Peter Rabe - The Box

Quinn suddenly threw the bottle. He threw the bottle because a new figure had showed at the bottom of the stairs and startled him. The bottle hit the first Arab’s arm and the man gave a gasp. He staggered enough to get entangled with his friend. Turk rushed past Quinn now, knife field low.

When Quinn got halfway down the steps the two Arabs were scrambling, or falling-it was hard to tell which-back down to the bottom. One lost his knife, the other was holding his arm. Turk was over them and the third man stood there, too. They were talking again when Quinn got there. Then the man with the rag around his head made a hissing sound and Turk pulled his knife out of him.

Quinn sat down on the bottom step, head between his knees, and threw up. When he looked up again only Turk was there and he was smoking.

“Better?” he said.

“Gimme a cigarette.”

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“Just gimme.”

Turk gave him one and explained, “Remal sent somebody for the girl right away It was stupid of you to take her to Whitfield’s house. Remal figured as much. But no matter.”

“Huh?”

“She had no tongue. Did you know that?”

Quinn put his head down again but nothing else came up.

“I didn’t know it either or I would have told you. Anyway, here we are.”

“What else happened?”

“I sent a man with you. All the time. A friend of mine. Didn’t you know this?”

“No.”

“You cut his face. It’s too bad, but then you didn’t know.”

“Who was the dead man in the street, the first one?”

“One of the three that Remal sent after you. He waited for you, he had seen you, but then the one whom you later cut, my friend, killed him there. It was very unfortunate that you hurt him.”

“You should have told me.”

“Yes. Would you like a drink?”

“And the two who came up these steps, they were Remal’s men?”

“Yes. One is dead, the other, you saw, is with us now.”

“And the one at the bottom of the steps, that last minute?”

“Another friend of mine. He and Remal’s man are now cleaning up.”

“Huh?”

“The dead must be disposed of. Everything will be much more quiet that way.”

Quinn threw the cigarette away and thought, yes, how nice and quiet.

“Except when Remal finds out,” he said.

“On the contrary. What does Remal gain by making a noise over something he already knows? He will soon know that you are not dead, that two of his men are dead and he has lost another.”

“Yes. Good old reasonable Remal. Now he’s scared and won’t lift a finger anymore. I’m sick laughing,” Quinn said.

“You need a drink,” said Turk.

“Where is Remal now?”

“He is busy. He has to attend to the boat.”

“What else? Naturally. Must attend to inventory.”

“You need a drink,” Turk said again.

“And Whitfield slept through it all?”

“I told you Whitfield knows how to live within limitations.”

Quinn nodded and got up from the steps. He felt shaky and hollowed-out. He steadied himself by the wall for a moment and took a few deep breaths. He thought how he had started out on this walk and where he had been going. I was going to her house, but just as well. She probably would have been asleep. And of course going to her house would have meant ignoring everything else. And that can’t be. That can’t he any more.

“Turk,” he said. “I’ve got to plan something now. Find a place where we won’t be disturbed.”

They walked off.

At this point Quinn had just about everything back that he had ever had.

Where the main street ended and the quarter began there was also a dirt road which went down to the water. They went down to the water, past the rocks, and sat in a black shadow. Only the night sky seemed to have light. Turk said nothing because he was waiting and Quinn said nothing because he was trying not to think. I’ll start with the first thing that comes to my mind “I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

Turk didn’t know yet what that meant, but the voice he heard next to him in the dark was hard and impersonal. It was impersonal with an effort and Turk felt uneasy.

“I told you once I’d help you to a slice of Remal if you helped me.”

“I know. I remember.”

“You came through and now I’ll come through. Except for this.”

Turk bit his nail and wished he could see Quinn’s face.

“I want a slice, too,” said Quinn. “I really want to carve me one out now.”

Turk grinned in the dark, grinned till his jaw hurt. He was afraid to make a sound lest he interrupt Quinn or disturb him in any way.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes! I see it. I can see how…”

“You don’t see a thing. Now just talk. Tell me everything that goes on with this smuggling operation. And don’t be clever, just talk.”

Turk went on for nearly an hour. Where the girls came from and where they went. It was, Quinn found out, a fairly sparse business and needed connections which he could not make in a hundred years. He learned about the trade in raw alcohol, black market from American bases, and how it left here and then was handled through Sicily. And watches which one man could carry and make it worth while. And inferior grain, sold out of Egypt.

None of the operations were very big and there wasn’t one which was ironclad. Remal, with no competition and with his thumb on a lethargic town, ran matters in a way which looked sloppy to Quinn-unless Turk told it badly-and ran them, for the most part, pretty wide open.

Quinn smoked a cigarette and thought of chances. He thought business thoughts about business and once he thought of Remal who was an enemy. But he stuck mostly to business.

Taking a slice here or there was ridiculous. Remal would hit back. But to roll the whole thing over, and then leave Remal on the bottom “Stuff leaving here goes mostly to Sicily?”

“Yes. Not tonight. Tonight there are just the women, and they go just up the coast. And the silk…”

“Never mind.” Quinn picked up a pebble. “Does Remal run the Sicily end, too?”

“Oh no. He never goes there. Sometimes the Sicilian comes here.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. He sees Whitfield. Sometimes Remal.”

This could mean anything. It could mean Remal runs the show at both ends, or the Sicilian comes down with instructions for Remal, or he comes just to coordinate. Turk didn’t know. Quinn couldn’t tell.

“Is it important?” said Turk.

It is most likely, thought Quinn, that the two ends are run independently.

“Remal ever send anybody over there?”

“No, he never does.”

And put that together with the Sicilians and their reputation in a business like this-It is likely, thought Quinn, that they’re bigger at the other end.

“Now tell me again about the alcohol. All the details,” said Quinn. “You mentioned something about tonight.”

“Yes. Tonight he went down…”

“But there’s no alcohol going out tonight, you said.”

“I know. I said twice a month, like tonight. Remal goes down to the warehouse to see about the alcohol in cans. It comes in by truck and goes out by boat.”

“Does it come in tonight?”

“No, it comes in and goes out, all in the same day. Tomorrow.”

“Then what’s Remal doing down there tonight?”

“To send the driver out to the pick-up point. Remal always counts the empty cans, and when the truck comes back the next day he counts the full cans or has Whitfield count them. And he gives instructions to the driver, about little changes in plan.”

“What kind of changes?”

“Little changes, like time and place and so on.”