Free David Goodis: Five Noir Novels of the 1940s and '50s (Library of America) by David Goodis

“I got a better idea for you. Let me take you over to the Bridge. You can jump off and it’ll be over in no time.”
    “The Bridge?”
    “Sure. All you gotta do is step off and you faint on the way down. It’s like going to a painless dentist.”
    “I’m young,” Parry said, again talking aloud to himself. “There’s a lot of years ahead of me.”
    “Why spend them in Quentin?”
    “What else can I do?” Parry asked.
    “I want to know something,” the driver said. “Did you really bump her off ?”
    “No.”
    “That’s not the way I figure it,” the driver said. “I figure she made life miserable for you and finally you lost your head and you picked up that ash tray and slugged her. I know how it is. I live with my sister and my brother-in-law. They get along fine. They get along so fine that once he threw a bread knife at her. She ducked. And that’s the way it goes. Maybe if your wife ducked there wouldn’t be any trial, there wouldn’t be any Quentin. But that’s the way it goes. You want a smoke?”
    “All right,” Parry said. He accepted a cigarette and a light.
    The driver filled his lungs with smoke, sent the smoke out through the side of his mouth. He said, “Let me find out something, just to see if I got it right. What was she like?”
    “She was all right,” Parry said. “She wasn’t a bad soul. She just hated my guts. For a long time I tried to find out why. Then it got to a point where I didn’t care any more. I started going out. I knew she was going out so it didn’t make any difference. We hardly ever talked to each other. It was a very happy home.”
    “What made you marry her in the first place?”
    “The old story.”
    “I almost got roped in a couple times,” the driver said.
    “If you find the right person it’s okay,” Parry said.
    Then they were quiet for a while. They sat there blowing smoke. After a time the driver said, “Where we going?”
    “I don’t know,” Parry said. “What should I do?”
    “You won’t listen.”
    “I’ll listen,” Parry said. “I want ideas. That’s what I need more than anything else. Ideas. Look, I didn’t kill her. Why should I go back to San Quentin and stay there the rest of my life if I didn’t kill her?”
    The driver shifted his position so that he faced Parry directly. He beckoned to Parry. He said, “Come up a few inches. Let’s see if he can do anything with your face.”
    “Who?”
    “A friend of mine.” The driver was studying Parry’s face. The driver said, “This guy’s good. He knows his stuff.”
    “What would he want?”
    “What do you have?”
    “A thousand.”
    “To spend?”
    “No,” Parry said. “A thousand’s all I have.”
    “He’d take a couple hundred.”
    “What would he want afterward?”
    “Not a cent. He’s a friend of mine.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Nothing.” The driver got paper and a stub of pencil from an inside pocket and he was writing something.
    “How long will it take?” Parry asked.
    “Maybe a week if he doesn’t touch your nose. I’ve seen him work. He’s good. I don’t think he’ll touch your nose. I think he’ll fix you up around the eyes. But you can’t stay there. You got a place to stay?”
    “I think so,” Parry said.
    The driver handed Parry a slip of paper. Parry folded it and put it in his coat pocket.
    “I’ll call him tonight,” the driver said. “Maybe he can do it tonight. Maybe I better call him right now. You got the cash with you?”
    “Yes, but I’m not sure about tonight. Let’s work it this way—you call him and say there’s a good chance I’ll be there at two in the morning. Or better make it three. Are you sure this guy’s okay?”
    “He’s okay as long as he knows you’re okay. That good enough?”
    “I’ll gamble,” Parry said. “How do I get in?”
    “It’s an old building on Post. One of them dried-up places filled with two-by-four offices. He’s got his office on the third floor. There’s an