Уильям Макгиверн: The Darkest Hour

“You don’t sound too cheerful about it.”

“It’s—” His fist suddenly tightened on the receiver. “I need you, baby,” he said, in a harsh and desperate voice. “I need you,” he said again feeling a tremor shake his body. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s the other way around. And I can’t pay you back. Ever. But let me see you before you go.”

She didn’t answer him for a moment. Then she said unsteadily, “I thought we’d been over everything important, but — I could be wrong. Do you remember that bar on Seventieth? Tony’s?”

“Yes, sure.” He stood, breathing as if he had run a race. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said, in a voice so low that he barely heard the words. Then she hung up.

Retnick went down the hall to the doorway, and Mrs. Cara smiled at him and said, “You going out?”

“Yes, I’ve got to,” he said, hardly conscious of her presence. But with a hand on the door, he turned to her. “You’d better look after the cat,” he said.

“You’re not coming back?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Then he became aware of her smile. “I guess you understand,” he said.

“I’ll take care of Silvy,” she said. “You go home.”

Retnick opened the door and went quickly down to the street. In the pale moonlight a soft snow was falling gently over the city. Turning up his collar he started for the avenue where he knew he could find a cab. And then he began to run.