David Goodis - Nightfall

by David Goodis

Copyright 1947 by David Goodis

All rights reserved under Internationaland Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the UnitedStates by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., NewYork, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited,Toronto. This edition published by arrangement with ProvidentNational Bank.

First Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Edition,May 1991

ISBN 0-679-73474-0

nightfall

It was one of those hot sticky nights thatmakes Manhattan show its age. There was something dreary andstagnant in the way all this syrupy beat refused to budge. It wasanything but a night for labor, and Vanning stood up and walkedaway from the tilted drawing board. He brushed past a large metalbox of water colors, heard the crash as the box hit the floor. Thatseemed to do it. That ended any inclination he might have had forfinishing the job tonight.

Heat came into the room and settled itselfon Vanning. He lit a cigarette. He told himself it was time foranother drink. Walking to the window, he told himself to get awayfrom the idea of liquor. The heat was stronger thanliquor.

He stood there at the window, looking outupon Greenwich Village, seeing the lights, hearing noises in thestreets. He had a desire to be part of the noise. He wanted to getsome of those lights, wanted to get in on that activity out there,whatever it was. He wanted to talk to somebody. He wanted to goout.

He was afraid to go out.

And he realized that. The realizationbrought on more fright. He rubbed his hands into his eyes andwondered what was making this night such a difficult thing. Andsuddenly he was telling himself that something was going to happentonight.

It was more than a premonition. There wasconsiderable reason for making the forepst. It had nothing to dowith the night itself. It was a process of going back, and with hiseyes closed he could see a progression of scenes that made himshiver without moving, swallow hard without swallowinganything.

There was a pale blue automobile, aconvertible. That was a logical color, that pale blue, logical forthe start of it, because it had started out in a pale, quiet way,the pale blue convertible cruising along peacefully, the Coloradomountainside so calm and pretty, the sky so contented, all of thisscene pale blue in a nice even sort of style. And then red cameinto it, glaring red, the hood and fenders of the smashed stationwagon, the hard gray of the boulder against which the wrecked carwas resting, the hard gray turning into black, the black of therevolver, the black remaining as more colors moved in. The green ofthe hotel room, the orange carpet, or maybe it wasn't orange--itcould have been purple, a lot of those colors could have been othercolors--but the one color about which there was no mistake wasblack. Because black was the color of a gun, a dull black, acomplete black, and through a whirl of all the colors comingtogether in a pool gone wild, the black gun came into his hand andhe held it there for a time impossible to measure, and then hepointed the black gun and he pulled the trigger and he killed aman.

He took his clenched fists away from hiseyes, opened his eyes and brought himself back to this room.Turning, he saw the drawing board, and it threw an invisible ropetoward him, the rope pulling him in, urging him to get away fromyesterday and stay with now. Because now had him listed as JamesVanning, a commercial artist specializing in the more intricatekind of work that art departments of advertising agencies hand outto proven experts. Tonight he was mixed up with one of the usualrush jobs and the deadline was for tomorrow afternoon. But if hewent to sleep now he could get up early tomorrow and finish theassignment in time to satisfy the art director.

If he went to sleep now. That wasdownright comical. Sleep. As if sleep was something that cameautomatically. As if all he had to do was put his head against thepillows and close his eyes and go to sleep. He laughed withoutsound. He laughed at the picture of himself trying to sleep. Everynight he had a debate with sleep and it was one rebuttal afteranother and it kept on like that until it knocked him out justabout the time when the sun got started. That was hissleep.

He walked into the bathroom and sawhimself in the mirror. Average height but on the husky side. Curlyblond hair and quite a lot of it, so that was no worry. The worrycame in where suggestions of silver showed here and there throughthe blondness. Very little silver, hardly noticeable against gold,but even the little that was there was too much silver for a manonly thirty-three. And the lines under his eyes and around hislips, those lines weren't age. Those lines were ordeal. And evenhis complexion. It still retained considerable South Pacific,specifically Saipan and Okinawa, but the darkness of it was moreshadow than sun. It seemed that there was shadow all over him, allaround him.

More shadow moved in, and he decided tofight it. He took a shower and a shave, he put on a freshly cleanedand pressed palm beach suit. And he was getting his arm through asleeve when he heard the noise from down the hall.

"A cop," a voice said. "Get acop."

Another voice from out there. "What's thematter with you?"

"Get a cop."

Vanning's teeth came together, biting atnothing. He couldn't breathe. He stood there, waiting.

"What are you all excited about? What'swrong?"

"Who's excited? All I want is a drink.Bring me a cop of water."

"Why don't you learn to speakEnglish?"

"Shut opp and bring me a drink ofwater."

From there on it became a typicalhusband-and-wife discussion, the wife yelling for a drink of waterand continuing the yelling after she got it. Vanning used up aminute or so trying to decide whether they were Spanish or Italianor Viennese. He wondered when they had moved in. He wondered aboutall his neighbors. It was a point he made, keeping away from them.Keeping away from everybody.

He told himself to get a move on. Hedidn't know where he was going, but wherever it was, he was in abig hurry to get there.

The heat came in waves, big rollers ofheat wallowing in from all parts of Manhattan and down from a skyof melted asphalt. The heat flowed into Washington Square Park andstayed there despite a sporadic breeze. Vanning remained in thepark only a few minutes. As he left the park, he aimed toward thecorner of Christopher Street and Sheridan Square. There were a lotof lights in that direction, and he figured on a drink or two andmaybe a chat with some unimportant person who would talk aboutunimportant things.

He was crossing a street and turning acorner when a man came up to him and asked for a light. There wereno street lamps in this particular area and Vanning couldn't get agood look at the man. He could see, however, a small figure and amustache and neatly combed black hair. He lit a match and appliedit to the man's cigarette. And in the glow he obtained a fairlycomprehensive view of the face. But it lasted only a moment. Therewas no special reason for analyzing the face.

"Hot night," the man said.

"Terrific."

"I saw some kids diving off the docks,"the man said. "They got the right idea."

"If we did it," Vanning said, "peoplewould call us crazy."

"The trouble with people is they don'tunderstand people."

The man had a pleasant voice and afree-and-easy air, and Vanning told himself there was nothingunusual about the matter. The man merely wanted a light and aminute or so of chewing the rag, and if he was going to startworrying about all these little things he might as well put himselfin a sanitarium.

The man leaned against a building wall.Vanning lit a cigarette for himself. They stood there like a coupleof calm animals in a calm forest. The night was all around them andthe streets were quiet and the heat was dominant.