The Best American Noir of the Century

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.

* * *

Three days later Mike Willard was buried with full military honors and a Marine Corps honor guard at Cavalry Hill Cemetery. I learned from his front-page obituary that his wife died five years earlier and he had a daughter who lived in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. I also learned that Mike had been in the Marines since he was seventeen, stationed in China in the 1930s and in the Pacific in the 1940s, island-hopping, fighting the Japanese. Then after occupation duty and a year in Korea, he pulled embassy duty until he retired. His nickname had been Golden Mike, for in all his years on active duty he’d never been wounded, never been shot or scratched by shrapnel. The newspaper said he’d come home early that day to dig out a magazine clipping to show some friends at the Legion Hall. To settle a bet.

* * *

I kept the strongbox hidden in the attic. Despite the temptation and the worries and the urging, I didn’t open it until that day in May after my college acceptance letter came, followed by a bill for the first year’s tuition. Then I went up with a chisel and hammer and broke open the lock. The wads of money were in there, just as Brad had said, thick as my fist. They were buried under piles of fragile, yellowed letters, some newspaper and magazine clippings, and a few medals. The money was banded together by string, and in the dim light of the attic I wasn’t sure of what I had. I bicycled over to Machias, to a coin shop, and the owner peered over his half-glasses and looked up at me, the money spread over his display case.

“Interesting samples,” he said. He wore a dark green sweater and his hair was white. “Where did you get them?”

“From my uncle,” I lied. “Can you tell me what they’re worth?”

“Hmm,” he said, lifting the bills up to the light. “Nineteen thirties, it looks like. What you have here is Chinese money from that time, what old soldiers and sailors called LC, or local currency. It varied from province to province, and I’d say this is some of it.”

He put the bills back on the counter. “Practically worthless,” he said. I thanked him and rode back to Boston Falls. That afternoon I burned some of the paper money along with my acceptance letter and tuition bill. I didn’t go to college that fall and ended up never going at all.

* * *

My ginger and Jameson is gone and I continue looking out at the stars, watching the moon rise over the hill, Cavalry Hill. And even though it’s miles away, I imagine I can see the white stone markers up there, marking so many graves.

In the end I stayed in Boston Falls and took a job at a bank. I worked a little and now I’m an assistant branch manager. Some years ago I married Carol, a teller I helped train, and now we’re out of Boston Falls, in Machias. It’s just over the line, but I get some satisfaction from getting that far.

Upstairs I still have the old strongbox with some of the money, and though I don’t look at it all that often I feel like I have to have something, something I can tell myself I got from that day we broke into Mike Willard’s house. I have to have something to justify what we did, and what I did. Especially what I did.

After running all that distance home, I stashed the strongbox in the attic, and as I came downstairs my parents came home. Dad patted me on the back and Mom started supper and I thought of the strongbox upstairs and the blood and the acrid smoke and Mike Willard on his back and Brad holding on to his neck like that. I knew no one had seen me. Mom offered me some lemonade and I took it and went to the living room and watched television with my dad, cheering on the Red Sox as they beat the Yankees — all the while waiting and waiting, until finally the sirens went by.

Brad was buried about a hundred feet from Mike Willard a day later. On the day of his funeral, I said I was sick and stayed home, curled up in a ball on my bed, not thinking, not doing anything, just knowing that I had the box and the money.

I put down my empty glass and open the back door, hoping the fresh air will clear my head so I can go back upstairs and try to sleep. Outside there’s a slight breeze blowing in from Boston Falls, and like so many other nights I go down the porch steps and stand with my bare feet cool on the grass, the breeze on my face bringing with it the stench of the mills from Boston Falls. The smell always seems to stick in the back of my throat, and no matter how hard I try I can never get the taste of it out.

1988 JAMES ELLROY SINCE I DON’T HAVE YOU

James Ellroy (1948-) was born Lee Earle Ellroy in Los Angeles. When he was ten years old his mother was murdered; the killer was never apprehended. There were some similarities in the case to the famous murder of Elizabeth Short, known as the Black Dahlia, and both murders obsessed Ellroy for many years. He wrote a fictionalized version of the Betty Short murder, The Black Dahlia (1987), which became a New York Times bestseller, and a memoir of his fifteen-month search for his mother’s killer, My Dark Places (1996). As a young man, Ellroy lived a life of petty crime, alcoholism, and drug use, cleaning up his act in the late 1970s to produce his first novel, Brown’s Requiem (1981); his second book, Clandestine (1982), was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Paperback Original. His first hardcover book, Blood on the Moon (1984), began the Lloyd Hopkins trilogy. The masterly Black Dahlia was the first novel in what Ellroy called the L.A. Quartet, which later included The Big Nowhere (1988), L.A. Confidential (1990), and White Jazz (1992). Two of the books became big-budget movies. L.A. Confidential (1997), a critical and commercial success, was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture. The Black Dahlia (2006), on the other hand, was critically savaged, successfully warning potential audiences away.

Although he later claimed a career change from crime novels to big, ambitious political books, his Underworld trilogy, which he described as “a secret history of America in the mid-to-late twentieth century” — American Tabloid (i995)> The Cold Six Thousand (2001), and Blood’s a Rover (2009) — is heavily spiked with dark crimes and violence. Described as “the American Dostoevsky” by Joyce Carol Oates, Ellroy is arguably the most influential American crime writer of the late twentieth century; his powerful, relentlessly dark prose style of staccato sentences, infused with uniquely American slang that hammers the senses, has been emulated by any number of tough-writing young crime writers.

“Since I Don’t Have You” was first published in A Matter of Crime, volume 4 (1988). It served as the basis for an episode of Showtime’s series Fallen Angels, airing on September 26,1993.

During the postwar years I served two masters — running interference and hauling dirty laundry for the two men who defined L.A. at that time better than anyone else. To Howard Hughes I was security boss at his aircraft plant, pimp, and troubleshooter for RKO Pictures — the ex-cop who could kibosh blackmail squeezes, fix drunk drivings, and arrange abortions and dope cures. To Mickey Cohen — rackets overlord and would-be nightclub shtickster — I was a bagman to the LAPD, the former Narco detective who skimmed junk off nigger-town dope rousts, allowing his Southside boys to sell it back to the hordes of schwartzes eager to fly White Powder Airlines. Big Howard: always in the news for crashing an airplane someplace inappropriate, stubbing his face on the control panel in some hicktown beanfield, then showing up at Romanoff’s bandaged like the Mummy with Ava Gardner on his arm; Mickey C.: also a pussy hound par excellence, pub crawling with an entourage of psychopathic killers, press agents, gag writers, and his bulldog Mickey Cohen Jr. — a flatulent beast with a schlong so large that the Mick’s