The Darkest Hour

1

Steve Retnick’s release from Sing Sing caused a brief and seemingly casual stir of interest in the file room of the Thirty-First Detective Squad. There were three men present when Sergeant Miles Kleyburg, after a glance at his desk calendar, said: “Today’s the day. You think he’ll come back here?” There was no particular emphasis in the tone of his voice.

Lieutenant Neville stood in the doorway of his private office packing a short black pipe, and it was difficult to tell from his expression whether or not he had heard Kleyburg’s question. He was frowning slightly, and there was an impersonally irritable set to his lean, intelligent features. “You mean Steve,” he said at last, and walked past Kleyburg’s desk to the wide, dirt-streaked windows that overlooked the river. Lighting his pipe, he stared without enthusiasm at the view. Snow had fallen that morning and a high steady wind had packed it slickly and tightly on the streets and sidewalks. Gulls stood out brightly against the swollen, soot-dark river.

“I don’t know about Retnick,” Lieutenant Neville said, shaking his head slowly. “He’ll want to know about Ragoni. I hope—” Shrugging he left the sentence incomplete. “He’ll do what he wants, I suppose.”

“I’ll be glad to see him,” Kleyburg said, and the lack of inflection in his voice gave the words a curious weight.

Neville glanced at him. “I will too,” he said, and went about the business of lighting his pipe.

The third man in the room, a detective named Connors, studied a report on his desk and took no part in the conversation. When the lieutenant returned to his office a moment or so later, Connors stretched and got to his feet. He was a tall young man with even features and wavy blond hair. Except for excellent clothes and a certain aloofness in his manner, there was nothing distinctive about his appearance; his face was handsome but blankly so, unrelieved by humor or intelligence.

“I’m going out for a few minutes,” he said casually.

Kleyburg, a heavily built man with thin white hair and horn-rimmed glasses, nodded briefly at him but said nothing. He watched Connors saunter through the double doors of the squadroom, with no expression at all on his tired, solid face.

Connors went quickly down the dusty stairs, nodded to the uniformed lieutenant at the desk, and crossed the mean slum street to a small candy store. Edging through a crowd of youngsters at the comics book rack, he walked to the telephone booth at the rear of the shop. He dialed a number and when a voice answered, he said, “Mr. Amato, please. This is Connors.” After a short wait another voice spoke to him, and he said, “Connors, Mr. Amato. I just thought I’d remind you. Retnick is out today.” Listening then, he smiled faintly at the back of his well-groomed hand. “Sure,” he said at last. “I’ll find him. I’ll take care of it.”

Connors replaced the phone and went outside. A cold wind swept down the crosstown block, stirring up flurries of snow. Connors turned his collar up and hurried toward the station.

But Steve Retnick didn’t return that day or the next. And along the waterfront and in certain police stations there were men who waited uneasily for him...

It was eight-fifteen the following night when Retnick walked into Tim Moran’s saloon on Twelfth Avenue. He stopped just inside the door, a tall, wide-shouldered man who wore cheap clothes and a felt hat pulled down low on his forehead. His face was expressionless as he glanced around, but his eyes were cold and sharp under the brim of his hat.

The place wasn’t crowded at that hour; two dockworkers sat at the end of the bar, red-faced men in caps and bulky jackets. Standing between them was a huge, deceptively fat man whose round, childish face was slightly flushed with liquor. He wore an expensive camel’s hair coat that accentuated his size, and his voice rumbled over that of the tenor who was singing shrilly of Killarney from the juke box. Retnick knew the big man; he was called Hammy, and before showing up on the waterfront he had made his living as a sparring partner, a punching bag for fighters who had some brains as well as bulk. He was a simple-minded bully, dangerously strong and arrogant. Retnick wasn’t interested in him so he turned and walked slowly to the bar.

Tim Moran looked up from a glass he was polishing and his mouth sagged open in surprise. “Steve!” he said, as a smile spread slowly over his small red face. “Steve, boy! Welcome back, boy.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Retnick said, taking a seat.

“You’ve not changed at all,” Moran said.

This was almost true; the five years in jail hadn’t marked him physically. The planes of his dark face were sharp and hard. There was no gray in his close-cut black hair, and his body was like something made of seasoned wood and leather, tough and flexible, designed to endure. But there were changes.

“Five years older,” Retnick said, pushing his hat a bit higher on his forehead. Moran looked into his eyes then and saw the change in the man. He said, “Well, let’s celebrate, Steve. What’ll it be?” He looked away from Retnick as he spoke, troubled by what he had seen in those flat gray eyes. “What’ll it be, boy?”

