The Wounded and the Slain Read online

  Raves For the Work

  of DAVID GOODIS!

  “David Goodis is the quintessential hard-boiled writer, someone for whom noir was not just an aesthetic but a way of life.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Surreal, disturbing, frequently brilliant… Nobody does despair like Goodis.”

  — Time Out

  “David Goodis has an originality of naturalism, a creatively compelling vividness of detail.”

  — San Francisco Chronicle

  “Painting noir in the blackest shade Goodis captures the bleak desperation of the urban jungle like no other writer before or since.”

  —Neon

  “A lethally potent cocktail of surreal description, brilliant language [and] gripping obsession… one of the greatest and yet least appreciated American crime writers.”

  —Adrian Wootton

  “No one does existential loners better.”

  — The Herald

  “You’d be hard pushed to find anything outside an actual film script as cinematic.”

  — The List

  “David Goodis is the mystery man of hardboiled fiction… the poet of the losers… if Jack Kerouac had written crime novels, they might have sounded a bit like this.”

  —Geoffrey O’Brien

  “Goodis is always a fun read.” —Library Journal

  “Fast paced… extremely grim.”

  —William DeAndrea, Encyclopedia Mysteriosa

  “Goodis’ characters are… bad-dream Bogarts on the far ledge of existence…A strange world where…there are only two kinds of people… the wounded and the slain.”

  —Mike Wallington

  “Action and thrills!”

  — San Francisco Call-Bulletin

  “Dark, bleak, hopeless…an excellent example of existential post World War Two noir fiction.”

  — The Richmond Review

  “David Goodis explores the criminal psyche, examining neuroses and paranoia like a noir Franz Kafka bedded down with a hardboiled Dostoyevsky. The result is distinctive, original and highly addictive.”

  —Allan Guthrie

  He sat there waiting for someone to serve him a glass of rum.

  On the other side of the room the free-for-all was gaining momentum. It had passed the phase of rum-induced fury; now it was blood-induced. The more blood they spilled, the more they wanted to spill.

  “Come on, I’m thirsty,” Bevan complained. He hit his clenched hands against the wooden surface of the bar. “What’s the matter here? The bartenders on strike?”

  He managed to get to his feet, worked his way slowly and staggeringly across the room, moving through the chaos of all-out combat that enveloped him. He was dimly aware that something hectic was happening, but it didn’t mean anything to his liquor-soaked brain.

  He had to get that drink, and the need for it throbbed in his brain as he gazed around, searching for the nearest exit. He saw the side door at the far end of the bar and started pushing his way toward it, slowly forcing a path through the swarming, seething mass of wild-eyed men. Somehow they had him listed as a neutral, and without giving any thought to it they refrained from banging at him as he made his way toward the side door.

  But there was one Jamaican whose attention had been drawn to the displayed wallet and the thick sheaf of green bills it contained. He detached himself from the whirlpool of battle and his expression was catlike as he followed the drunken tourist toward the exit that led to a dark alley…

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  The WOUNDED

  and the SLAIN

  by David Goodis

  A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

  (HCC-031)

  May 2007

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know

  that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and

  destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the

  publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 1955 by The Estate of David Goodis.

  Copyright renewed. All rights reserved.

  Cover painting copyright © 2006 by Glen Orbik

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical

  means, including photocopying, recording or by any information

  storage and retrieval system, without the written

  permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or

  are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 0-8439-5771-9

  ISBN-13 978-0-8439-5771-6

  Cover design by Cooley Design Lab

  Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

  The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo

  are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are

  selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Raves For the Work of David Goodis

  Excerpt

  Other Hard Case Crime Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Wounded and the Slain Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter N
ineteen

  Back Cover

  THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN

  Chapter One

  At the other end of the bar it was crowded, and at this end he stood alone, drinking a gin-and-tonic. They made a very good gin-and-tonic at the Laurel Rock, but he wasn’t getting any taste out of it. As a matter of fact, he thought, you’re not getting any taste out of anything. And then, as some of us do at one time or another, he played with the idea of doing away with himself.

