Уильям Макгиверн: The Darkest Hour

“Listen—”

“Shut up!” Retnick said, turning swiftly and dangerously. The anger was a tight cruel pain inside him, a pressure screaming for release. “Who’s going to knock my head off? You?”

Connors got to his feet, wetting his lips. Instinct warned him his gun and badge wouldn’t prevail here. “Don’t fly off the handle,” he said, smiling with an effort into the murder in Retnick’s face. “I’ve told you what Amato is thinking. What you do about it is up to you.”

“You can tell Amato I’ve got a job,” Retnick said. “I’m going to find Frank Ragoni, and I’m going to find out who killed Ventra. And the guy who killed Ventra is going to wish to God he’d shot himself the same night.”

Connors shrugged and picked up his overcoat. “I gave you good advice,” he said. “You’ll appreciate it eventually.” Then, in the doorway, he smiled at Retnick. There was a new confidence in his manner. “Part of that job you mentioned won’t be too difficult. Finding Ragoni, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see it in the papers. Ragoni’s body was pulled out of the river tonight. I saw the report on it before I came over here. Someone stuck a knife into him.” Connors sighed. “Those things happen, Retnick. Good night.” He closed the door.

Retnick sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Ragoni was dead. Connors wouldn’t lie about it. For an instant he felt a curious surprise at his own lack of reaction. Ragoni had been a good friend of his, but he felt no sense of pain or loss at all, nothing but a certain selfish disappointment; this would make his job far more difficult. He swore bitterly and pounded a fist into his palm. It would have been so easy. Find Ragoni, listen to a name. That was all. Now he was on his own. There would be no help for him on the waterfront, no friends. The cat had curled up beside him but he was unaware of its warm presence. He sat perfectly still, staring at his big hands, and the single bare bulb drew deep shadows under his bitter, lonely eyes.

At midnight Nick Amato sat behind his desk, slumped deep in the chair, with one foot propped up against a pulled-out drawer. The strong overhead light filled the small office with harsh brilliance, revealing cracks in the uncarpeted floor, the worn spots on the furniture, and the chipped gilt lettering on the windows that read: Headquarters, Local 200.

Joe Lye stood with his back to the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his black overcoat, and watched the single door.

Amato was studying a Christmas card, a small frown on his broad, swarthy face. Smiling at him from the card was a photograph of his own face, looking absurd under a Santa Claus hat. The inscription read: Happy Holiday Greetings From Uncle Nick.

“This stinks,” Amato said, glancing at Joe Lye. “It’s cheap. Why did you use my picture? I’m not running for office.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Dave to take it back to the printer,” Joe Lye said.

“The picture would be in every ash can in the neighborhood after Christmas. Great, eh? Figure out something else.”

“Okay,” Joe Lye said.

Amato tossed the Christmas card on his desk and glanced at his watch. Then he yawned comfortably, a stockily built man of fifty, slightly below middle height, with a face as dark and hard as mahogany. Except for his eyes, which were cynical and pitiless, he could have passed for any sort of small businessman. He usually wore cheap brown or gray suits, and his only curious mannerism was an occasional air of abstraction; he gave the impression then that he was listening with amusement to some invisible story-teller.

“How old is Glencannon?” he said, glancing again at Joe Lye.

“I don’t know. Seventy-five maybe.”

Amato shook his fingers gently in front of his face. “That’s too old to be up this time of night,” he said.

“Did it have to be tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight, tonight, right away,” Amato said, and yawned again. Then he began to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Joe Lye asked him, not sure of what to expect. You never knew with Amato when he was in these dreamy moods. Sometimes he wanted to talk, sometimes he wanted you to shut up. You never knew.

“Glencannon is worried,” Amato said, smiling gently. “He can’t wait till morning. Maybe he wants to give us 202.”

“I wish he’d waited till morning,” Lye said. He crossed the room, a thin figure in black, and leaned against the wall. His eyes were irritable in the unhealthy pallor of his small, lean face. There was the suggestion of a smile about his lips but this was a matter he couldn’t control; a tic pulled his mouth into a tight grimace when he was nervous or worried. It looked like a grin at first glance, but the illusion of humor was shattered by the dangerous tension in his face.

“You wish he’d waited till morning?” Amato said. “What was you doing that was so important?”

“Well, I don’t go to Kay’s to watch television,” Lye said. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut; Amato loved this little game.

“What was you doing?” Amato said.

“Getting ready to eat, if you want details.”

“This late?”

“Sure.” Lye gestured nervously with a slim pale hand. “I didn’t get there till nine. We had a few drinks, Martinis, if you’re interested, and she was just ready to put in the steak when you called.”

“Martinis and steaks,” Amato said, smiling and shaking his head slowly. “Just like the movies. You got the life, Joe. Not like it was in jail, eh?”

Lye felt his mouth twisting painfully. Lighting a cigarette, he changed his position against the wall, turning the unmarked side of his face to Amato; it filled him with a sick rage to be stared at. “Why talk about jail?” he said, flipping the burned match across the room.

“Because it’s interesting,” Amato said, watching Lye with a little grin. “Those guards up there used to tell me how you were doing.”

“I know, I know,” Lye said. “They should keep their big fat mouths shut.”

“They said you prayed every night,” Amato said. “Down on your knees like you was in a church. That’s funny, eh?”

“You got a funny idea of what’s funny.”

“What were you praying for?”

“The place gets you,” Lye said. He looked quickly around the room, his eyes switching like those of an animal in a trap. Since those two weeks in the death cell a dream the color of blood had plagued his sleep, turning every night into an occasion of potential terror. It was always in red, a dull crimson shot with flecks of black, and there were laughing guards who rushed him down a corridor to the chair. Only it wasn’t a chair when they reached it, but a high rude altar, and they stretched him on it and tightened the straps about his body until he couldn’t breathe.

“It must be pretty bad,” Amato said, shaking his head. “But I don’t get the praying business. What’s that going to help?”

“I don’t know,” Lye said, dropping his cigarette on the floor. “The place softens you up, that’s all. You act buggy.”

Amato said casually, “You ought to get your face fixed up, Joe. It looks like hell, you know.”

“Sure I know,” Lye said, rubbing his mouth nervously. “You think I like it? But the doc says it’s in my head.”

“He thinks you’re nuts?”

“He’s the nutty one if you ask me,” Lye said. Relax, the doctor said. But how could he relax when he couldn’t even sleep?

“You shouldn’t have worried in jail,” Amato said. “Didn’t you know I’d get you out?”

“Time was getting short,” Lye said.

“Trust me,” Amato said. “Don’t waste time praying to anybody else. Well, what about Retnick?”