just lost interest. I got bored.”

Ruttman sighed. “Guess I’ll have to let it ride.” And then, deciding on a final try, “If you’ll open up, maybe I can help you.”

“Who needs help?”

“You do,” Ruttman said. “For one thing, you’re out of a job.”

Kerrigan tried to take it casually, but he felt the bite of genuine panic as he thought of the family’s financial condition. His weekly pay check was the only money coming into the house these days. Of course, there were Bella’s three nights a week as a hat-check girl, but she had the gambling habit, mostly horses, and she was always in the red. So here he was with five mouths to feed and no job and the picture was definitely unfunny.

He made an effort to cheer himself up. “This ain’t the only pier on the river. I’ll go see Ferraco on Nineteen. He’s always got a shortage.”

“No,” Ruttman said. “He won’t hire you. None of them’ll hire you.”

“Why not?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

“You’re blackballed,” Ruttman said. “It’s going down the line already.”

Kerrigan stared down at the uncarpeted floor. He took another drag at the cigarette and it tasted sour.

He heard Ruttman saying, “I’d like to go to bat, but you won’t give me anything to work on.”

He went on staring at the floor. “The hell with it.”

Ruttman let out a huge sigh. “I guess it ain’t no use,” he said aloud to himself. Then, looking at Kerrigan, “Better stay here and rest a while. When you come out, I’ll have your pay check ready.”

The dock foreman walked out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, feeling the dizziness coming again, starting to feel the full hurt of the big fists that had rammed his ribs and his belly and his face. Very slowly he pulled his legs onto the sofa and lay back. He closed his eyes and told himself to fade away for an hour or so.

Just then he heard a footstep, the rustle of a dress. He opened his eyes and saw Loretta Channing looking down at him.

She stood there at the side of the sofa, her hands holding the camera. She wasn’t aiming it, and he saw that her fingers were manipulating a lever and getting the camera open and taking out a small roll of film.

Her face was expressionless as she extended her hand to offer him the film.

He grinned wryly and shook his head.

“Take it,” she said.

“What’ll I do with it?”

“Whatever you wish. You said you’d like to shove it down my throat.”

He went on grinning. “Did I really say that?”

She nodded. Then she stepped back a little, studying him. Her eyebrows were lifted slightly, as though she was seeing something she hadn’t expected to see. He knew she’d anticipated another bitter outburst from him, another display of uncontrollable rage.

He lowered his legs over the side of the sofa, then leaned back, comfortably relaxed. He watched her as she walked across the room and dropped the roll of film into a waste basket. Then she turned and looked at him and she was waiting for him to say something.

He saw the bruise on her lip, and he winced.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said. Then, with the feeling that he had to say more, he added, “I didn’t mean to do it. Just lost my head for a second.” He stood up and moved toward the window that looked out upon the sun-drenched river. His voice was very low, not much more than a husky whisper. “I’m really very sorry.”

It was quiet for a few moments. Then he heard her say, “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you did it.”

He turned and looked at her.

“Yes,” she said. “I know I deserved it. I shouldn’t have come out there on the pier, and I certainly had no right to snap your picture.”

“Why did you do it?”

She opened her mouth to answer. Then she changed her mind and her lips shut tightly. He saw her face go red. She blinked a few times, then looked past him and said, “Whatever my reasons were, it was inexcusable, and I’m very much ashamed of myself.” With an effort she gazed directly at his face. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

For some strange reason he wasn’t able to meet her eyes. He looked at the floor and swallowed hard. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s forget it.”

“I can’t. I want you to know how badly I feel about this. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble. You took a bad beating out there on the dock. And now they tell me you’ve been fired.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, that’s the way it goes. I was looking for grief, so they gave it to me.”

“But it’s all my fault,” she said. And then, in a lower tone, “Won’t you let me make it up to you?”

He looked at her. “How?”

“I know one of the pier owners. I’ll tell him it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll let you keep your job.”

His eyes hardened, and he could feel the cold anger coming. But as he stood there and looked at her, his gaze gradually narrowed and his thoughts became more reasonable. He was thinking, For God’s sake, take it easy. Don’t blow your top again.

She was saying, “All you need to do is say the word. I’ll arrange for an appointment right away.”

He was able to say easily, “You really think it’ll work?”

“I’m sure it will.”

“Well,” he said, “whichever way it goes, it’s damn nice of you to try.”

“Not at all.” Her tone was level. “I’m only doing what I think is fair. All this was my fault and there’s no reason why you should suffer for it.”

He didn’t say anything. He had a relaxed feeling, an awareness that it was happening the way it should happen. Somehow it was as though they were meeting for the first time.

His smile was pleasant. “If I get my job back, it’ll take a load of worry off my chest. You’ll be doing me a big favor.”

She had moved toward a table near the window. She put the camera on the table, then turned slightly and gazed out the window and for a few moments she didn’t reply. Then, very quietly, “Maybe you’ll get a chance to repay it.”

He caught no special meaning from her statement, and he said lightly, “I hope so. It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Well,” she said, moving toward the door, “we probably won’t be seeing each other again.”

“I guess not.”

For a long moment she stood in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were intense, and it seemed she was trying to tell him something that she couldn’t put into words.

Then very slowly she turned and walked out of the room.

Kerrigan moved toward the leather sofa. He felt the weight of heavy fatigue and it had no connection with the battering he’d taken from Ruttman. Nor was it due to the fact that he’d had less than three hours’ sleep the night before. As he lowered himself to the sofa, he realized what an effort it had taken to control his anger and discuss matters calmly. It seemed to him that he’d never worked so hard in all his life...

For hour after hour he slept heavily, oblivious of the loud voices of the stevedores on the pier, the clanging of chains, the thudding of crates against the planks. At a few minutes past five he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder, and he looked up and saw the grinning face of Ruttman.

“The front office just called,” Ruttman said. “They’re putting you back on the job.”

Kerrigan sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and dragging himself away from sleep.

Through a veil he heard Ruttman saying, “I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. That call came from the big boss himself.”

Kerrigan didn’t say anything.

Ruttman was looking at him and waiting for an explanation and not getting any. The dock foreman turned away, started toward the door, then pivoted and stared at the table near the window.

Kerrigan stiffened as he saw what Ruttman was looking at. It was the camera.

“Well, whaddya know?” Ruttman breathed. “She give it to you for a gift?”

Kerrigan shook his head slowly, dazedly. “I didn’t know she left it here.”

Then it was quiet in the room while Ruttman walked slowly to the table and picked up the camera. He looked at it and murmured, “This ain’t no ordinary gadget. If it’s worth a dime, it’s worth fifty bucks. Not the kind of a thing you leave around on tables.”

Kerrigan’s lips tightened. “What are you getting at?”

Ruttman hefted the camera in his hand. He brought it to the sofa and let it drop into Kerrigan’s lap. “It’s like a game of checkers,” he said. “Now it’s your move. You find out where she lives and you take it back to her. That’s why she left it here.”

The anger was coming again and he tried to hold it back but it flamed in his eyes. “The hell with her,” he muttered. “I ain’t running no lost-and-found department.”

“You gotta take it back to her. Think it over and you’ll see what I mean. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be out of a job. Now you’re obligated.”

Ruttman turned and crossed the floor and went out of the room. Kerrigan sat there on the edge of the sofa, his hands gripping the camera. It felt like a chunk of white-hot metal, scorching the skin of his palms.