William McGivern - Savage Streets

Farrell ordered a beer, postponing the time of accounting for a moment or so; the barroom was a warm and noisy haven, a refuge of anonymity, where he was nothing but a voice asking for a drink, a stranger raising a glass with strangers.

The man standing beside him said: “You’re John Farrell, aren’t you?”

Farrell started. “Yes, that’s right.”

The man smiled. “I don’t do it with mirrors. My name is Wiley, Lynn Wiley. I’m with World Press Services. I saw you at the station.”

“Did you follow me here?”

“Well, I wanted to talk with you, and I also wanted a drink, so it was a happy coincidence when you turned in here.” Wiley was in his thirties, short but sturdily built, with blunt gray features and a dark crew cut.

He seemed used to putting people at ease; there was a suggestion of callous sympathy in his manner, Farrell felt, like that of tax examiners and undertakers.

“This is a damn sad business,” Wiley said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No thanks. What did you want to see me about?”

“I gather you were a friend of Wayne Norton’s.”

“Yes, we were neighbors.”

“He seemed to be a steady, decent sort of guy. Family man, home owner, that sort of thing.” Wiley lit his cigarette. “Is that an accurate estimate, would you say?”

Farrell was silent, staring at his drink.

“This is just background, you understand,” Wiley went on in a pleasant and almost cheerful tone of voice. “I’ve got the facts, such as they are. But there’s still something odd about it.”

“What exactly do you find odd about it?”

“The why. The why of it,” Wiley said. “It’s an odd end for a steady character like Norton.” He took a folded sheaf of yellow copy paper from his coat pocket and glanced at his notes. “This chap Malleck rather intrigues me. He doesn’t live in Faircrest, I see. Is he a friend of yours?”

“I know him slightly.” Farrell paid for his drink. “You’ll have to excuse me now.”

“Well, it’s a sad business,” Wiley said, shaking his head. “Sure you won’t have another drink? One for the road?”

“No thanks.”

Dr. Webber opened the door at the Nortons’ for Farrell. He was preparing to leave.

“How is she?” Farrell asked him.

“Well, she’ll be a lot worse before she gets any better,” Dr. Webber said. He buttoned his overcoat and picked up his bag from the hall table. “I’ve given her a sedative and your wife is upstairs with her now. It’s a ghastly thing. Smashing a decent, lovely little home like this. I must confess the world seems to be a stupidly managed business at times. Well, I’ll be at home if Mrs. Norton needs me. Don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Yes, of course.”

When the doctor had gone Farrell removed his hat and coat and went into the silent living room. Everything was tidy and clean; there was nothing in the still and carefully appointed room to suggest that Wayne Norton would never see it again. Magazines were stacked on the coffee table, as precisely as if they had been lined up with a ruler. A few fallen petals from a bowl of roses had been collected and placed in a shining ashtray. Farrell noticed only one thing out of place, the telephone book lying open on a desk. He started to close it but hesitated as a name caught his eye: Solomon. His eye went down the column. Soltari... Solters... And then the name of Soltis seemed to leap up at him, the letters black as char against the white page. Farrell closed the book and placed it under the telephone.

From above his head he heard a softly rising moan, then the sound of quick light footsteps. He sat down with his hands hanging limply, helplessly, between his knees, and he was still in that position a few moments later when Barbara came quietly down the stairs, pausing between steps to soften the click of her high heels. He glanced up into her face.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes, the sedative Dr. Webber gave her seems to be working now. But I’m afraid Junior may wake. I can’t think of what I’ll say to him.”

“Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t wake.”

“Are you all right, John?”

He sighed wearily, and said, “For what it’s worth, sure.”

“Do you know what happened tonight? What you told me on the phone seemed so sketchy.”

“Yes, I know what happened,” he said. “I think I’m the only one who does. But it’s not over, honey. It’s just starting.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I’m a big part of the why of what happened tonight,” he said. “I’m responsible for Norton’s death.”

Farrell looked away from her and she touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “You were always pretty strict with yourself,” she said.

Farrell shook his head. “Strict is a nice little word for nice little mistakes. Kids misbehaving and a teacher named Miss Priscilla something-or-other taking away their taffy apples. This is different.”

“When you’re in the wrong you admit it,” she said. “You don’t blame others for your mistakes. You don’t make tricky little reassessments until everything is all right. I always respected you for that.”

Farrell saw that he had missed her point; she wasn’t trying to talk him out of it.

“So?” he said, looking up into her eyes.

“I respected that honesty,” she said. “There’s no reason not to go on respecting it.”

“No matter who gets hurt by it?”

“No matter what,” she said.

Farrell kissed the palm of her hand. “You’re great,” he said. “You’re not scared. I don’t believe you’re thinking about yourself at all.”

“No, that’s not accurate. I told you a long time ago I’m not heroic.”

“And I told you the hell you’re not.”

“I’d better go back upstairs.” She kissed his forehead and tiptoed swiftly across the room. Farrell watched her as she went up the stairs, noticing the light grace of her body and the serious strength in her face, and seeing the whole of their life together in that instant; she would stick, of course, and for that loyalty he felt something very close to pity.

Sam and Grace Ward arrived with Chicky Detweiller a few moments later. They sat in the living room and spoke in the quiet and careful tones of people at a wake.

“Do you think I should go to see Janey?” Chicky asked Farrell. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She had evidently dressed in a hurry; she wore a tweed coat, a sweater and skirt and glossy, brown leather loafers. Her legs were bare and her short yellow hair was tousled from sleep.

“She’s quiet now,” Farrell said.

“Nobody can do anything for her,” Grace Ward said. “Only time will help.” She wore black and was severely groomed, but the façade of appropriate solemnity did not conceal a tension that seemed to be running like an electric current through her spare strong body. “In any case, there are other things to consider just now.” She looked steadily at her husband and her eyes were pale and cold as lights above a winter sea. “You wanted to talk to John, didn’t you, Sam?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did,” Ward said. He seemed somewhat embarrassed by her insistent tone, and it was apparent he felt the amenities should be observed with more grace. “This business is a rotten shame,” he said. “Pointless and terrible.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hell of a thing.”

Farrell got the impression that he was timing his display of concern to the second, holding it like a note of music, up to a proper point but not one beat longer. Farrell looked at Chicky. “Any word from Bill?”

“He called half an hour ago.” In the soft light her face was small and pale. “They’re coming here as soon as they’re free.”