The Best American Noir of the Century

His appearance blended with his voice and manner. He was neat and clean and his hair was nicely trimmed. He had light brown hair parted on the side and brushed flat across his head. His eyes were the same color, focused level when he addressed you, but never too intent, never probing. He looked at you as though he liked and trusted you, no matter who you were. When you looked at him you felt mildly stimulated. He seemed much younger than his thirty-three years. There were no lines on his face, no sign of worry or sluggishness or dissipation. The trait that made him an ideal elevator man was the fact that he never asked questions and never talked about himself.

At twenty past five, Freddy got the go-home sign from the starter, changed places with the night man, and walked down the corridor to the locker room. Taking off the uniform and putting on his street clothes, he yawned a few times. And while he was sitting on the bench and tying his shoelaces, he closed his eyes for a long moment, as though trying to catch a quick nap. His fingers fell away from the shoelaces and his shoulders drooped and he was in that position when the starter came in.

“Tired?” the starter asked.

“Just a little.” Freddy looked up.

“Long day,” the starter said. He was always saying that. As though each day was longer than any other.

Freddy finished with the shoelaces. He stood up and said, “You got the dollar-fifty?”

“What dollar-fifty?”

“The loan,” Freddy said. He smiled offhandedly. “From last week. You ran short and needed dinner money. Remember?”

The starters face was blank for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and nodded emphatically. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared. “I’m glad you reminded me.”

He handed Freddy a dollar bill and two quarters. Freddy thanked him and said good night and walked out. The starter stood there, lighting a cigarette and nodding to himself and thinking, Nice guy, he waited a week before he asked me, and then he asked me so nice, he’s really a nice guy.

* * *

At precisely eight-ten, Freddy Lamb climbed out of the bathtub on the third floor of the uptown rooming house in which he lived. In his room, he opened a dresser drawer, took out silk underwear, silk socks, and a silk handkerchief. When he was fully dressed, he wore a pale gray roll-collar shirt that had cost fourteen dollars, a gray silk gabardine suit costing ninety-seven fifty, and dark gray suede shoes that had set him back twenty-three ninety-five. He broke open a fresh pack of cigarettes and slipped them into a wafer-thin sterling silver case, and then he changed wristwatches. The one he had been wearing was of mediocre quality and had a steel case. The one he wore now was fourteen-karat white gold. But both kept perfect time. He was very particular about the watches he bought. He wouldn’t wear a watch that didn’t keep absolutely perfect time.

The white-gold watch showed eight-twenty when Freddy walked out of the rooming house. He walked down Sixteenth to Ontario, then over to Broad and caught a cab. He gave the driver an address downtown. The cab’s headlights merged with the flooded glare of southbound traffic. Freddy leaned back and lit a cigarette.

“Nice weather,” the driver commented.

“Yes, it certainly is,” Freddy said.

“I like it this time of year,” the driver said, “it ain’t too hot and it ain’t too cold. It’s just right.” He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw that his passenger was putting on a pair of dark glasses. He said, “You in show business?”

“No,” Freddy said.

“What’s the glasses for?”

Freddy didn’t say anything.

“What’s the glasses for?” the driver asked.

“The headlights hurt my eyes,” Freddy said. He said it somewhat slowly, his tone indicating that he was rather tired and didn’t feel like talking.