Savage Streets

Chapter Thirteen

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.

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.”

“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?”

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.