The Best American Noir of the Century

The bedroom was small and cramped, with neatly labeled cardboard boxes piled on one side of the room and a long bureau on the other, on the other side of the bed. The labels on the boxes read china 34, IWO 45, OCC, and things like that. Brad pointed at the walls, where pictures and other items were hanging. “Look, there’s Mike there, I think. I wonder where it was taken. Guadalcanal, maybe?”

The faded black-and-white picture showed a group of young men standing in a jungle clearing, tired-looking, in uniforms and beards, holding rifles and automatic weapons. There was no name on the picture but I recognized a younger Mike Willard, hair short and ears sticking out, standing off to one side.

I heard a board creak. “Shh!” I said. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah. This is an old house, Monroe.”

“Well, let’s get going,” I said, rubbing my palms against my jeans. They were very sweaty.

“What’s the rush?” Brad said, his eyes laughing at me from behind his glasses. “Old Mike’s down at the Legion, telling the boys how he won the big one back in ‘45. Look here.”

Below an American flag and a furled Japanese flag was a sheathed curved sword resting on two wooden pegs. Brad took it down and slid it out of its scabbard. He ran a thumb across the blade and took a few swings through the air. “I wonder if Mike bought it or got it off some dead Jap.”

By now I was glancing out the window, wondering if anyone could see us. Brad put the sword down and climbed onto the bed. “Hold on a sec,” he said.

The bed was a brown four-poster. Brad reached under the pillows and pulled out a handgun, large and oily-looking. “A .45. Can you believe it? Old Mike sleeps with a .45 under his pillow.”

“Brad, stop fooling around,” I said. “Let’s get the box and go.” But I could tell he was enjoying himself too much.

“Hold it, I just want to see if it works.” He moved his hand across the top of the gun and part of it slid back and forth with a loud click-clack. “There,” he said. “Just call me John Wayne. This sucker’s ready to fire. I might take it with me when we leave.”

He took the gun and stuck it in his waistband, then reached over and pulled a dull gray strongbox with a simple clasp lock from under the bed. My mouth felt dry and suddenly I was no longer nervous. I was thinking of all the money.

Brad rubbed his hands across the box. “Look, partner. In here’s our ticket out.”

Then Mike Willard was at the bedroom door, his face red, and I could smell the beer from where I was standing, almost five feet away. “You!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing in here? I’m gonna beat the crap out of you boys!”

I back-stepped quickly, tripping over the cardboard boxes and falling flat on my butt, wondering what to do next, wondering what I could say. Brad scampered across the other side of the bed, pulling out the gun and saying in a squeaky voice, “Hold it.” Mike Willard swore and took two large steps, grabbing the sword and swinging it at Brad. I closed my eyes and there was a loud boom that jarred my teeth. There was a crash and an awful grunt, and another crash, then a sharp scent of smoke that seemed to cut right through me.

When I opened my eyes, Brad was sitting across from me, the gun in his lap, both of his hands pressed against his neck. He was very pale and his glasses had been knocked off—without them he looked five years younger.

“It hurts,” he said. And then I saw the bright redness seep through his fingers and trickle down his bare arms.

“God,” I breathed.

“I can’t see,” he said. “Where’s Mike?”

I got up, weaving slightly, and saw Mike’s feet sticking out from the other side of the bed. I crawled across the bed and peered over. Mike was on his back, his arms splayed out, his mouth open like he was still trying to yell, but his eyes were closed and there was a blossom of red spreading across his green work shirt. I stared at him for what seemed hours but his chest didn’t move. When I looked up, Brad was resting his back against the bed. Both of his arms were soaked red and I gazed at him, almost fascinated by the flow of blood down his thin wrists. His face was now the color of chalk.

“Wait, I’ll get a towel,” I said.

“No, you idiot. If I take my hands away, I’m dead. An artery’s gone. Listen. Take the box and call an ambulance.”

“I think Mike’s dead, Brad.”

“Shut up,” he said, his teeth clenched. “Just grab the box, hide it, and get help! We’re juveniles — nothing’s going to happen to us! Get going!” I grabbed the box and was out of the house, running through the woods, the strongbox tight against my chest. The air was fresh and smelled wonderful, and I ran all the way home.

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