William McGivern - Savage Streets

“John?”

“I was thinking, Janey, he might have gone over to the Boulevard for the papers. Supposing I drive over and pick him up?”

“I don’t want you to go to all that trouble.”

“I’m going out anyway, Janey. Why don’t you get back to bed now?”

“Well, all right, John. And thanks loads. I know I’m a fusspot, but when I woke up the house seemed so funny and quiet without him.”

“That’s right,” Farrell said pointlessly. “Get back to sleep now.”

“I guess I will. Thanks so much, John.”

Farrell put on his topcoat and went out to his car. He had no idea of how he would bring Wayne Norton home to his wife. But he felt he had to try.

The night was mild and he drove toward Hayrack with the windows down, appreciating the cool air on his face. He drove carefully, wary of the occasional cars that flashed out of the darkness and more than ordinarily alert for pedestrians and traffic signals. He felt curiously vulnerable, exposed to attack from all quarters; there was no tolerance left for errors tonight, he thought, no leeway for mistakes or miscalculations.

Farrell reached Hayrack ten minutes after leaving his home. Somewhere off to his right he heard the rising cry of a police siren. The sound climbed high above him, then fell in a dying wail as he turned into Matt Street, a block north of the Chiefs’ clubhouse.

Three police cars were parked at the curb in front of the warehouse, the lights above their windshields swinging in slow circles, crisscrossing the windows of shops and tenements with bars of brilliant red light. Farrell parked and climbed out of his car. A crowd was collecting, alerted by the scent of trouble; men were running down the sidewalk, turning occasionally to shout at one another, and there were excited human clusters in the dark doorways of the shops along the street. A brilliant white beam moved over the front of the warehouse, probing at cornices and windows like a mighty lance. The siren Farrell had heard was upon him now, the banshee wail exploding as the squad car swept around the corner and came to a swaying, expert stop at the entrance to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Windows were opening in rooming houses and apartments and the sound of TV music and laughter spilled eerily over the swelling noise of the crowd and sharp shouted orders from police officers.

Farrell started across the street but a uniformed patrolman blocked his way. “Go on home, Jack,” he said. “Get the details in the morning papers.”

“I’ve got to see Lieutenant Jameson.”

“He’s busy, Jack. I told you, go on home.”

Farrell saw Detweiller and Malleck then; they were enclosed in a knot of police at the entrance to the clubhouse. He shook himself free from the patrolman’s hand, shoving him aside with desperate strength, and ran past the police cars to where Malleck and Detweiller stood with Lieutenant Jameson and several uniformed patrolmen.

In the sweeping red light of the squad cars Detweiller’s broad face was the color of putty. He looked as if he might be sick at any minute; his lips were trembling and each breath he drew sent a shudder through his body. Farrell caught his shoulder. “What happened, Det? What happened?”

A patrolman took Farrell by the arm but Lieutenant Jameson said, “It’s all right,” and the cop shrugged and dropped his hand.

“Det, what happened?” Farrell said, shouting above the noise in the street. From somewhere came the high, thin sound of a woman screaming.

Detweiller looked at Farrell, the glaze of shock dimming in his eyes. “I don’t blame her,” he said, twisting his lips carefully around the words. “It must have been a sight.”

“Where’s Norton? Where is he?”

Malleck’s face was black and expressionless in the red glare of police lights. “No use shouting at him,” he said.

“Norton’s dead.”

It was after eleven o’clock when Farrell left the Hayrack police station. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and walked through the darkness toward the bar in the next block. From a booth in the rear he called Barbara at the hospital. The nurse told him it was too late; telephone service was suspended at ten o’clock.

“My wife’s not a patient, she’s just spending the night with our daughter,” Farrell said. He pushed his hat up on his forehead. The air was warm and close, and from the barroom the faint but strident voice of a fight announcer drummed on the glass panels of the telephone booth. “A beautiful left and Costello is bleeding from the mouth now, backing away and looking to his comer for help... He’s badly hurt...”

“Is this an emergency?” the nurse asked Farrell.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’ll ring her room but this is against regulations, you understand.”

Barbara was not asleep. She had been reading and her voice was clear and alert. “John, what is it?”

“Honey, I’ve got bad news. There’s no way to break it gently. Wayne Norton was killed tonight.”

“Oh, no! Dear God, what happened? Are you all right?”

“Take it easy. I’m okay, I’m fine. Now please listen to me. Get hold of yourself.” She had begun to cry and the fight announcer’s voice was rising exultantly. “It may be the finish for this game youngster. He’s trying to get up, but those body punches have taken a terrific toll...”

“Barbara!” Farrell said sharply. “The police notified Janey just a few minutes ago. Do you think you could go over and stay with her?”

“Yes, Angey will be all right. And I’ll call Dr. Webber. But what in the name of God happened?”

“Norton got in a brawl tonight with Duke Resnick. He was cut up pretty badly and he didn’t want to go home. So he went to the Detweillers’. Det called Malleck and the three of them went off to settle up the score.”

Farrell had got the rest of the story in splintered fragments at the police station. He had heard part of Malleck’s and Detweiller’s testimony to Lieutenant Jameson, had listened as Sergeant Cabella gave a professionally impersonal recapitulation to the reporters and cameramen who had appeared like vultures on the scene, scrambling for choice bits and pieces, tense and stimulated by the carrion scent of the story. And he had watched as Duke Resnick was booked for murder, and had seen the boy’s arrogance dissolving in fear as he was led to the cell block by a pair of cops.

The atmosphere had been gaudy and tense; police officers working with a suggestion of hard, pleased efficiency, cameramen firing their Graphics like barrage guns, shooting at everything and everybody, reporters talking into phones in sharp insistent voices, and a drunken vagrant muttering querulously to himself in a comer, piqued at having been forgotten in the excitement...

“They drove over to the Chiefs’ clubhouse on Matt Street,” Farrell explained. “As they arrived Duke was just coming up the stairs. Norton jumped out of the car — Det and Malleck say it happened so fast they couldn’t stop him — and chased Duke down the alley. Duke went up a fire escape at the rear of the building, and Norton followed him. They had a fight on the roof and Duke pushed him off.”

“Why? Why did a thing like this happen?”

“Honey, Janey’s going to need you.” Farrell closed his eyes. Barbara’s question was like a blow. “I’ll see you there later.”

“All right, I’ll hurry.”

Farrell left the phone booth. The fight was over and a cheery announcer was discussing the merits of his sponsor’s product: “Yes, it’s the beer with the built-in smile, fight fans, good for you today, good to you tomorrow. So enjoy delicious, sparkling Harvester’s to your heart’s content — the beer with the built-in smile.” The announcer’s happy face dissolved into an animated beer bottle which flexed its arms and smiled brightly and glassily at its unseen audience. The bartender turned off the set and eddies of conversation stirred among the men at the bar.