Уильям Макгиверн - The Darkest Hour

“It’s late, Joe,” Amato said gently.

Lye picked up his black overcoat from a chair, nodded jerkily at them and walked out the door. Amato was silent, smiling faintly, as he heard the faint whine of the descending elevator.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked him.

“Never mind.” He dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand. “It’s morning. No time to be drinking.”

“I’m glad you stayed,” she said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time now.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

She smiled nervously and lit another cigarette. “Joe would be furious with me for this,” she said. “I may be wrong—” She drew a deep breath and tried to meet his eyes directly. “Why do you nag him about the time he spent in jail? Don’t you realize how it upsets him?”

“It bothers him, eh?” Amato said slowly.

“You must realize that it does,” she said. “I know it’s a joke, a form of masculine humor that I don’t understand perhaps, but it upsets him terribly. I’m sure you don’t mean it seriously, but that needling about the death cell and his prayers, it’s on his mind day and night.”

“It’s no joke,” Amato said smiling. “I’m looking for information. What was he praying for? That’s all I want to know.”

“If you won’t be serious there’s no point discussing it.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Amato said. He smiled at her but his eyes were narrowed and cold. “Maybe you can tell me what he’s praying to? You know him pretty well. How comes he prays when he’s ready to die? To what does he pray? To who?” He swept an arm around the room, flushing with a sudden anger. “You think those are funny questions? Well, I’ll tell you. You like dough, eh? You give me some sensible answers to them questions and I’ll load you down with more dough than you ever seen in one lump before. If there’s a God, then the prayers make sense. Ain’t that right? But if there isn’t a God, what’s the use of praying?” Amato turned away from her and shook his head irritably. For a moment he was silent, staring at the floor. “It’s no time to be talking about it,” he said.

“We never settle arguments about religion and politics, do we?”

“I wasn’t talking about religion. I was talking about God.”

She knew he was serious but his fears struck her as irrelevant and slightly comical; there were so many things to fear in life that she hadn’t found time to fear God.

“How come you got mixed up with Joe?” he asked her bluntly.

“That isn’t a very graceful way to put it, Mr. Amato.”

“You need him, I guess. How long would you last without his dough?”

“With excellent managing, about three months.”

He grinned at her. “And then what? Back to the movies?”

“Naturally,” she said. “Or television or the theater. It would be simply a matter of picking or choosing.” Her voice broke and she turned away from him quickly. “My agent still sends me Christmas cards,” she said. “Isn’t that an encouraging sign?”

“I could do more for you than Joe,” he said. “You’re no kid. You need things solid and secure. Joe Lye is one of six hundred guys who do what I tell him. He’s nothing.” As her expression remained unchanged he made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Well, how about it?” She managed a smile and said, “I think it’s dear of you to flatter me this way.” This was safe ground. She had been maneuvering with middle-aged men for twenty years, and she could handle them with ease. It was a simple problem, unrelated to her fear of hunger and age, her terror of Joe Lye’s nightmares and the small black gun he carried in his pocket. “I’ll make you that drink now,” she said.

“I want a yes or no,” he said stubbornly.

“Very well,” she said. “Before anything else I want to be your friend. Do you understand what I mean?” This was a tested armor, she knew, short, ambiguous questions put very earnestly and thoughtfully.

“Forget the drink,” Amato said dryly. He knew she was telling him no, tactfully but finally, choosing Lye ahead of him. And she didn’t have to strain to make the decision, he thought with bitter humor. His proposition had struck her as foolish. He was a fat little peasant in her eyes, one of the anonymous people who tugged at their caps when she passed them by. When everything was quiet again, he thought, when the trouble with Retnick was over, then he’d think about fixing her and Lye. He said good-by without looking at her and left the room.

The ringing phone woke Retnick and he sat up in the darkness and fumbled for his watch on the table beside the bed. The illuminated hands stood at six-thirty. He heard Mrs. Cara’s door open, and then the cautious murmur of her voice. She knocked on his door a second or two later. Retnick crossed the floor and turned the knob. He had been dozing only a few minutes — except for a coat and tie he was fully dressed.

“It’s a call for you,” Mrs. Cara said.

Retnick nodded his thanks and went down the hall and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Steve Retnick?” It was a girl’s voice, low and intense.

“That’s right.”

“This is Dixie Davis.” She laughed but the sound of it was all wrong. “I... I’m scared, I guess. That’s why I called. You gave me your number, remember? A million years ago, I guess.”

“Take it easy,” he said.

“I got a call just a few minutes ago. It was a man and he said he had dialed the wrong number. But it scared me. He hung up right away. It’s so quiet here. The whole building is like a tomb. It’s — nerves, I know. Isn’t that right?”

“Did you call the police?”

“What for?” she said nervously. “I... I just wanted to talk to somebody, that’s all. I know you think I’m no good, but a few minutes’ talk won’t corrupt you.”

“I’ll call the cops,” Retnick said. “Now listen: lock your door and sit tight. Don’t open up for anyone but a police officer. Watch the street from your windows and you’ll see the squad arrive. Understand?”

“You think I’m in trouble?”

“Why take chances? Keep that door locked, remember.”

“All right, sure.”

Retnick broke the connection and dialed the police board. He asked for the precinct which covered Dixie’s neighborhood, and was put through to a Lieutenant Mynandahl. When he explained what the trouble was the lieutenant said, “All right,” in an unexcited voice. “We’ll send a car over to look into it. You say she heard a prowler?”

“That’s right.”

“We’ll check it.”

Retnick returned to his room, picked up his hat and coat, and left the house. It was black outside, and the streets were empty and cold. He headed for the avenue at a run, knowing that his chances for a cab were slim at this hour. He waited five minutes at the intersection, his collar turned up against the wind, until a cruiser turned off a cross-town street and pulled up for him. Retnick gave the driver Dixie’s address and told him to hurry...

An empty, black-and-white squad car was pulled up before her building with the motor turning over smoothly. As Retnick paid off his driver he heard the metallic sound of the police radio, and the flat, businesslike voice of the announcer listing routine details and instructions. It was a comforting sound in the darkness and silence.

He went into the small foyer breathing more easily; the cops had got here ahead of him which meant there had been a very brief time-lag between her call and their arrival. Hardly time for anything to happen... Then he saw that the inner door stood slightly ajar and that the jamb had been worked on with a jimmy; splinters of torn wood gleamed whitely in the overhead light. Retnick hesitated, feeling the quickening beat of his heart. The cops might have forced their way in, which meant she hadn’t answered their ring...