Уильям Макгиверн - The Darkest Hour

Father Bristow said, “Couldn’t this wait, Lieutenant?”

“I think so,” Neville said.

Anna Amato suddenly shook her fists in the air, sensing that in some way the sanctity of her grief had been violated. “This is a house of death,” she cried, staring at Neville and Retnick with burning eyes. “I wait for my son. I know nothing of my husband. I know nothing except that my son is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Neville said gently. “Let’s go, Steve.”

“Wait a minute,” Retnick said, staring at Amato’s wife with bitter eyes. “You don’t know anything, eh? Nobody knows anything about Nick Amato. They don’t see anything, hear anything, or say anything.”

“Steve!” Father Bristow said sharply.

“It’s time you learned something then,” Retnick said, still staring at Amato’s wife. “Your son didn’t commit suicide. Joe Lye killed him. And Nick Amato gave the orders. That’s why the cops are here now.”

A stocky man in a black suit swore softly and surged against Retnick, but he might as well have tried to knock down a brick wall with his fists. Retnick shoved him halfway across the room with a blow of his arm. He was breathing slowly and heavily; a bursting pain filled his breast as he stared into the horror in Anna Amato’s eyes. “Now you know something,” he said thickly.

The room was still as death as Anna turned slowly and awkwardly to Neville. She strained for breath as her eyes searched his face. “Is that true?” she said in a dry whisper. “You say this, too?”

Neville looked away from her and wet his lips. Anna wheeled with a cry of pain and caught Father Bristow’s arm in her hands. “They lie, they lie,” she said in a sharp loud voice. “Tell me they lie.”

“Sit down, Anna,” Father Bristow said. “There will be time for this later.” He stared coldly at Retnick. “This isn’t the time for it. Not now. Not in this house.”

Anna turned slowly from him, her lips trembling with silent words. Then she sat down heavily and began to shake her head from side to side. “No one says he lies,” she muttered. “No one says he lies.”

“I’m not lying,” Retnick said, forcing the words out with an effort. “I said I know nothing,” Anna said, smiling softly and emptily. “But it isn’t true. For thirty years I watch and see, I listen and hear. I know everything.”

Retnick turned sharply and walked to the front door. Outside, in the cold darkness, he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and then ran the back of his hand over his forehead. The men who had been standing in front of the house were gone; the street was empty and silent. Retnick breathed deeply but he couldn’t seem to get enough air. His anger was gone, everything seemed to be gone, and he felt nothing but a cold, draining impotence...

It was a few minutes later when Father Bristow came out of the house and walked slowly down the stairs. He looked at Retnick and said, “Did you have to do it that way, Steve?”

“It had to be done,” Retnick said. “So I did it.”

“She’ll never get over it,” Father Bristow said.

Retnick glanced at him and it was then the priest saw the change in his eyes. “Neither will I,” Retnick said. “Doesn’t that make us even?”

Father Bristow sighed and said quietly, “I just don’t know, Steve.”

Neville came out a little later. He said, “She wasn’t kidding when she said she knew something. Amato’s on the run. He left here half an hour ago. And she knows where he’s running to. I’ll call the district from the car and get some help. Good night, Father.”

As Neville stepped on the starter of his car a police squad turned into the block and roared toward them under full power.

“I’ll see what’s up,” Neville said. He stepped from the car and walked toward the young patrolman who had climbed from the squad. Retnick watched as the two men talked for perhaps half a minute, and then the patrolman saluted and Neville walked quickly back to the car. His face was pale and drawn in the yellow glare of the headlights. Climbing in beside Retnick, he turned the ignition key and stepped on the starter. Then he let out his breath slowly and settled back in the seat. He looked at Retnick with an odd expression on his face; there was anger in the set of his mouth, but his eyes were sad and bewildered. “I warned you, Steve,” he said heavily. “I warned you the best way I knew. I told you sometimes there’s a price to vengeance that no man can pay. Now you’ve run up a big bill.”

“What’s the matter?” Retnick said sharply, as a strange chill went through his body.

“After we left the Thirty-First Kleyburg went down in the basement and tried to kill himself,” Neville said. “He’s still alive but it doesn’t look good.”

Retnick rubbed the back of his fist cruelly over his mouth. “Where did they take him?” he muttered. “I want to see him. I’ve got to see him before he dies.”

“You wanted to get Amato,” Neville said. “Let’s finish that job.” He looked at Retnick and sighed. Then he said gently, “You can’t help Miles now, Steve.”

“Sure,” Retnick said heavily. “I can’t help him, I can’t help anybody.”

Amato sat stiffly beside the driver and watched the heavy concrete supports of the elevated highway flash past them into the darkness. Twelfth Avenue stretched ahead of him, a black, wind-swept tunnel into which the car’s headlights bored like thick yellow lances. A small leather suitcase rested on his lap, and his arms were wrapped around it, hugging it tightly against his body. Under the black brim of his hat his cold brown eyes were tense and worried. This was the last big jump. If he slipped now it was all over.

“Everything is set, eh?” he said to the driver for perhaps the fifth time.

“Sure, there’s nothing to worry about,” the driver said casually. He was a short, slender man with graying hair and features that were pinched together into an expression of foxy good humor.

“I better not have to worry,” Amato said. “I don’t pay money to have things go wrong.”

“It was short notice, Mr. Amato,” the driver said. “We done our best. The launch is waiting at Pier 17. The guard there left a door open and took a walk for himself. You’ll go down the Hudson, through the Narrows and over to Sheepshead Bay. I didn’t get a final check yet, but the fishing boat is supposed to be there with two men to run it. The trip to Cuba takes a week. After that we’re out of it.”

“I got things set in Cuba,” Amato said. “I had that set a long time.”

“Well, we done our best on this end,” the driver said philosophically. “You got to be lucky, though.”

“You better hope I’m lucky,” Amato said, glancing at him with his awkward little smile.

“We done our best,” the driver said. Some of the good humor left his face as he felt Amato’s eyes on him. Most men on the run were at the mercy of those who helped them; they could only pay and pray. But Nick Amato wasn’t like most men. If this thing went wrong the driver knew that the waterfront would be a very unhealthy place for him.

Amato stared straight ahead again and hugged the grip to his chest. Instinct had made him run. There were men who would have stood fast and fought, betting on themselves, betting on money, influence, lawyers. But Amato had a peasant’s instinct for survival. He fled without regret, as he would have fled from a volcano that threatened his village. Maybe he would come back some day. But he didn’t think about this. Now it was important to get to Cuba and from there to Naples. He carried the harvest of thirty violent but profitable years in his suitcase, and in Naples he could live comfortably, and perhaps think about coming back. Amato needed time to think, and he was buying that as much as safety.