Losing Several Lives 
Geary Danihy

Writing in the noir genre means, among other things,
that you’re working in gray areas where right and
wrong are blurred and good intentions are almost
always thwarted by harsh reality. Come to think of it,
that’s not noir, that’s life.
©Copyright 2001
Geary Danihy

“So I hear this banging in the dryer, but I don’t think nothin’ of
it.”
Bert nods, his weak eyes on the road, looking for the right turn
they’re supposed to take. Redwood? Redfern? What the hell. For the
fifth or sixth time he reaches beneath his windbreaker into his shirt
pocket and pulls out the slip of paper. Harry sees him.
“It’s Radburn, for Christ’s sake,” Harry says, shaking his balding
head.
“Yeah. Right.” Bert slips the paper back into his pocket then
drops his hand and adjusts his crotch.
“So anyway,” Harry continues, “I toss in my trousers and one of
them sheets, go to the kitchen and pop a beer. Then I hear this
bangin’ and I think maybe it’s my old lady’s sneakers. She likes to
keep them real clean. Washes them all the time.”
“Yeah,” Bert says, squinting at a street sign as they roll by.
“That’s Hemlock. So, anyway, the bangin’. The buzzer goes off
and I go in there and open the door and there’s this goddam cat,
balled up in the trousers.”
“What cat?” Bert asks, slowing to peer at another sign, the
morning sun bothering his eyes.
“This is it,” Harry says. Bert makes the right. “We’re watching my
daughter’s cat while she’s away. How the hell was I supposed to
know it likes to sleep in the goddam dryer? It’s two eighty-four, by
the way.”
“I know, I know.”
“Just didn’t wancha to have to look at that paper again.” Bert
throws him a dirty look. “So, this cat’s in there and its tongue’s
hangin’ out and its eyes, they’re kinda crossed. Pull in here.”
Bert nods and steers the stolen car to the curb.
“So I reach in and the goddam thing’s hot.”
“The cat?”
“No, the rhinoceros. You listenin’ to me? So I turn on the cold
water in the sink, unwrap my trousers, which are still wrinkled, pull
out the cat and shove it under the water.”
Bert turns to look at him. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t know cats don’t like water. Anyway, it’s like a million
volts shot through it. Its eyes uncross and it lets out this scream like
I was killin’ it, then it goes tearin’ up my arm and takes a flyer off
my shoulder. Damn thing drew blood.”
Bert nods. “Did it get hurt?”
“Dunno. It’s hidin’. I think it’s pissed.”
They get out of the car and stretch. Harry sees Bert check his
watch and smiles. “We’re on time, partner,” he says.
“I know,” Bert says as he rechecks the watch. He lifts his
windbreaker and pulls his trousers up over his gut, then the two
start walking, nodding appreciatively at the manicured lawns and
the gracious old houses set back from the street.
“Smells like lilacs somewhere,” Bert says. Harry sniffs the air.
“Honeysuckle?”
They turn up two eighty-four’s driveway and walk towards an
elegant Edwardian-style house, ogling its towers and turrets. Up on
the porch, Bert checks his watch, then the two of them reach into
their jacket pockets, pull out ski masks and jerk them down over
their heads.
“I hate these goddam things,” Bert says. They blow out surgical
gloves and quickly pull them over their hands.
Guns drawn from shoulder holsters, they nod at each other. Bert
turns to the front door, which he knows is kept unlocked, and turns
the handle. They slip inside. The place smells like old wood and
furniture polish.
They walk down a wide hallway, guns turning as they check
empty rooms, towards music playing in the rear of the house. They
halt outside the kitchen. Bert peeks around the doorjamb, then gives
Harry a nod. He hates this part so he wants to get it done as fast as
possible. They go through the door, guns pointed, screaming.
“Down on the floor, lady!”
A tanned, middle-aged lady with lacquered blond hair drops a
glass of iced tea and screams. Bert rushes up to her and presses the
muzzle of his gun to her temple.
“Down, lady. I said get down.” He looks over at Harry. “Check
the place.” Harry nods and disappears as the woman crumples to
the floor, the skirt of her white tennis outfit fluttering up to reveal
light blue panties. Bert goes down on one knee and points the gun 
at her terror stricken face. “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”
The woman starts moaning, thin hands covering her face. Bert
notices her dark red nails, smooth and metallic, like the side of a
new car.
The woman’s whole body is shaking as moans become sobs.
Enough is enough, Bert thinks. She’s frightened. She’s seen the
guns. He holsters his.
“Look at me, lady.” The woman continues to sob. “I put the
goddam gun away, so look at me.” Harry’s in the doorway and
gives Bert a thumbs up. The woman spreads her fingers and stares
up at Bert. He waves his hands at her.
