Street Of No Return by David Goodis

Author:David Goodis
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-12-13T19:09:42.682000+00:00

7

He told himself he wasn't quite ready to be killed. His brain snatched at ideas and found one that seemed plausible. The lazy smile came onto his lips and he said, "Got a cigarette?"

It stopped them for just a moment. They looked at each other. The one with the knife was medium-sized and in his early twenties. He wore a bandage around his forehead and it was bloodstained and there was a wide gash of dried blood under his nose, slanting down past the corner of his mouth. The other Puerto Rican was about five-three and very skinny. He looked to be in his middle thirties and there were ribbons of baldness showing through his slickeddown jet-black hair. His left eye was puffed and almost closed and under it the cheekbone was swollen and shiny purple.

"Please," Whitey said. "I need a cigarette."

Again it stopped them. They didn't know what to make of it. The taller one came in very close to Whitey held the knife up in front of his eyes and said, "You see thees? You know what thees is for?"

Whitey went on smiling past the blade. "You ain't even got a cigarette?

"You keed me? You make fun?"

"I'm dying for a smoke," Whitey said.

"You dying, period," the little one said. He spoke with a less pronounced accent than the other Puerto Rican. "You gonna die right now, you know that?"

"Die?" Whitey told himself to blink a few times. "What for?"

"For damn good reason," the little one said. "You hate Puerto Ricans, we hate you. You want us dead, we want you dead."

"Me?" Whitey pointed to himself. "You mean me?"

"Yes, you," the little one said. "You're one of them."

"One of what? Whatcha talking about?"

"Hoodlum gang," the taller one said. "Americano sonsabeeches. Make trouble for us. Start riots. So what eet is, we fight you. We fight you to the end. You hear?"

Whitey shrugged. "I ain't fighting nobody. Crissake, I'm in trouble enough as it gets."

"Trouble?" The little one moved in closer. His eyes narrowed. "What you mean? What trouble?"

"Police," Whitey said. "They're looking for me." He shrugged again. "They claim I killed a policeman."

"Yes?" The little one looked Whitey up and down. "You did that, eh? That makes me interested, you know? I think I know you from someplace." He nudged the broken bottle against Whitey's chest. "Keep talking."

"They took me to the station house," Whitey said. "I--"

"Wait," the little one interrupted. "What station house?"

"Thirty-seventh District."

"On Clayton Street? Captain Kinnard?"

"Yes," Whitey said.

The little one turned to the other Puerto Rican and said something in Spanish. Then he faced Whitey and his eyes were very narrow. "Tell me. When this happen?"

"Tonight," Whitey said.

Again the little one looked at his partner and spoke in Spanish. He spoke rapidly and somewhat excitedly and then he turned back to Whitey and said, "All right, we check this. We check it real careful. What happens at the station house?"

"It was jammed," Whitey said. "They'd brought in a flock of prisoners and everything was all bolixed up.

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