  You could do it tonight, he thought. This is as good a night as any. There’s some deep water not far from here, the lukewarm water of the Caribbean. All it needs is something heavy tied onto your ankle. But they claim that’s an awkward way to go out, all that choking and gagging and getting all flooded inside, that’s a messy business. Maybe a razor blade is better. You sit in the bathtub and close your eyes so you won’t see it pouring from your wrist, and after a while you just go to sleep. That would be fine, he told himself. You’re certainly due for some sleep. You haven’t had any decent sleep for God knows how long.

  He finished the gin-and-tonic and ordered another. At the other end of the bar they were having a good time, talking pleasantly with some energetic laughter thrown in. He tried to hate them because they were enjoying themselves. He collected some hate, aimed it, and tossed it, then knew right away it was just a boomerang. There was no one to hate but himself.

  And maybe her, he thought. Sure, lets include her. But that wouldn’t be gallant, and you’ve always tried so hard to be gallant. That’s one of your troubles, mister. When it needs trying, it’s no good. This thing they call gallantry should come easy, come natural. But I guess we’re not in that category, he mused. I guess we’re designed for strictly off-the-beam operations, like not being able to sleep, not being able to eat, not being able to do anything except think of what a lousy life it is and how you wish you were out of it.

  All right, he told himself firmly, let’s do it and get it over with.

  He took a step away from the bar, took another step and stopped and shut his eyes tightly. A shudder ran across his shoulder blades and down his arms. He opened his eyes and saw the barman looking at him inquiringly.

  “Are you all right, sir?” the barman asked quietly and courteously.

  He frowned at the dark-skinned West Indian who wore a Piccadilly collar and white tie and spotless white barman’s jacket.

  “Sure I’m all right.” He said it thickly and somewhat rudely. “What makes you think I’m not all right?”

  “I thought you might be ill, sir. For a moment there you seemed—”

  “Now look,” he said to the barman, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the bar, “I’m not intoxicated, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, sir. All I meant was—” “I don’t care what you meant. You’re here to sell drinks, aren’t you?” “Well, yes, sir. But—”

  “Then sell them. Go tend to your customers and leave me alone.”

  “Yes, sir.” The barman nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  “And another thing,” he said to the barman. “I don’t get this ‘sir’ routine. What is this? The goddamn British Navy?”

  The barman didn’t answer. He stood there behind the bar, standing erect and dignified and looking very Afro-British with the Piccadilly collar very white against the darkness of his skin. He was proud of his loyalty to the crown, his status as a citizen of Jamaica, and his job here at the Laurel Bock Hotel in Kingston. His face was expressionless as he waited for the American tourist to make another remark about the British Navy.

  “I don’t like to be called sir,” the American said. “It gets on my nerves to be called sir.”

  The West Indian’s face remained expressionless. “What would you prefer to have me call you?”

  The American pondered for a moment. “Jerk,” he said.

  “I don’t understand that word,” the West Indian said quietly.

  “You would if you knew me.” He gazed past the dark-skinned barman, absently reached for the tall glass, lifted it to his mouth, and finished the remainder of the gin-and-tonic. He handed the empty glass to the barman and mumbled, “Fill it up again.”

  “Are you quite sure you want another?”

  “Hell, no.” The American tourist went on gazing at nothing. “It’s the last thing in this world I want. But the point is, it’s the first thing I require.”

  The barman moved away. The American tourist leaned heavily on the bar. He lowered his head to his folded arms and said to himself, You jerk, you. Oh, you poor jerk.

  His name was James Bevan and he was thirty-seven years old. He had an average build, five-nine and one-fifty, and average-American looks, straight-combed straw-colored hair, gray eyes, medium-length nose, and his complexion was somewhere between country-club tan and business-office yellow. He wore a custom-fitted dark-brown mohair suit made by a Manhattan tailor whose price was never higher than ninety-five dollars, his shirt and tie were from a Fifth Avenue haberdashery that specialized in good quality at fairly reasonable prices, and his shoes were good but not exceptional dark-brown suede. The clothes more or less represented his weekly income and the type of work he did. He was a customer’s man for a Wall Street investment house and he averaged around $275 a week. Usually he was able to save a little of it, but during the past seven months he’d been doing a lot of drinking and buying drinks for strangers and it added up to excessive spending.

