William McGivern - Savage Streets

“What did you do to her?” he said.

“Nothing, I swear it to God.”

“Don’t lie. I left you alone with her. What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, I swear it, I swear it.”

Farrell walked across the room and took Norton by the shoulders. “You’re lying, goddamn you. This is what you want to be forgiven for. This is what you were trying to kill with Martinis.”

“No, John — it’s not what you think.”

Farrell shook him roughly. “You made a date with her tonight, didn’t you? You went to the park to meet her. Isn’t that the truth?”

“I wanted to explain — to apologize.” Norton’s voice sank to a ghastly whisper. “I respect you, John. Help me, for the love of God.”

“You raped her,” Farrell said. “She told Duke and they waited for you in the park. Is that it?”

“I couldn’t help myself. It was seeing you hit that boy, hearing the sound of the blows, and holding her while she struggled against me. Something happened to me. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I couldn’t stop.”

Farrell let his arms fall to his sides and Norton sat down and began to weep, silently and terribly, the tears flowing through the vivid welts on his cheeks. “I wanted to fix it up, to make amends. That’s why I went to the park. Then Duke came out of the shadows and began hitting me. They wouldn’t listen. I begged them but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Now you want to go out and rough up Duke,” Farrell said. “Do you think that will solve things?”

“I thought we could scare him or offer him money. Anything to keep him quiet. He’s the only one who knows about it.”

“What about the girl?”

“It would be my word against hers.”

“It’s no good,” Farrell said. “No good at all.”

“I can’t let Janey find out. I’ll kill him first. Janey couldn’t stand it.”

“Maybe the girl won’t make a complaint.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

“You’ve got to,” Farrell said quietly, and something in his tone made Norton raise his head. “You’re not the only one involved in this deal. Hasn’t that occurred to you?”

“I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

Farrell sighed. “That’s nice to know. But I intend to see that you don’t get us into more trouble.”

“Will you help me, John? Later on, I mean. If this thing blows up in my face, will you stand by me? Maybe she won’t make a complaint. But we can’t be sure, can we?”

“No, we can’t.”

“Will you stand by me? It’s feeling all alone that’s so terrible.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ll stand by you. I’ll help you any way I can. But get this straight: we’re responsible for what we’ve done.” Farrell shook his head wearily. “I spent some time tonight playing around with that word. I decided what I’d done wasn’t so bad. Beat up the wrong guy, that’s all. It was an emotional mistake, not an intellectual one. I’d understand it in the next guy, so why not give myself a break? Human beings aren’t containers of cool orderly chemicals. They’re grab bags of impulses, animal need, racial memories, with a little bit of reasoning power sprinkled over the top.” Farrell smiled sadly. “It was a nice try. Nobody is completely responsible for what he does. Just partially or indirectly. I fished up a lot of cute adjectives. Tangential responsibility, peripheral responsibility, unpremeditated responsibility. I had the semantic scalpel honed to a fine edge. When I got through the word responsibility was nothing but a pile of shavings.” Farrell was no longer smiling; his face and eyes were bitter. “Then I realized I was just lying to myself.”

“Am I solely responsible for what I’ve done?” Norton said slowly; he was frowning at Farrell, a puzzled and anxious child facing a man’s problems. “Isn’t anyone else to blame? Even indirectly?”

“I don’t know,” Farrell said. “I don’t think so.”

“I couldn’t live with that feeling.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around. You couldn’t live with yourself unless you do face it.”

A horn sounded in front of the house and Farrell recognized the blast of Detweiller’s convertible.

“I’m not going with them,” Norton said quickly, and rubbed the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’ll tell them I changed my mind. I’ll tell them I’m not sure. But you’ve got to help me. Will you promise me that, John?”

“It’s a deal.”

The horn sounded again and Norton hurried across the room. “Thanks, John. I know what I’ve got to do.” He opened the door and disappeared into the darkness. Farrell heard his heels ringing on the sidewalk. And then, as he was about to light a cigarette, Farrell heard the slam of a car door and the smooth accelerating roar of a motor. He paused with the match flaring an inch or two from his cigarette. The silence descended slowly with a sense of finality.

Farrell swore and ran to the door. The street was empty and dark, but in the next block the four distinctive tail lights of Detweiller’s car were drawing away from him, to swing in glowing arcs at the intersection and then disappear abruptly into the night.

“Goddamn him,” Farrell said, the wind whipping the words away from his lips. “Goddamn him for a fool.”

Farrell ran down the sidewalk to his own home. He would have liked to do nothing at all; except lock the door behind him and let Norton and Detweiller and Malleck rush on to their own separate disasters. And for an instant — hesitating with the phone in his hand — he was tempted to stand aside and let matters take their course. But he knew in his heart it was too late for that.

He dialed the Hayrack police and asked for Lieutenant Jameson. When the lieutenant answered Farrell said: “This is John Farrell, Lieutenant. I’ll give you this fast. Three of my neighbors just left here to settle a score personally with the Chiefs.”

“Just left, you say? When, exactly?”

“Two or three minutes ago.”

“Hang on a second.”

Jameson returned in the time it took Farrell to light a cigarette. “Okay, the signal is out to our patrol. What was this all about, Mr. Farrell?”

“I’m not sure,” Farrell said.

“Anything else to tell me?”

“Not a thing.”

“Thanks for the tip. You’ve done your friends a favor.”

Farrell replaced the phone in its cradle, but almost immediately it rang shrilly in the silence. Farrell picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“John? This is Janey Norton. It’s a terrible hour to call. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. What is it, Janey?”

“I hate to be a nuisance. How’s Angey? Still on the mend?”

“Coming along fine, I think.”

“I just don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to that lovely child.”

Farrell hesitated, then said: “What’s up, Janey?”

“This is silly, but I’m worried about Wayne. He took Cinder out for a walk ages ago and he’s not back yet.”

“Maybe he stopped for a beer or something.”

She laughed softly and said, “You don’t know him as well as I do, I guess. That’s the sort of thing he doesn’t care for. Sometimes I tease him about being tied to my apron strings — I tell him he should play poker and go bowling, but he just smiles and says if he liked that sort of tiling he wouldn’t have got married in the first place.”

Farrell put a hand to his forehead. He felt trapped; he had the sensation of being enclosed and smothered by a ghastly kind of innocence. She knew all about her husband, of course. He wouldn’t stop for a beer. Not steady old Wayne. They knew all about each other, accepting the apparent for the truth and destroying one another with trust.