Dark Passage by David Goodis Page B

Fellsinger it was friendship. With the old
woman in the candy store it was bad eyesight, because if her eyes
were halfway decent she would have checked his face with that
picture on the front page. And he knew she hadn’t checked it,
because if she had it would have brought a parade of police cars to
the scene of the accident a few blocks away from the candy store.
With Max it was as Max had put, just one of those things. He had to
forget about it, because it didn't matter now and he had to check
off everything that didn't matter. He remembered his wrist watch
and the hands showed him 2: 55.
    The slip of paper came out of his pocket
and he glanced at the address, pushed the paper back in his pocket
and walked faster. In a few minutes he was there. He looked up
along the windows of a dilapidated four-story building. The windows
were dark, except for reflected light from dim street lamps that
showed dirt on the glass. The alley bordering the building was very
black and waiting for him. He walked down the alley.
    The alley branched off to the right at the
rear of the building. He went that way, came to the door. He
touched the door. He touched the knob. He handled the knob, turned
it. He opened the door.
    He went in and closed the door. Weak
greenish light from one of the upper floors came staggering down a
narrow stairway. The place was very old and very ne-glected. Parry
went over to the stairway and let some of the greenish light get on
the wrist-watch dial. The hands said 2: 59. He was on time. He was
all set. He started up the stairway.
    The greenish light didn’t come from the
first floor. It didn’t come from the second floor. It came from a
hanging bulb on the third floor, and it illuminated several of the
mottled glass panels in splintered doors. There was an advertising
specialty company and a firm of mystic book publishers and an
outfit that called itself Excelsior Enterprises. Parry walked down
the corridor. He came to a glass panel that had the words— Walter
Coley. And underneath—Plastic Specialist. A suggestion of yellow
glow came from the other side of the glass. Parry tapped fingers
against the glass.There were footsteps from inside, a trading of
voices. Then more footsteps, and then the door opened, and the taxi
driver stood there. The taxi driver had a half-smoked cigar between
his teeth.
    “How’s it going?” the taxi driver
said.
    “It’s going all right,” Parry
said.
    The taxi driver stepped back. Parry walked
in and the taxi driver closed the door. This room was trying to be
a waiting room. It was nothing more than an old room with a few
chairs and an old rug and sick wallpaper. The yellow glow came from
the other room. The taxi driver went forward, opened the door
leading to the other room, walked in and Parry followed.
    It was another old room. It was very
small. There was a single secondhand barber’s chair from about
fifteen years back. There was a big sink and three glass cabinets
stocked with scissors, knives, forceps and other instruments
de-signed to get through flesh. There was a short thin man, seventy
if he was a day, and his hair was white as hair can be, and his
skin was white kidskin, and his eyes were a very pale blue. He wore
a white sport shirt, open at the throat, and white cotton trousers
held up by a white belt. He looked at Parry's face and then he
looked at the taxi driver. The taxi driver chewed on the cigar and
said, “Well, Walt-what do you think?”
    Coley put a hand to the side of his jaw,
supported his elbow with the other hand. He got his eyes on Parry’s
face again and he said, “Around the eyes, mostly. And the mouth.
And the cheeks. I'm going to leave the nose alone. It's a nice
nose. It would be a shame to break it.”
    “Will I need to come back again?” Parry
asked. “No. I wouldn’t want you to come back again anyway. I'm
taking a big enough chance as it is.” He turned to the taxi driver.
He said, “Sam, I won't need you in here. Go into the other room and
read a