Tom Kromer - Waiting For Nothing

TOM KROMER

Coverand kindle version copyright 2015 by NightHawk Books, Steve W. Chadde, Series Editor.

Waitingfor Nothing was originally publishedin 1935 by Alfred A. Knopf, New York.

Waitingfor Nothing is part of our collection of noir detective, mystery, romancestories, and other largely forgotten books of dusty bookshelves butoften surprisingly well-writtenand always entertaining! Wehope you enjoy them as much as we enjoy making them available onceagain as kindle ebooks.

Eachbook in the series is meticulously reviewed to ensure a qualityreading experience on your kindle device.

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TO

JOLENE

WHO TURNED OFF THEGAS

I tis night. I am walking along this dark street, when my foot hits astick. I reach down and pick it up. I finger it. It is a good stick,a heavy stick. One sock from it would lay a man out. It wouldntkill him, but it would lay him out. I plan. Hit him where the creaseis in his hat, hard, I tell myself, but not too hard. I do not wanthis head to hit the concrete. It might kill him. I do not want tokill him. I will catch him as he falls. I can frisk him in a minute.I will pull him over in the shadows and walk off. I will not run. Iwill walk.

I turn down a side street. This is a betterstreet. There are fewer houses along this street. There are largetrees on both sides of it. I crouch behind one of these. It is darkhere. The shadows hide me. I wait. Five, ten minutes, I wait. Thenunder an arc light a block away a man comes walking. He is awell-dressed man. I can tell even from that distance. I have goodeyes. This guy will be in the dough. He walks with his head up and ajaunty step. A stiff does not walk like that. A stiff shuffles withtired feet, his head huddled in his coat collar. This guy is in thedough. I can tell that. I clutch my stick tighter. I notice that I amcalm. I am not scared. I am calm. In the crease of his hat, I tellmyself. Not too hard. Just hard enough. On he comes. I slink fartherback in the shadows. I press closer against this tree. I hear hisfootsteps thud on the concrete walk. I raise my arm high. I mustswing hard. I poise myself. He crosses in front of me. Now is mychance. Bring it down hard, I tell myself, but not too hard. He isunder my arm. He is right under my arm, but my stick does not comedown. Something has happened to me. I am sick in the stomach. I havelost my nerve. Christ, I have lost my nerve. I am shaking all over.Sweat stands out on my forehead. I can feel the clamminess of it inthe cold, damp night. This will not do. This will not do. Ivegot to get me something to eat. I am starved.

I stagger from the shadows and follow behind thisguy. He had a pretty good face. I could tell as he passed beneath myarm. This guy ought to be good for two bits. Maybe he will be goodfor four bits. I quicken my steps. I will wait until he is under anarc light before I give him my story. I do not have long to wait. Hestops under an arc light and fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette. Icatch up with him.

Pardon me, mister, but could you help ahungry man get

You goddam bums give me a pain in the neck.Get the hell away from me before I call a cop.

He jerks his hand into his overcoat pocket. Hewants me to think he has a gun. He has not got a gun. He is bluffing.

I hurry down the street. The bastard. The dirtybastard. I could have laid him out cold with the stick. I could havelaid him out cold with the stick, and he calls me a goddam bum. I hadthe stick over his head, and I could not bring it down. I am yellow.I can see that I am yellow. If I am not yellow, why am I shaking likea leaf? I am starved, too, and I ought to starve. A guy withoutenough guts to get himself a feed ought to starve.

I walk on up the street. I pass people, but I letthem pass. I do not ding them. I have lost my nerve. I walk until Iam on the main stem. Never have I been so hungry. I have got to getme something to eat. I pass a restaurant. In the window is a roastchicken. It is brown and fat. It squats in a silver platter. Theplatter is filled with gravy. The gravy is thick and brown. It dripsover the side, slow. I stand there and watch it drip. Underneath itthe sign says: All you can eat for fifty cents. I lickmy lips. My mouth waters. I sure would like to sit down with thatbefore me. I look inside. It is a classy joint. I can see waitressesin blue and white uniforms. They hurry back and forth. They carryheavy trays. The dishes stick over the edge of the trays. There aregood meals still left in these trays. They will throw them in thegarbage cans. In the center of the floor a water fountain bubbles. Itis made of pink marble. The chairs are red leather, bordered inblack. The counter is full of men eating. They are eating, and I amhungry. There are long rows of tables. The cloths on them are whiterthan white. The glassware sparkles like diamonds on its whiteness.The knives and forks on the table are silver. I can tell that theyare pure silver from where I am standing on the street. They shine sobright. I cannot go in there. It is too classy, and besides there aretoo many people. They will laugh at my seedy clothes, and my shoeswithout soles.

I stare in at this couple that eat by the window.I pull my coat collar up around my neck. A man will look hungrierwith his coat collar up around his neck. These people are in thedough. They are in evening clothes. This woman is sporting a satindress. The blackness of it shimmers and glows in the light that comesfrom the chandelier that hangs from the dome. Her fingers are coveredwith diamonds. There are diamond bracelets on her wrists. She isbeautiful. Never have I seen a more beautiful woman. Her lips arered. They are even redder against the whiteness of her teeth when shelaughs. She laughs a lot.

I stare in at the window. Maybe they will know ahungry man when they see him. Maybe this guy will be willing to shellout a couple of nickels to a hungry stiff. It is chicken they areeating. A chicken like the one in the window. Brown and fat. They donot eat. They only nibble. They are nibbling at chicken, and they arenot even hungry. I am starved. That chicken was meant for a hungryman. I watch them as they cut it into tiny bits. I watch their forksas they carry them to their mouths. The man is facing me. Twice heglances out of the window. I meet his eyes with mine. I wonder if hecan tell the eyes of a hungry man. He has never been hungry himself.I can tell that. This one has always nibbled at chicken. I see himspeak to the woman. She turns her head and looks at me through thewindow. I do not look at her. I look at the chicken on the plate.They can see that I am a hungry man. I will stand here until theycome out. When they come out, they will maybe slip me a four-bitpiece.

A hand slaps down on my shoulder. It is a heavyhand. It spins me around in my tracks.

What the hell are you doin here?It is a cop.

Me? Nothing, I say. Nothing,only watching a guy eat chicken. Cant a guy watch another guyeat chicken?

Wise guy, he says. Well, Iknow what to do with wise guys.

He slaps me across the face with his hand, hard. Ifall back against the building. His hands are on the holster by hisside. What can I do? Take it is all I can do. He will plug me if I doanything.

Put up your hands, he says.

I put up my hands.

Wheres your gat? he says.

I have no gat, I say. I neverhad a gat in my life.

Thats what they all say, hesays.

He pats my pockets. He dont find anything.There is a crowd around here now. Everybody wants to see what isgoing on. They watch him go through my pockets. They think I am astick-up guy. A hungry stiff stands and watches a guy eat chicken,and they think he is a stick-up guy. That is a hell of a note.