William McGivern - Savage Streets

“He and Malleck.”

“That’s what he said. They have to make out statements or something and they’re going to come here.” She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. “What did happen, John?”

Grace Ward said firmly, “There’s no point going into that just now. Let’s do the first things first. Sam, I think you’d better have your talk with John.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Ward said, and rubbed both hands over his high pink forehead. “Let’s step into the kitchen, eh, John? I don’t want...” He avoided Chicky’s eyes and the effort brought a tide of color into his cheeks. “I don’t want to risk waking Janey,” he said with a pointless little smile.

Chicky sat with her feet tucked under her and running one hand slowly along her bare ankle. There was the faintest edge to her voice as she glanced sideways at Grace and said: “Maybe Sam had better postpone his little talk until Bill gets here. If anything is to be arranged...” She paused and let the last word hang significantly in the silence.

“Now hold on, Chicky,” Ward said quietly and patiently, with only the thinnest thread of anger in his voice. “I’m not saying anything to John that I don’t want you or Bill to hear. Get that straight. I’ll talk to Bill when he gets here — and I’ll tell him exactly what I’m going to tell John.”

“I’m sorry,” Chicky said. “I’m so damned nervous.” In spite of the bulky coat she looked cold and miserable. “I’m scared. I don’t know why, but I can’t help it.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Grace said, with an air of definite but obscure meaning. “We’re going to protect ourselves, don’t you worry. That means all of us. No one else is going to be hurt.”

“Come on, John,” Ward said. “Let’s get this over with.”

They went into the kitchen and Ward snapped on the lights and closed the door. In the bright fluorescent illumination Farrell noticed the place that had been laid for Norton, the precisely arranged silverware, the black plastic mat, the salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen. Ward was looking through the cupboards above the sink. “I guess Norton kept that bottle somewhere out here,” he said. “I need a drink. How about you, John?”

“No thanks.”

“Funny the way he never kept liquor in the living room. Remember, every time he made a drink he’d collect the glasses, and bring them out here for refills. But you never saw the bottle. I think it was Janey’s idea.” Ward had poured himself a stiff whiskey with water, and now, holding a fresh cigarette, he was pacing the floor slowly, looking flushed and incongruous against the trimly fitted closets and antiseptically white rows of appliances. “Well, here it is,” he said, staring steadily at Farrell. “This may not have occurred to you in all the excitement. But the cops are probably going to connect Norton’s death with what happened the other night — when you beat up that kid, I mean.”

“Yes, that has occurred to me,” Farrell said.

“Well, I wasn’t sure. They’ll see a cause and effect relationship in these two incidents. You’re probably way ahead of me, but let me spell everything out so we’ll be exactly sure of what we’re up against.” Ward’s nervousness seemed to have abated; there was a hard, pleased look about his eyes, and his manner was that of a salesman preparing to hammer home a point. This was a job to him, a problem to solve, Farrell thought, the kind of thing he threshed out at his desk and over conference tables, and he seemed stimulated by the challenge to his professional skills.

“Okay, I said cause and effect,” Ward went on, after taking a long swallow from his drink. “Do you get what I mean? You beat up a punk who belonged to a gang called the Chiefs. By way of reprisal the Chiefs beat up Norton. So he goes after them and gets killed. Bang, bang, bang! One thing leads right to the next. Cause and effect.” Ward looked around for a place to put out his cigarette and finally threw it into the sink. “The cops may figure, since we started it, that were responsible in some way for what eventually happened to Norton. And goddammit, can’t you see the fun the newspapers will have with that idea? Legally, it’s pure crap, but they’ll sell a lot of newspapers in the meantime, and they’ll drag every one of us through the dirt before they’re through. The spectacle of a group of responsible citizens in this sort of mess is a damned juicy one, and you don’t have to be a newspaper editor to know that. Are you following me so far?” Ward was watching Farrell carefully. “We’re in trouble. Is that clear?”