  Also, during the past seven months he’d been seeing a neurologist about his inability to sleep and his lack of appetite and of course the drinking. In Manhattan there are a great many neurologists and some of them are rather expensive. This nerve specialist that Bevan had been seeing was definitely expensive, and going there several nights a week had caused a severe strain on Bevans bank account. The neurologist had finally admitted they weren’t getting anywhere, and suggested that Bevan should try some other therapy, like, say, a trip somewhere, a change of atmosphere. Bevan had gone home and told his wife about it, and a few days later he talked to his employer and requested a four-week leave of absence. The employer was more than willing to grant it; he liked Bevan and he’d been worried about Bevan’s condition. He patted Bevan on the shoulder and told him to play a lot of golf and come back with a nice suntan.

  Bevan consulted with a travel agency and they recommended the West Indies, specifically the island of Jamaica. He said that would probably be all right, and they went ahead and obtained seats for him and his wife on a Pan-American DC-6. They also handled the hotel reservations, putting in a call to the Laurel Rock in the city of Kingston.

  The Laurel Rock is quietly elegant and traditional and it has an excellent reputation for food and service and management. It is a fairly large hotel, and the grounds surrounding the yellow-brown building are well kept and include a fine garden and a swimming pool. Altogether the Laurel Rock is a place of refinement and distinctive charm, and it is very popular among American and British tourists visiting Jamaica. The hotel is located on Harbour Street and on one side it faces the water of the Caribbean. On the other three sides the Laurel Rock has a fence that shuts it off from the neighboring dwellings. The neighboring dwellings are rather low in real-estate value. It is only a short walk from the Laurel Rock to the slums of Kingston, and these are among the dirtiest and roughest slums to be found anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. Guests at the Laurel Rock are generally advised not to venture beyond the grounds after dark.

  Since their arrival at the hotel, three days ago, Bevan and his wife hadn’t seen much of Kingston. He was in the bar most of the time, and she stayed in their room, reading or listening to the radio. On their second day he’d asked her if she wanted to go sight-seeing, and she said no. Then this afternoon he’d asked her again and she said no, she didn’t feel like going out. He said it didn’t make sense to stay in the room and they ought to get some sun out at the swimming pool. She said no and he coaxed her and finally she put her hands to her fac
e and groaned, “Oh, leave me alone. Get out of here and leave me alone.” He went out of the room and downstairs to the bar.

  She hadn’t appeared for dinner and he’d juggled the idea of going up to the room and having another talk with her. But talking with her had become an ordeal, and although he wished desperately they could get on the same track and reach some sort of understanding, he sensed it was impossible, he wasn’t up to it. At dinner he’d sat alone at the table and barely nibbled at the juicy rare roast beef that begged to be eaten with gusto. Most of it was left on his plate when he got up from the table and headed back to the bar.

  Now it was getting on toward midnight and he had no idea how many gin-and-tonics he’d consumed. But whatever the amount, it wasn’t enough. He lifted his head from his folded arms and saw the barman coming toward him with the tall glass three-quarters filled, the bubbles of effervescence dancing around the cubes of ice.

  He reached for the glass and was bringing it toward his mouth when he saw her entering the cocktail lounge. She moved toward him like a thin blade of blue-white steel coming in to cut him in half. Here she comes, he thought, gazing dismally at the advancing figure of his wife, and he closed his eyes, wishing he could keep them closed for a long, long time. He was saying to himself, Point One: You can’t stand the sight of her. Point Two: You can’t stand the idea of losing her. Point Three: What in God’s name is the matter with you?

  Then his eyes were open, and as she came up to the bar to stand beside him, he said, “Have a drink?” “No, thank you.”

  “Hungry? I can order you a sandwich.”

  “No,” she said. “But I’d like a cigarette.”