“See, no gun.” The woman’s eyes dart to the doorway. Harry
makes a big show of sliding his gun back into its holster and
zipping up his windbreaker.
“Let him know we’re in,” Bert says. Harry pulls out a cellular
phone and punches in numbers. Bert looks down at the woman.
“I’m gonna let you get up now, Mrs. Scanlon.” She’s shocked that
he knows her name. “We’re not gonna hurt you, okay?” The woman
stares at him. “Okay?” She nods. “Good. Let’s get you up.” He takes
her elbow and helps her to her feet. She starts to sway and he
supports her.
“We’re gonna be here maybe a half hour, okay? All we want you
to do is answer the phone when it rings and tell your husband that
we’re here with you. That’s it, okay?” The woman stares at him like
he’s speaking Swahili. “Phone, Mrs. Scanlon. You pick it up when it
rings, you tell your husband we’re here and that we’ve got guns, got
it?” She nods.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Bert says, maneuvering Mrs. Scanlon
to a kitchen chair. The woman sits on the forward edge, back rigid.
They all hear a door slam and a female voice.
“Mother?”
Bert and Harry look at each other. The woman jerks to her feet
and Bert grabs her, his hand going over her mouth.
“Quiet, or she gets hurt. Understand.”
The woman nods and mumbles something.
“Mother? You here?” The voice is getting louder. Bert’s hand
muffles Mrs. Scanlon’s yelp as Harry pulls out his gun. Bert tightens
his grip as she struggles.
“I caught the bastard this time,” the female voice announces.
“With a little nineteen year-old nympho he says he was just…” A
petite double of Mrs. Scanlon, dressed in a pink sundress, walks
into the kitchen, sees a ski-masked man holding her mother and
screams. Harry comes up behind her. She whirls, sees the gun, and
faints. Bert’s hand slips from the mother’s mouth
“Veronica!” Mrs. Scanlon yells, shrugs free of Bert’s grip and runs
to where her daughter is stretched out on the Italian tile floor. “You 
bastards!’ She quickly has her daughter’s head cradled in her lap
and is stroking her forehead.
“Ronny?”
“Christ, what now?” Bert says as footsteps hasten towards the
kitchen. A dark haired man in his thirties rushes into the kitchen
and sees mother and daughter on the floor.
“Christ, Ronny, are you…?” Then Bert registers. “What the…?” He
starts to go for Bert and Harry shouts “Don’t!” The man sees Harry’s
gun pointed at him and stops in mid-stride. Bert drives a fist into
the man’s stomach and he doubles over.
“Hit the bastard again!” Veronica yells, eyes now wide open, her
head still cradled in her mother’s lap. Bert shakes his head and
helps the gagging man over to a kitchen chair. The man moans and
vomits, splashing chunks onto the floor.
“Jesus,” Harry says. The phone rings.
“Mrs. Scanlon,” Bert says, motioning towards the ringing phone.
“What’s going on here?” Veronica asks, sitting up.
“Your mother has to answer the phone. Now.” Bert sees the
defiant look on the mother’s face. Bert pulls out his gun and
considers pointing it at the guy who’s still moaning, but thinks
maybe the two females wouldn’t give a shit if he shot him, so he
points the gun at Veronica as the phone continues to ring.
“Answer the goddam phone, lady.”
Harry reaches down, pulls Mrs. Scanlon to her feet and shoves
her towards the wall phone. “Do it, lady,” he growls.
“Mother? What’s happening?”
“Shuddup, Ronny,” Harry says. The young blond bridles.
“Who the hell are you to …” Her attention is diverted as the
young man’s moans grow louder. “Serves you right, you bastard,”
she yells at him over the ringing. “And that’s not half as bad as what
I’m going to do to you, Frank. Your balls, lover boy.”
“Answer the phone, now!” Harry yells at Mrs. Scanlon. “You,” he
adds, pointing his gun at Veronica, “shut up.” Tenth ring. Eleventh.
“Leave her alone,” Frank says, straightening in the chair. Bert taps
him on the top of his head with the barrel. “Keep quiet.” He looks
over at Mrs. Scanlon. “Answer the goddam phone!” The woman
jerks the phone from its cradle.
“Hello?” she says, her hands shaking. “Oh, Bob,” she wails, “these
men are here and …”
“Is that Daddy?” Veronica says, scrambling to her feet.
“Stay put,” Harry warns, grabbing her shoulder.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Scanlon moans, “and Ronny and Frank are here.
They hit Frank and … What?” She frowns. “Who is this?” The
woman nods. She looks at Bert and Harry and points the phone
between them. Harry takes it from her.
