Уильям Макгиверн: The Darkest Hour

“Steve, this is none of my business, but—” The little Irishman shrugged and smiled uncertainly. “Have you been to see your wife yet?”

Retnick stared at him for a moment or so without any expression on his face. Then he said, “No,” in a cold tight voice and got to his feet. “Take it easy,” he said, and started for the door.

Hammy called after him, “Hey, you didn’t finish your drink, buddy!”

Retnick turned around slowly. “I don’t want it,” he said.

“That’s no way to treat a free drink,” Hammy said, studying Retnick expectantly. “Go on, toss it down.”

Retnick kept a tight grip on his temper; he couldn’t afford trouble with this fool. “You’ve got a point,” he said, and walked to the bar and finished off the drink.

Hammy sauntered toward him then, a little smile touching his big simple face. He was a ponderous bulk of a man, with a chest and stomach that were barrel-like in their proportions. His eyes were small and confident, reflecting the simple trust he held in his own size and strength. He enjoyed the power his huge body gave him over others, and he looked for occasions to exercise it; fighting made him feel brave because he hadn’t the wit to distinguish between strength and courage.

“I guess I’m a little slow,” he said, still grinning amiably. “You’re Steve Retnick, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Retnick said turning again toward the door.

“The big tough copper,” Hammy said, with a different edge to his voice; he was whetting his temper now, waiting pleasurably for it to take charge of his judgment and senses. “The big tough cop who got sent to jail for murder. How was it in jail, copper?”

Retnick said, “It wasn’t good, Hammy.”

Hammy cocked his big head and smiled slightly. “You don’t sound tough any more,” he said. “I guess they softened you up some.” There wouldn’t be any fight, he knew then. This was a big slob whose guts had turned to water in a cell. “You better get going,” he said, leaning against the bar. “I don’t like ex-cops any better than I like cops.”

Retnick hesitated briefly, memorizing the look of Hammy’s big stupid face, the arrogant pose of his body at the bar. “Okay,” he said and walked out. The opening and closing of the door let a rush of cold air into the warm bar; a swarm of snowflakes whirled dizzily across the floor before melting into little black spots of water. Hammy put his head back and began to laugh...

Outside, Retnick turned his collar up against the bitter wind that came off the river. The graceful bulk of a liner loomed directly ahead of him, blacker than the night. He lit a cigarette, cupping his powerful hands about the match, and the small flame glinted on the sharp planes of his face and drew a vivid outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness. Inhaling deeply he waited for his anger to subside; this was a new anger, hot and impulsive, completely alien to the frozen lifeless anger that had been locked inside him for five years. He could control this new anger, subjugate it to a proper place in his plans. The old anger was something else again; that existed of itself, independent of his will or desire. Flipping the match aside he walked uptown and turned into a slum block, where only a few yellow lights winked from the tall old brownstones.

This was an area he had learned by heart; the river first with its slow booming traffic, and then the piers, the switching yards, and the mean tough waterfront streets of the West Side. This was a jungle on the edge of the city and Retnick knew most of its secrets.

Retnick walked east for three blocks, occasionally stopping in the shadow of a car to study the street behind him; but nothing moved in the darkness. In the fourth block he passed the heavy incongruous bulk of St. Viator’s and went up the stone steps of the rectory that adjoined the church. For an instant he hesitated before the stained glass cross that was inset in the frosted pane of the door. Then he rang the bell.

Mrs. Simmons, the white-haired housekeeper, opened the door, and when she recognized him she let out a little cry of surprise and pleasure. “Steve, it’s really you,” she said, as he stepped into the lighted foyer. It was obvious she didn’t know quite what to say after that; she made several false starts, stammering with the excitement of it all, and then said, “Wait, I’ll tell Father Bristow. Just wait, he’s in his study.”

Retnick removed his hat and turned down the collar of his overcoat. Brushing flakes of snow from his shoulders, he glanced about the little room, studying the familiar furniture and pictures. Nothing had been changed here. The Madonna, the Crucifix, the faded carpet and old-fashioned hall-tree mirror, they were all the same, just five years older. Everything was five years older.

A door opened and Father Bristow came down the hall, a warm grin spreading on his round brown face. “Well, well, this is wonderful,” he said, putting both hands on Retnick’s shoulders. “Come on into the study and we’ll celebrate properly.”

The study was a small room at the back of the rectory, cluttered with books and magazines, smelling of wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Retnick shook his head as Father Bristow took a bottle of wine from a tiny closet beside the fireplace.

“Never mind the drink,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to celebrate.”

Glancing at him curiously, Father Bristow saw the cold, dispassionate expression in Retnick’s face. He hesitated a second, and then put the bottle away. “All right, Steve,” he said quietly.

“I’m looking for Frank Ragoni,” Retnick said.

Father Bristow sighed. “I wish I could help you.”

“When did you see him last?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Did he have any message for me?”

“No, he and his wife stopped by after Mass, but he didn’t have anything specific to say about you, Steve. Their oldest boy is being confirmed pretty soon, and that’s what he wanted to see me about.”

Retnick was silent a moment, staring at the priest with cold eyes. “Well, it was a long shot,” he said. “Thanks, anyway.”

“What’s all this about?”

“Six weeks ago I had a letter from Ragoni,” he said. Staring into the fire, Retnick’s eyes narrowed against the small, spurting flames. “He said he knew who killed Joe Ventra.”

The silence stretched out between the two men, straining and tight in the cozy little room. Father Bristow was quite pale. “Joe Ventra,” he said slowly.

“That’s right,” Retnick said. “Well, take it easy, Father.”

“Now wait a minute, Steve,” the priest said, putting a hand quickly on Retnick’s arm. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Ragoni. He’ll tell me who killed Ventra. After that, everything will be simple.”

“Please, Steve. I’m not going to make a sermon, but I want you to listen to me. Everyone knows you didn’t kill Joe Ventra. That’s common knowledge from one end of the waterfront to the other. You were framed. Everyone knows that.”

“That’s right,” Retnick said, with deceptive gentleness. “I was framed. Everybody knew it. The cops knew it, and so did the unions. But that didn’t keep me out of jail. I got thrown off the force as a murderer.” Retnick’s voice thickened as he jerked his arm away from the priest’s hand. “I lived in a cage like an animal for five years,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Sleeping alone, eating what they put in front of me, never moving without rifles pointing at my back. I paid five years of my life for Joe Ventra’s death. Now somebody else is going to pay.”

“Steve, you’re heading for trouble.”

“I want trouble,” Retnick said, staring at him bitterly. “I need it.” And then, because he owed the priest this much, he said, “Forget the guy you remember, Father. The guy who taught boxing to your boys clubs and took the kids on fishing trips up to Montauk. I’m somebody else.”