Street of No Return by David Goodis, Robert Polito Page A

everything to be correct. Exactly in line. It's gotta be that way or there ain't no use talking. So now I want to hear your name."
"They call me Whitey."
"You see, now? You're pulling away from it, you're not telling me correct. I want your real name."
Whitey winced slightly. He told himself it was seven years since he'd used his real name. All the reasons why he'd stopped using it came back to him and hammered at his head and he winced harder. In the instant that his eyes were closed he saw the short and very wide and very longarmed man with the bright-green cap and black-and-purple plaid lumber jacket. Just for that instant and that was all. And then his eyes were open and he was looking at Jones Jarvis. He heard himself saying, "My name is Eugene Lindell."
The colored man sat motionless for some moments and then very slowly raised his head and looked up at the ceiling. "I know that name," he said.
Whitey didn't say anything.
The colored man went on squinting up at the ceiling. "I'm sure I know that name," he said. "I'll be a son of a bitch if I ain't heard that name before."
Then it was quiet and Whitey waited and wondered whether the colored man would remember. The colored man was trying hard to remember, snapping his fingers as though he thought the sound of it would bring back the memory.
Finally the colored man looked at Whitey and said, "Tell me something. We ever meet before?"
"No," Whitey said.
The topaz eyes were narrow. "You sure about that?" Whitey nodded.
"Well, anyway," the colored man said, "I know that name. I swear I've heard it someplace. Or let's see now, maybe I read about it someplace." He was looking past Whitey. He raised a wrinkled finger to his chin. "Let's see," he murmured aloud to himself. "Let's see if we can hit this."
"I ain't important," Whitey said. Something in the way he said it caused Jones Jarvis to look at him, and he added offhandedly, "At least, it ain't important now."
The topaz eyes narrowed again. "Was it important then?"
Whitey looked at the floor.
"Want me to skip it?" the colored man said.
Whitey went on looking at the floor. He nodded very slowly.
"All right," Jones Jarvis said. "We'll skip it. Whatever happened to you long ago ain't none of my business. Only questions I'm privileged to ask are about tonight. I wanna know what you were doing on my property."
"Hiding," Whitey said.
"From who?"
"Police."
"I figured that," Jones said. And then, for the first time, he showed a smile. "Can always tell when a man is hot, even when he's freezing. I took one look and you were hot, really hot."
Whitey pulled his legs from under the blanket and lowered them over the side of the bed. He smiled back at Jones and said, "I'm still hot. I'm hot as hell."
"Don't I know it?" Jones said. "I'm taking your temperature right now. Using two thermometers." And he pointed to his own eyes. Then, leaning back a little, with the squirrel coat unbuttoned to show the toothpick build attired in pale-green flannel pajamas, crossing one skinny leg over the other and clasping his knees, he said conversationally, "Tell me about it."
"It happened about an hour ago," Whitey said. "Or maybe ninety minutes. I'm not really sure."
"Let's check that," Jones said. "I always like to be sure of the time." He reached into a pocket of the squirrel coat and took out a large pocket watch and looked at the dial. "It's one-twenty-six AM.," he murmured. "That help you any?"
Whitey knew he was still under close scrutiny and technical appraisal. He realized that one wrong answer would lose him this hiding place that he needed very badly. The topaz eyes told him to get his answers exactly correct.
He said, "Closest I can come is a little after midnight. Let's say twelve-ten." He smiled openly and truthfully, "That's really the best I can do."
"All right," Jones said. He put the watch back in his pocket. "Where were you at twelve-ten?"
"On a side street not far from here."
"How far?"
"I'd say a coupla blocks."
"What were you doing?"