William McGivern - Savage Streets

Farrell had been looking at the plate set out for Norton in the dining alcove. “No, I’m listening,” he said.

“The point is then, my company is making a big investment in me because they believe I’ve got brains and discretion. And I’m not going to let anything happen to change their opinion of me. Get that into your head. And if I were you I’d do some thinking about your own neck. Would your company be amused about this thing? If it gets splashed like a handful of dirt over the newspapers?”

“Hardly,” Farrell said. He remembered what Colby had said after offering him the job as his assistant on Atlas. Something about balance. “We need a guy with balance to look over Shipley and Weinberg’s shoulders.” That was steady John Farrell. Balanced as a spinning top, disciplined and good-humored except for a whimsical tendency to go berserk every now and then. Say good-by to that job, he thought. But it didn’t seem to be a significant farewell. He had already said good-by to a number of things considerably more significant. A certain tranquillity, a certain self-respect, a certain kind of innocence...

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got this straightened out,” Ward said. The inference he drew from Farrell’s expression obviously satisfied him. “Just remember those two things: we went to the Chiefs in a friendly spirit. They started the trouble.”

“You think that will be enough?” Farrell almost felt sorry for Ward.

“It will be enough for me,” Ward said in a hard, expressionless voice. “That’s what I’m concerned about. You either survive or you don’t in a deal like this.”

The front doorbell rang and they heard someone — Grace or Chicky — moving swiftly to answer it. Farrell recognized Detweiller’s voice, then Malleck’s.

“Let’s go,” Ward said. “I want to fill them in now. And stop looking so worried. We haven’t done anything wrong, for God’s sake.”

“For whose sake then?” Farrell said, but Ward had already pushed open the kitchen door and was striding back into the living room.

As Farrell entered the living room Malleck was saying to Ward: “I’m glad you’re on hand, Sam. It seems to me we need a little conference.”

“You’re damn right we do,” Ward said, and the warmth in his voice informed the exchange with the tone of frank and healthy conspiracy. They were like a pair of businessmen planning a successful merger, Farrell thought; interests coinciding neatly, eyes fixed on the same goal.

Malleck sat down in a straight-backed chair without removing his leather jacket, and the Wards and the Detweillers ranged themselves about in a semicircle. “I came back here for one reason,” he said, his bright, confident eyes moving over the group. “Because you all need to know what went on tonight.” He bulked large in the room, his big body thickened by a sweater and muffler, and his powerful hands gripping his knees with a pressure that whitened the tops of his raw knobby knuckles. He said flatly, deliberately: “You need to know what Det and I told the cops tonight.”

Detweiller was sitting beside Chicky and despite her closeness to him he seemed withdrawn and isolated from the group; he was frowning faintly and except for the points of wind-sharpened color in his cheeks his face was gray with a combination of what seemed to be fatigue and worry.

Malleck looked up then and saw Farrell standing in the arched entrance to the living room. The smile that was like the flare from an explosion glinted on his face, and he said quietly, “Now I don’t know if we need or want you here, Mr. Farrell.”

“You think that’s your decision?”

“Maybe. And maybe these other people don’t trust you any more than I do.”

“What’s all this?” Ward said sharply.

“He had a chance to help Norton tonight,” Malleck said. “But he talked peace and good will instead. And now Norton’s dead.”

“If he’d stayed home he’d be alive,” Farrell said.

“Alive sure. Alive and gutless. He wasn’t a man to take a beating lying down.”

“Guts mean everything, is that it?” Farrell said wearily.

“It’s a way of knowing a man. Maybe the only way.” Then Malleck pointed a finger at Farrell. “Don’t push me tonight, Mister. Don’t make that mistake. I saw a decent man killed by a rotten degenerate just a couple of hours ago. While you were home toasting your feet and thinking big beautiful thoughts about democracy, I guess. So take it real easy with me, Farrell.” Grace Ward said: “We won’t accomplish anything by losing our tempers.”

“You’re right, Ma’am.” Malleck put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match with an angry snap of his wrist. “Business before pleasure. So we’ll just forget Mr. Farrell for the time being.” He glanced sharply about the room. “Now look: let’s get this straight the first time. How Norton died isn’t important. But why he died is. He died defending his home and family against a pack of hoodlums. The cops understand that. And so will a jury. But there’s one thing the cops didn’t understand: how come Norton didn’t call them? They understood his feelings. He’d been beaten bloody by a pack of gutless hoodlums. And he wanted a crack at them personally. Any man worth the name would feel like that. But how you feel and how you act are two different things under the law. And that little loophole just might have saved this punk’s neck. Because Norton was the aggressor he could claim self-defense. And smart lawyers and crooked politicians would have made a martyr out of him. A poor, underprivileged kid being chased and hunted by grown men.”

Malleck grinned faintly. The match had gone out in his fingers and he struck another and lit the cigarette in his mouth. The only sound in the room was a dry, gulping noise as he inhaled a lungful of smoke.

“So we cut the legs out from underneath him,” Malleck said quietly. “Det and me told the cops we were on our way to the police station when we spotted Duke. We weren’t looking for him — we just stumbled on him accidentally.”

An uneasy silence settled in the room, and Farrell, standing in the shadows outside the group, tried to judge the reaction to Malleck’s announcement. The dominant tone was not one of surprise, he decided. The lie didn’t startle or shock them apparently. But they seemed uncertain about it, wondering if it would work perhaps, testing and measuring it by their individual standards and yardsticks. Ward was nodding thoughtfully, a frown shadowing his forehead, and his wife was appraising this silent response with a mixture of anxiety and hope; and when a smile of approval touched his lips she drew a deep relieved breath and reached for her cigarettes. “Of course, I don’t understand it completely,” she said, and smiled at Malleck, accepting the immemorial role of a woman wise enough to yield to man’s superior intelligence. “But if Sam understands — and I think he does — that’s good enough for me.”

Ward patted her hand. “Don’t worry, I get it,” he said, and smiled indulgently at her. “But, I’d like to make just one irrelevant point.”

Farrell was watching the Detweillers. Bill was staring at the backs of his hands and Chicky was studying his weary eyes with concern. “Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Sure, I’m fine,” he said.

Ward cleared his throat. “Let me just finish, okay, Det? I’ve been over this ground with Farrell, so I’ll make it short. I wasn’t involved in this thing tonight, and I believe you all know I’m not stressing that point just to save my neck at your expense. But it’s a fact, and facts count in this deal. So if you want my opinion...” He smiled at Detweiller and Malleck. “In an advisory capacity, let’s say, I think your story is a damn sound one. It leaves you two in the clear. Understand me, I don’t think you need any defense for what you did, but the newspapers might blow up the bare facts into something pretty ugly. The right and wrong of the matter could get so distorted that the dirt would splash on everybody.”