William McGivern - Savage Streets

“Well, that’s okay,” Farrell said. “A man can choose his place if he wants to. But he can’t choose a place for other people.”

“The hell he can’t,” Malleck said. “Now listen: I moved out of where I lived on Eighty-seventh Street because it was filling up with people I don’t care to have around me or my family. If they had an ounce of pride in their goddamn woolly heads they’d respect my feelings and keep away from me. Like I keep out of where I’m not wanted. But they keep crowding against me and my family. So if they don’t know their place, by God I’ll tell ’em where it is. Now this same kind of scum is pushing against me out here — against you, Farrell, and your family. And you got the gall to high-hat me because I’m offering to help. I go back to what I said first: you’re just a little bit short in the guts department. But there’s some of us who aren’t.” He glanced sharply at Detweiller. “Right, Bill?”

“Well, I don’t think there’s much use in any more talk,” Detweiller said casually. He seemed very pleased with himself, Farrell thought; pleased to be associated with Malleck’s blatant virility. He had proved something last night and whatever it was he was apparently happy about it. “You see, John,” Detweiller went on, a contented and insinuating smile on his lips, “there’s a job to be done. But it’s a job for a certain kind of guy, if you follow me. So I don’t blame you for steering clear of it.”

“Dauntless Det, eh?” Farrell said. He smiled. “Come on, let’s not be childish. I still think...”

“Don’t make smart cracks,” Detweiller said, moving forward to the edge of his chair. “I’ve listened to you because we’ve been friends. But don’t crowd me, John.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Farrell said. “Will you knock it off?”

“I’m warning you, John,” Detweiller said, and got slowly to his feet. “Don’t sit there sneering at me and treating me like some kind of joke. I don’t take that from anybody.”

Malleck said quietly, “I guess you’re treating us both like a big joke, Mr. Farrell. And come to think of it, I don’t take that from anybody either.”

Farrell turned his glass slowly in his hands, studying the light sparkling on the surface of the liquid. Finally he said, “Det, I think it would be awfully silly for you and me to get into a brawl about this thing.”

“Peace talk,” Malleck said, grinning. “The minute you come up against something tough the brotherly love starts to ooze out of your pores. Well, I’ll tell you this: there are people in this world damn well worth hating. And a man who wants to hug those people in his arms is just covering up the fact that he’s afraid of them. My dad told me that a long time ago. It takes guts to hate things that need hating. And this talk about tolerance and good will for everybody is just so much scared piss. And here’s another thing you...”

“Oh shut up,” Farrell said wearily.

Malleck stood up and said, “A man who says that to me had better be on his feet, Farrell. Are you getting up or do I...”

“Hold it!” Detweiller said sharply, and glanced toward the foyer; a key had sounded in the lock. High heels tapped crisply against the silence and Detweiller said, “Chicky? Is that you?”

“Hi!” Chicky said, coming into the room. She was bright and slim in a snug beige suit, with a corsage of camellias pinned to her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she said, and stopped as if the tension in the room were a physical barrier. “You look so grim — or is it disappointed? Have I crashed a stag party?”

“No, of course not,” Detweiller said. “I guess we were arguing about baseball or something.”

She smiled at Farrell. “Hi again then. How’s Barbara?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

She said hello to Malleck and sat down in a deep chair. “What a crush in that train.” She put her head back and smiled at Detweiller. “Fix me a drink, will you?”

“Sure, right away. But what happened to your big plans? The dinner and the play and everything. You’ve just had time to get in and out of the city.”

“That’s right, in and out. There was kind of a mix-up. But it’s not a very interesting story. I’ll tell you about it later. Now go on with your baseball talk. I’ll be the referee.”

She looked tired, Farrell thought, her face pale and drawn against the vivid shine of her short yellow hair. She sighed and settled deep in the chair, legs crossed and one foot moving back and forth in a slow, deliberate arc. The beige pump slipped down and swung gracefully on her slender instep, but she didn’t bother to adjust it; she looked too tired to care about anything, Farrell thought, and he wondered if it were just extra mascara that made her eyes look so dark and soft.

Detweiller hadn’t moved to make her drink. He stood watching her with a frown. “Chicky, you know I don’t like mysteries,” he said. “What happened?”

“I told you. There was a mix-up — on the tickets. So I came on home.”

“What kind of a mix-up? The tickets were for the wrong night, or what?”

She sighed and smiled at him. “Yes, it was the wrong night, Det.”

“Couldn’t you do anything about it? Exchange them or something? What play was it?”

“I don’t know. Ginny made the arrangements. Please, Det. Remember that drink we talked about a long time ago?”

“Well, it’s funny as hell,” Detweiller said. “I guess it’s a good thing you gals don’t do this often. How’s Ginny, by the way?”

“Just fine.”

Detweiller glanced at her from the bar. “You sound pretty abrupt. There weren’t any hard feelings, were there? I mean, you were so excited about this thing. You were walking around about a foot off the ground this morning.”

“Det, I’ve got a headache.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Will you bring me that drink and stop talking, for God’s sake?”

“Boy, you aren’t built for the long commute,” Detweiller said. He laughed but there were spots of angry color in his cheeks. “You don’t have the nerves for it.”

Farrell said, “I’ve got to run along. Take it easy, Chicky.”

“Please don’t go on my account. How’s Barbara? Oh, I asked you, didn’t I?”

“She’s loyal, uncomplaining, industrious — a typical wife. Why don’t you try an aspirin or two with that drink?”

“Thanks, doctor.”

Farrell turned at the door and looked back at Malleck and Detweiller. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he said. “Particularly ones with Indian heads. They’re bad news.”

Malleck smiled. “You’ve got a real handy way with words, Mr. Farrell. I admire it.”

Detweiller stood at the bar with his back to Farrell. “Good night,” he said quietly.

Farrell waited an instant for him to turn around, but when he saw that Detweiller did not intend to he smiled a good-by to Chicky and walked out of the room.

Ат three-thirty the following afternoon Farrell was called out of an Atlas conference by his secretary. “It’s your wife, and she said it was urgent.” Farrell excused himself and walked down to his own office, his anxiety leavened by a certain amount of irritation; the conference was important, not only for itself, but because of what Colby had said to him at lunch. Casually and without preamble Colby had offered him a job as his assistant on Atlas. He had said: “All it means is less coolie labor at your typewriter and a chance to sit around with me and look wise. And some more dough, but that’s a detail. The thing is we need a guy with a little balance to look over Weinberg and Shipley’s shoulders. Weinberg is a nut on the idea that all consumers are sneaky, guilt-ridden bastards, buying things to pay off their old men or to justify a low-amp sex drive. And Shipley, well the poor guy thinks a recording of Boola Boola affects everybody like the siren song. They’re both pretty sharp, but they’re inbred or something. I think you might loosen them up a bit.”