Night Squad by David Goodis Page B

on the loose-boarded fence; then again he peered through the darkness. He made no move to enter the alley. But gradually his features tightened and it seemed he was trying to make up his mind about something.
      Corey breathed very slowly, crouching behind the fence. Through the slit in the boards he studied Kingsley's face and thought, It's sorta like stud poker; the man knows it's his bet and he's figuring the odds. He knows there ain't no hurry; he can take all the time he wants. It amounts to the fence. He's wondering if it's worth the chance to come over here and look behind the fence.
      Sure, he's thinkin' maybe there's nothing behind the fence. And then he's thinkin', maybe there is, and if he makes the move he'll come out second-best. Well, we'll just let him sweat it out. But we hope he decides to play it safe. We don't want no showdowns now. It's a cinch he wouldn't spill anything, not even with the gun pointing at his belly. You read his face, you know he ain't the type to spill.
      What makes you say that? I mean, what do you know for sure? So all right, he tailed you from Grogan's house. But what else do you know about him? Before tonight, you never saw him; you never even heard his name. As it stacks up now, all you know is he wears working clothes and he's married to Lillian. And that's it, that's all—no, wait. There's one more thing—
      I mean Lillian. She's hitched to this big good-lookin' healthy-lookin' man; but she ain't exactly jumpin' for joy. He's got polite manners and a pleasant smile and all that, but you know Lillian; at least you can read her to an extent. And what you read tonight was something on the minus side, something downright dismal.
      Does that tell you anything? Not hardly. You'll just hafta sleep on it. That is, if you get any sleep tonight. The way it looks, it's stalemate and it's gonna stay that way until one of us moves.
      Another minute passed. Then Kingsley turned slowly and faced toward Addison. He moved away from the alley entrance, and Corey heard his footsteps going toward Addison. The sound of the footsteps receded and then faded altogether. Corey waited another few minutes, decided it was all right now and climbed over the fence and headed down the alley toward Third. Some five minutes later he was in his room.
      It was on the second floor of a rooming house a few blocks north of Addison. It was four and a half a week. As he came in, he saw the note from the landlady; she'd slipped it under the door. It stated that he owed thirteen-fifty and she was sick and tired of waiting for it. If she didn't get it before the end of the week she'd toss him out. He reached for his wallet, took out three fives, and folded the note around them, like an envelope. Feeling kindly toward the landlady, he went from the room down to the first floor and put the envelope under her door.
      In bed, wearing only his shorts, he yawned a few times, then felt the sweat dripping down from his brow and his chin, and wished that a breeze would get started somewhere and come through the window. It's an oven in here , he thought, then rolled over on his side and told himself to fall asleep. The damp sheet became damper and he kept changing his position and cursing without sound. Then gradually he drifted into sleep.
      He slept for less than ten minutes. The noise of the knuckles hitting the door woke him.
      He got out of bed and turned on the light. The gun was on the dresser and he picked it up, holding it loosely and looking at it as he heard the knocking again. He said, “Who is it?”
      “Police.”
      “Whaddya want?”
      “Open the door.”
      Corey opened the door, still holding the gun and stepping back as two men walked into the room. They wore plain clothes, both were rather tall, and one was semi-bald. The other was dark-haired and sad-faced, with heavy shadows under