“I know,” Farrell said. “I know we’re in trouble. But I don’t know if we’d agree on what kind of trouble it is.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not through. I think I see this thing a little more clearly than you do. And I believe you’ll see it in the same light when I finish. Now let’s go on.” Ward took another sip from his drink. “About tonight. Norton’s death and so forth. I’m not involved in that. I wasn’t involved in any way at all. You see that, don’t you?”

“Well, you see it,” Farrell said. “I guess that’s the important thing.”

Ward hesitated, apparently reluctant to accept Farrell’s answer. But then he shrugged and said, “Yes, that’s right, of course. Now the next point concerns what happened the other night at the Chiefs’ clubhouse. I offered to go along with you, I’ll admit that. But I told you it was your show, that I just wanted to make sure that you got a fair crack at that boy. And I wasn’t present during the fight. Malleck told me to wait outside. You remember that, don’t you, John?”

“Well, go on,” Farrell said.

“I’ve talked this over with Grace, of course, and she feels...” Ward paused and rolled his empty glass between the palms of his hands. He seemed nervous again. He smiled suddenly at Farrell, a man-to-man sort of smile that was pathetically incongruous against the tight lines of anxiety about his mouth and eyes. “Well, you know how women are, John. She feels I’m not involved in this thing at all, except for the sheer bad luck of being near the scene, you might say. She’d like you guys to forget that I was there — you know, leave me out of the whole deal.”

“I’ll bet she would,” Farrell said.

“There’s no point in being sarcastic.” Ward’s eyes were narrowing. “I’m simply giving you the whole picture. That’s Grace’s idea. It’s not mine. I’m not trying to duck out of this and leave you holding the bag. But I say we’re damn fools if we don’t agree on a story that puts us in a little more acceptable light as far as the police and the newspapers are concerned.”

“Have you thought of one?”

“Yes, I have, one that’s simple and convincing. First, we went over to the Chiefs’ clubhouse to talk to them. Our idea was to see if we could help them. Since we’re a responsible group of men, home owners, involved in community work and so forth, that will sound believable. The blond boy jumped you, you fought back in self-defense. That’s all there is to it.” He pointed a big blunt finger at Farrell. “Just remember two things: one, we went there to help those kids; two, the boy took a swing at you, and you had to protect yourself. That may not square things completely, but it will help some, I think.”

“Help us, you mean?”

Ward stared at him. “Do you think for one goddamned minute I’m interested in helping that hoodlum who killed Wayne? Now listen to me, John. Get it through your head that we’re in trouble. The tilings we’ve worked and fought for all our lives, jobs, reputations, the futures we’ve planned — they’re all under fire. I’m not exaggerating, and I’m not being melodramatic. I’m laying out the brutal facts. Either we protect ourselves or we’re going to pay till it hurts. Take me: my company stands behind its men like the Rock of Gibraltar. In certain kinds of trouble. If a man is sick, or if his wife or kids are sick, or if he’s in a financial jam, or is unhappy about his job — then the company steps up like a big brother and there’s no limit to what it will do to help out. But they wouldn’t stand for this trouble we’re in — not for a second.” Ward lit a cigarette with an irritable flurry of gestures. “I’ve been tapped for that job in London. I knew it was in the works but the decision came down even sooner than I’d hoped for. I got the news yesterday. Nice timing, eh? Big tilings in the works. I’m slated for a half-dozen indoctrination sessions, and interviews with some of the top men in our foreign department. I’ll be briefed on British unions, British politics, currency, everything. You know, our company has a book we call the ‘Voice of God’ book. It’s a set of questions and answers on just about any topic its foreign representatives might be asked about. The Negro problem in America, our oil deposits in Iran, what the Sixth Fleet’s doing in the Mediterranean, the differences in British and American educational systems — there’s an answer for everything. The answer, I should say. The company position. They don’t send men abroad until they’re damn sure they won’t be caught with their mouths open and their pants down by some competitor or newspaperman or just plain smart aleck. Grace will go through a similar course. Advice on protocol and entertaining, how to address people with titles, advice on being tactful about clothes and servants, and about the fact that we’ll be making a lot more money than most of the people we meet over there.” Ward tilted his head slightly, and his eyes went suddenly hard and cold. “Does all this strike you as silly?” he said quietly. “Am I losing your interest?”