Night Squad by David Goodis Page A

“Look, I can't talk to you now. Can't be bothered—”

          She tried to close the door but he kept his hand against it. He said, “What happens upstairs?”

          She heaved an exasperated sigh. “If you must know,” she said, “he's getting an irrigation.”

          “A what?”

          “An irrigation,” she said. “A high colonic.”

          Corey thought about that for a moment. The gin he'd consumed was swirling in his head and he heard himself saying, “That ain't what he needs.”

          Lita stiffened. She breathed in through her teeth and made a hissing noise.

          “You know what he needs,” Corey said. “He needs it and he ain't getting it.”

          She studied him. She said, “You've been drinking.”

          “That's right.”

          “You're drunk.”

          “Just a little.”

          She smiled thinly, contemptuously. “You don't amount to much, do you?”

          Corey grinned. “That calls for another drink. You got anything to drink?”

          “You've had enough,” she said. And then, turning away from him, as though he had no importance, no meaning at all, she released her hold on the door. Corey opened it wider and walked in.

          As Corey passed through the vestibule, the East Indian girl made a move toward the open doorway. Corey looked back and saw Lita reach out and grab the girl's wrist.

          “Please no. Please,” the girl said. Lita pulled her away from the door, then kicked the door shut and shoved the girl through the vestibule. The girl bumped into Corey, they both staggered backward into the parlor and the girl fell to her knees.

          Corey bent over to help her up. Lita quickly came in and pushed him aside. The gin was rocking him now and he looked for a place to sit down. He lurched across the expensive Chinese rug and fell into the ebony armchair near the massive bronze Buddha. On the floor around the Buddha there was an overturned jade lamp, the pieces of a broken vase, an ashtray upside down and scattered cigarette stubs and ashes. Corey turned his head and looked at the Buddha, as though expecting some comment from the impassive bronze face. The slit eyes of the Buddha had nothing to offer except the soundless utterance, problems of the earth not mine these days. Am merely an observer.

          We'll go along with that, Corey decided. The gin was throwing left hooks at his senses. He leaned back, his legs sprawled. Through gin-clouded vision he saw Lita and the girl. They were moving around considerably. A chair was knocked over. Then another chair fell over. The girl cringed under Lita's upraised arm.

          “You no can do this,” the girl whined. “You no have right to do this.”

          Lita's arm came down and the girl blocked the blow with crossed open hands. Lita used her other arm and her fist hit the girl on the shoulder. The girl went down on her side, rolled over and got to her feet and dodged another blow. She couldn't dodge the next one. It caught her on the temple and she fell sideways, then landed on the rug sitting down. She sat there weeping softly, her face in her hands. Lita aimed another blow with her fist, then seemed to change her mind and looked around the room, finally focusing on the brass-ornamented fireplace. In a holder there was an intricately carved brass poker, its handle a dragon's head. Lita crossed to the fireplace and picked up the poker and tried the weight of it in her hand. She said to the girl, “Now tell me the truth.”

          “Is like I say before,” the girl wept. She started to get up from the floor. Lita moved quickly with the poker raised high. The girl sat down again and covered her head with her arms.

          “You're a thief,” Lita said.

          “Why you call me a thief? I no take nothing.”

          “Perfume.”

          “What perfume?”