William McGivern - The Seven File

A cab door opened for him. He was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice that several inconspicuous young men had blocked off that taxi from the rest of the crowd. He climbed in, gave the driver his son’s address and settled back, holding the satchel of money in his lap. As they turned into the fast bright stream of Parkway traffic, the driver looked up and caught his eye in the rear-vision mirror.

“Do you have the child’s picture, Mr. Bradley?”

Bradley started. The abrupt question demoralized him. He felt confused and nervous, menaced by the onrushing headlights, the roar of speeding traffic. “What did you say?” He leaned forward, hugging the bag of money close to his body.

The driver reached back without taking his eyes from the road and handed him a flat, black leather case. “Identification, sir.”

The case opened like a little book. Inside there was an oblong card under a protective sheet of clear plastic. Mr. Bradley studied the photograph on the card, then leaned still further forward to peer at the driver’s profile. “Your name is Shattuck?” he said.

“Yes. Do you have the child’s picture with you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Just drop it over the front seat, please. Then sit back and relax.”

As they turned off Second Avenue half an hour later, Shattuck said quietly, “When we stop don’t forget to pay the fare, Mr. Bradley. We don’t want anyone to think I’m anything but a cab driver.”

“Are they watching the house?”

“There’s no point in assuming they aren’t.”

Thirty-first Street was peaceful and quiet at this hour of Sunday night. Yellow shafts of light shone from home and street lamps, and groups of men and women sat on the stoops of the old brownstones. Everything seemed secure and safe; this was one of a thousand city streets in which life was going its casual, ordinary way. A burst of studio laughter sounded from a television set, and a woman on the sidewalk said to her husband, “Do you want to go in and watch the last of the show?”

Mr. Bradley climbed from the cab and paid the fare that had registered on the meter. He added an appropriate tip, and said good night to Shattuck, playing his part with scrupulous care. Turning, he squared his old shoulders and started up the steps of his son’s home, his eyes raised to the shining brass numerals on the door. When the door began to open he felt his heart lurch heavily. They were watching for him. They would understand, he thought. But the weight of his decision had suddenly become a terrible burden...

Shattuck drove three blocks down Lexington Avenue before pulling up at an all-night restaurant. He walked inside with a folded newspaper under his arm and took a seat at the counter. The man beside him was finishing his dessert, and he and Shattuck began to talk casually about the weather, and then the Saturday night fight at the garden. The man pulled a newspaper from his pocket to refresh his memory on the scoring. “You see. they gave him seven out of ten,” he said.

Putting his newspaper down beside Shattuck, he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “Take it easy now, Mac,” he said.

“Sure thing,” Shattuck said.

The man picked up Shattuck’s paper, which was folded over Jill Bradley’s picture, and strolled out of the restaurant.

Shattuck pushed his cap back on his forehead and sipped his coffee...

Grant did not expect a second call from Creasy on Sunday night. When the phone rang he was sitting close to the fireplace, chain-smoking cigarettes. For some reason he wasn’t able to relax; everything was moving on schedule, but he couldn’t make himself settle down for the tedious but inevitable wait. There were too many irritants rubbing his raw nerves; Belle’s drinking, the sloppy, tasteless food, Duke’s casual assumption of authority — as if he’d been elected to a partnership in this deal. I’ll run things, Grant thought, flipping his cigarette into the dying fire. I’ll straighten Duke out. And Belle. His thoughts were sullen and vindictive. What the hell were they taking him for?

When the phone rang the sound of it went through him with an excruciating shock. He sprang to his feet, tipping his chair over with a crash, and stared at the telephone as if it were some strange and dangerous enemy. Above him he heard Duke’s limping steps going down the hallway toward the stairs. Grant hurried across the room and picked up the receiver...

It was Creasy, excited and triumphant. The grandfather had arrived at his son’s home an hour or so ago. Carrying two grips. The money, undoubtedly...

“Okay, fine,” Grant said. “Everything else look quiet?”

“Oh, delightfully quiet.” Creasy’s voice squirmed with pleasure. “They’re behaving like lambs...”

Grant put the phone down as Duke came into the room, looking rested and fresh; he had been napping since dinner. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess. Creasy’s been arrested.”

“I’m getting tired of your comedy routine.”

“Okay, okay,” Duke said, limping toward the fire. “I thought you’d appreciate a laugh or two.”

“The old man checked in from Boston an hour ago. He’s probably got the cash.”

“On Sunday yet. How about that? That’s the advantage of owning your own bank. We couldn’t cash a check on Sunday to buy penicillin for our dying mothers.”

“You got a nice humorous slant on life.”

“Stop worrying,” Duke said. “We’re home free, I tell you.” He glanced about the softly lit room, frowning slightly. The shadows cast by the fire leaped and flickered on the wide, pine floorboards, against the gilt bindings of a set of classics. Outside the wind and rain still banged against the sides of the house. “My brother’s really an oddball,” he said. “I’d rather be in jail.”

“Don’t talk like a fool. Look.” Grant moved closer to him. “You notice anything going on between your brother and that nurse?”

Duke grinned at him. “I said it before, you’d have made a great house-mother. The kids wouldn’t fool old lady Grant.”

“Stop thinking of me as your straight man, Duke,” Grant said softly, and his eyes were odd and cold.

Duke shrugged. “You know me, Eddie. I like a little gag every now and then.”

“Now is the wrong time,” Grant said. His dominant passion was for survival; he had killed more than once to stay alive and something of that showed in his face when he felt threatened or insecure.

“Sure,” Duke said, putting on a thoughtful expression. He had thought of Grant as shrewd and competent — but not dangerous. That could have been a serious error, he realized. “My brother and the little Mick?” He shook his head. “I think you’re imagining things, Eddie.”

“Maybe, maybe not. They don’t talk to each other. They don’t often look at each other. But when they do I get a feeling it means something.” Grant put a cigarette in his mouth, and stared at Duke with his flat pale eyes. “She came down a while ago with a bandage for his hand. I let her take care of him.”

“That’s a normal kind of impulse,” Duke said.

“Sure, sure. But if they get interested in each other they might try something foolish. They might work up the guts to give us trouble.”

“You think ahead, don’t you?”

Grant lit his cigarette. “That’s why I’m running this deal, Duke...”

Hank was sitting at the kitchen table. Belle had gone up to bed after helping him with the dishes. She had been in a mood of sodden sentimentality, telling him story after story about her son’s childhood, and insisting endlessly that she would never leave him again under any circumstances. He wasn’t sure that he had impressed her as anything but a tolerant ear, but that was enough for a start. She was a simple woman, but not stupid; she would suspect any obvious overtures. After she had gone the nurse had come down and dressed his injured hand, washing it with warm water and bandaging it with strips tom from a pillow case. This was done with Grant’s approval; he had stood in the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth, watching them with careful, thoughtful eyes. They hadn’t spoken to each other; Hank had stood close to her, seeing the light gleaming on her dark hair, the deep shadows under her eyes and the fine pale texture of her skin. But there was no communication between them, nothing but the gentle touch of her fingers on his hand. And that was an impersonal kindness, an instinctive reaction to suffering of any kind.