“That you? Yeah. Okay. Ten minutes max, right?” Harry nods and 
hands the phone back to Mrs. Scanlon. The woman puts it to her
ear. “Bob …?” The connection has been broken. She returns the
phone to the wall cradle.
“Okay,” Bert says, “everyone at the table.” Harry herds the two
women forward and they sit.
“Are you all right?” Frank asks his wife.
“What do you care?” Veronica says, turning her back to him.
“Christ, Ronny, if you’ll just let me explain, I…”
“What are they doing with my husband?” Mrs. Scanlon asks and
Frank stops talking.
“Nothing, lady. He’s going to give our partner what he wants and
its all gonna be over and everybody’ll be safe.”
“Money?”
“That’s the general idea,” Bert says. He sniffs the air. “Somebody
wanna clean up lover boy’s mess?’ he asks, pointing at the yellowgreen
vomit on the floor. Mother, daughter and husband look at
each other. “I’ll do it,” Frank says and pushes back his chair. He
walks to the sink, bends and opens a door. “Christ!” he yells,
jumping back as something golden and furry leaps out of the
cabinet and streaks by him. Harry fires his gun, the women scream,
and the cat reverses its body in midair, lands and tears past Harry
out through the kitchen door.
“Christ, did you see that,” Harry says. “I didn’t know cats could
do that.” Veronica and her mother are clasping each other’s hands,
sobbing. Frank leans back against the sink, then spins around and
vomits into the basin. The phone rings.
“Up, up,” Harry says, moving to the table and lifting Mrs. Scanlon.
“It’s almost over, lady. Just answer the phone one more time.” He
urges her forward and she picks up the phone.
“Yessss?” she says, stifling a sob. She nods and hands the phone
to Harry.
“You got it? Okay, we’re outta here.” He puts the phone back in
the cradle.
“Listen, everybody,” Bert says. “You done great, really. Now we’re
just gonna tie you up and …”
“You’re not tying me up,” Veronica yells, jumping to her feet.
Frank pushes himself away from the sink, vomit dangling from his
lower lip.
“You touch my wife and I’ll…”
Bert punches him in the stomach and he drops to his knees.
“Leave him alone!” Veronica screams and rushes to her husband,
falling to her knees and placing a protective arm around his shaking
shoulders. “You’re an animal,” she says to Bert.
“We gotta be goin’, partner,” Harry warns.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Bert looks around the kitchen. “What’s in
there?” He asks Mrs. Scanlon, pointing at a door. 
“That’s the pantry,” she says, ice crystals in her voice.
Bert walks to the door and starts to open it.
“Watch out for cats,” Harry says.
“Yeah, yeah.” Bert pulls the door open. Shelves with cans, bags of
flour, jam jars. No window. No cat. He closes the door and turns the
old-fashioned key, then turns the handle. The door doesn’t move.
He unlocks it and throws the door open.
“Okay, everybody in here,” he orders, motioning with his gun.
“I’m not going to…” Mrs. Scanlon starts to protest. Harry waves
his gun in her face.
“Lady, it would be too bad if someone had to get hurt, seein’ as
how it’s almost all over.” The woman gives him a hard stare, then
turns and walks to where her daughter is still supporting her
husband. She bends and touches Frank’s shoulder.
“Can you stand, Frank?” He nods. Veronica helps him get to his
feet and the three of them walk past Bert into the pantry. Bert slams
the door, locks it, pulls out the key and tosses it on the table.
“C’mon,” he says and the two hustle out of the kitchen.
“That ain’t gonna keep them long,” Harry says as they hurry down
the hallway, pulling off their ski masks.
“Doesn’t have to. We’re gone in a minute.” Bert opens the front
door and they’re on the porch. He closes the door and they pull off
their gloves.
“Let’s go,” Harry says. There’s a loud, angry hiss. The goldenhaired
cat is sitting on the porch railing. It arches its back, tail
fattening to twice its size.
“Christ!” Harry says, impressed. They hustle off the porch and
walk briskly down the Scanlon’s driveway.
“I didn’t know cats could do that with their tails,” Harry says as
they hit the sidewalk. Thirty seconds later they’re in the car. Bert
checks the street for traffic, then does a U-turn.
“Goddam cats are amazin’” Harry says as they drive off, observing
the speed limit.
“They’ve got nine lives, you know,” Bert says, tapping the brake
as they approach an amber traffic light.
“Yeah. Ain’t that somethin’?”
Bert makes several turns. They can both feel the tension ebbing.
“His wife’s a bitch, isn’t she,” Harry says.
“Daughter’s not much better. Can’t really blame lover boy, can
you?”
“What’s Scanlon’s cut?”
“Twenty-five.” Bert slows for a stop sign.
“He’s probably got a little lady on the side.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “One without a cat.”