William McGivern - Savage Streets

“Wait a second. Where are you going?”

“I’m picking up Malleck. His wife’s out with the car, and I can get him faster than it would take him to find a cab.”

“What are you planning?”

“What the hell do you think? These punks have declared war, John. I’ve already called Malleck — he’s set to go. Didn’t you understand me? They jumped Norton for no reason at all, cut hell out of him with belt buckles.”

“Did he recognize them?”

“Certainly. Duke was there!”

“Why didn’t he go to the police?”

“We didn’t ask you that, did we? When you needed help you got it.”

“Okay, listen to me, Det: I had a call from Jameson tonight. The kids who ran down Angey gave themselves up to the police. They’re sons of a doctor in Rosedale. So I made a mistake last night. Probably the biggest I ever made in my life. But I’m not making any more of the same kind.”

Detweiller hesitated; then said coolly, “You won’t help Norton, is that it?”

“Not this way.”

“Malleck had you tagged, all right,” Detweiller said in a hard pleased voice and broke off the connection.

Farrell pulled on his topcoat and went down to the sidewalk. He heard the sound of a motor starting, and saw the leaping flare of headlights as Detweiller’s long blue convertible swung out of the driveway and into the street. Farrell ran along the sidewalk, feeling the cold bitter wind on his cheeks and aware of the lonely sweep of leaves in the gutter. He went up the steps of Detweiller’s home and tried the door. The knob turned under his hand and he stepped into the foyer. Norton was sitting before the fireplace, his shoulders hunched as if against a bitter wind and his fingers locked tightly around a highball glass. There was a cut on his forehead, the dry blood gleaming in the soft light, and a red welt flamed across his face from temple to jawline. His lips were trembling and he was obviously close to a state of shock; but as he looked up at Farrell a faint and piteous accusation darkened his eyes.

“You won’t help me,” he said. “You won’t lift a hand. Detweiller told me. I... I trusted you, John. I told you that just tonight, didn’t I? At that bar. What was it called? Ragoni’s?” He seemed ready to cry; his face was twisting helplessly and his voice shook like a frightened child’s. “Why won’t you help? Aren’t we friends?”

“Finish that drink,” Farrell said. “Then tell me what happened tonight.”

“They jumped me. You know that.”

“Why should they pick on you? I’m the logical guy. Well, where did it happen?”

“In Raynes Park.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“I... I took Cinder for a walk. I thought I’d let her have a good run.”

“But the park is three miles from here. Did you walk all the way?”

“No, I drove. It sounds funny, I guess. You believe me, don’t you, John?”

“What happened after you got to the park?”

“I let Cinder loose. She ran around for a while and finally got interested in something in the bushes. I called her but she didn’t come back.” Norton’s face was pale and the tic at the corner of his mouth was very pronounced; it leaped in frantic rhythm as he talked, a tiny prisoner pounding for release. “Well, I went into the bushes to get her, and they were waiting there in the shadows. They started hitting me with their belts. I couldn’t do anything. I fell down and they kept hitting me. Finally I got up and ran out of the park.” Norton stood up abruptly and began pacing the floor, his movements jerky and erratic, his face twisting and tightening like a man in pain. “I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t let Janey see me.”

“What happened to Cinder?”

Norton looked at him blankly; then his expression became wary. “What do you mean?”

“You say you ran out of the park. Did you leave Cinder there?”

“Oh. I called her when I got to my car. She came running then. She’s well-trained, you know that.”

“How many boys were there?”

“Three or four anyway. We were in the shadows, so I’m guessing at the number.”

“If it was that dark, how did you recognize Duke?”

“I’m not likely to be mistaken about him.” Norton touched the welt on his cheeks. “He did that to me. But you think that’s okay. Fine and dandy, don’t you?” Norton’s voice broke. “What happens to me doesn’t matter. I’m in trouble but you browbeat me like a cop, picking at everything I tell you.”

“Calm down,” Farrell said. “I’m trying to convince you not to go out and make a damn fool of yourself tonight. I don’t think you know who jumped you. But you — all of us — can’t think of anyone but the Chiefs. They’ve become an emotional bumping post for us. Like some handy minority group — anything goes wrong we turn around and knee them in the groin. Listen to me: did you ever see Duke before tonight?”

“No...” Norton turned away and rubbed a hand over his lips quickly and harshly, as if trying to push the word back into his mouth.

Farrell looked at him and said nothing. The silence grew deep and heavy, stretching and spreading until the faintest noises in the room — Norton’s dry swallow, the creak of a floorboard-sounded as clearly as pistol shots.

“You can’t talk me out of it,” Norton said, breathing heavily. “You can’t trick me. A girl was there tonight and she kept shouting Duke’s name. She was yelling, ‘Hit him, Duke! Hit him, Duke!’ over and over again.”

“Who was the girl?”

“I didn’t see her. I just heard her shouting.”

“Then how do you know which boy she meant?”

“That’s none of your business. You won’t help me — you’re gutless, that’s what Detweiller said.”

“For God’s sake, listen to me: you don’t know who did this job. Maybe it was the Chiefs — and maybe it wasn’t. Can’t you get that into your head?”

“I’m going to pay them back,” Norton said. He stood with his back to Farrell, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. “Don’t try to stop me.”

“How can I?” Farrell said wearily. “If you want to be a fool, the kind of righteous arrogant fool I was, I can’t stop you.”

“They deserve what they’re going to get. They tried to smash my life, destroy everything I’ve worked for. Duke and that little bitch.” Norton was breathing rapidly, the sound harsh in the silent room. “While he was hitting me she loved it, laughed about it — she kept grinning and yelling, ‘Hit him, Duke, it’s him, hit him.’ ”

“What did she mean, it’s him? ”

“Oh, she’s a wise little bitch all right,” Norton said in a ragged voice. Then he laughed softly. “She’s just a scheming little whore. Do you think I was taken in? I can spot that kind a mile away. I married a girl who taught me the difference between filth and goodness in women.”

“You told me before you didn’t see her,” Farrell said slowly. “But you did. It was Cleo, wasn’t it?”

“Cleo?” Norton stared at him with glazed eyes. “Why are you hounding me like this, John?” he said in an empty voice. “I need help. More than you know. Why can’t you see that?”

“Good God,” Farrell said. He turned and walked slowly to the windows, rubbing one hand back and forth across his forehead. Outside the yellow street lamps cast thick circles of light on the street and sidewalks. In between them lay shadows and darkness. Light and darkness. Farrell put a hand against the wall to steady himself; the shock of understanding weakened him; it was as if the floor had shifted abruptly under his feet. He saw another pattern of light and darkness in his mind: the lights in the Chiefs’ clubhouse winking out, and he almost stumbling in the sudden darkness on the iron steps. A cold thread of fear twisted through him as he turned and stared at Norton.