“I’ll skip the drink,” Retnick said. “I’m looking for Frank Ragoni. Has he been in here?”

“No, Steve, I haven’t seen him for a week.”

“You know he’s missing, I guess.”

“Yes, I know that,” Moran said. “But it just don’t make sense.”

“Have you heard any talk about where he might be?”

“Not a word. I’d like to help. I know you were good friends, but—” He shrugged again, watching Retnick’s dark, hard face.

“Ragoni finished his shift at midnight,” Retnick said. “He was working at Pier Five, in the hold of a North Star Lines ship that night. He never got home. I’ve talked to his wife. She says he was in a good mood when he left for work. That’s all I’ve found out.”

“Why should he up and disappear?” Moran said. “He’s got a nice wife and family, and he’s the steady type. It don’t make sense, does it, Steve?”

“Not yet it doesn’t,” Retnick said.

The big man in the camel’s hair coat rapped on the bar and stared peevishly at Moran. “What do I do for a drink?” he said, his eyes switching to Retnick. “Send you a gold-plated invitation or something?”

Moran smiled quickly. “I was just talking to a friend I haven’t seen for a while. What’ll it be?”

“Whisky all round,” Hammy said, staring at Retnick. “Give your long-lost friend one, too. He looks like he could use it.”

“Right away, Hammy.”

When the drink was set before him Retnick studied it for a moment or so in silence, realizing that Hammy was still watching him from the end of the bar. The room was silent as Retnick finally lifted the glass, took a sip from it and nodded to Hammy. “Thanks,” he said, and the curious little interval of tension dissolved. Hammy began talking to the dock-workers again, and Moran put his elbows on the bar in front of Retnick.

“Watch yourself with him, Steve,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth to blur the words. “He’s mean.”

“Who’s he working for?”

“Nick Amato.”

“I picked up that drink too fast,” Retnick said. “Is Amato still riding high?”

“The men in his local stick behind him.”

“Do they have any choice?”

Moran found a rag and began to work on the shining surface of the bar. “I sell beer, Steve. To anybody who wants it. I don’t take sides in union politics. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” Retnick said. “I know how it is.”

“Steve, this is none of my business, but—” The little Irishman shrugged and smiled uncertainly. “Have you been to see your wife yet?”

Retnick stared at him for a moment or so without any expression on his face. Then he said, “No,” in a cold tight voice and got to his feet. “Take it easy,” he said, and started for the door.

Hammy called after him, “Hey, you didn’t finish your drink, buddy!”

Retnick turned around slowly. “I don’t want it,” he said.

“That’s no way to treat a free drink,” Hammy said, studying Retnick expectantly. “Go on, toss it down.”

Retnick kept a tight grip on his temper; he couldn’t afford trouble with this fool. “You’ve got a point,” he said, and walked to the bar and finished off the drink.

Hammy sauntered toward him then, a little smile touching his big simple face. He was a ponderous bulk of a man, with a chest and stomach that were barrel-like in their proportions. His eyes were small and confident, reflecting the simple trust he held in his own size and strength. He enjoyed the power his huge body gave him over others, and he looked for occasions to exercise it; fighting made him feel brave because he hadn’t the wit to distinguish between strength and courage.

“I guess I’m a little slow,” he said, still grinning amiably. “You’re Steve Retnick, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” Retnick said turning again toward the door.

“The big tough copper,” Hammy said, with a different edge to his voice; he was whetting his temper now, waiting pleasurably for it to take charge of his judgment and senses. “The big tough cop who got sent to jail for murder. How was it in jail, copper?”

Retnick said, “It wasn’t good, Hammy.”

Hammy cocked his big head and smiled slightly. “You don’t sound tough any more,” he said. “I guess they softened you up some.” There wouldn’t be any fight, he knew then. This was a big slob whose guts had turned to water in a cell. “You better get going,” he said, leaning against the bar. “I don’t like ex-cops any better than I like cops.”

Retnick hesitated briefly, memorizing the look of Hammy’s big stupid face, the arrogant pose of his body at the bar. “Okay,” he said and walked out. The opening and closing of the door let a rush of cold air into the warm bar; a swarm of snowflakes whirled dizzily across the floor before melting into little black spots of water. Hammy put his head back and began to laugh...

Outside, Retnick turned his collar up against the bitter wind that came off the river. The graceful bulk of a liner loomed directly ahead of him, blacker than the night. He lit a cigarette, cupping his powerful hands about the match, and the small flame glinted on the sharp planes of his face and drew a vivid outline of his head and shoulders against the darkness. Inhaling deeply he waited for his anger to subside; this was a new anger, hot and impulsive, completely alien to the frozen lifeless anger that had been locked inside him for five years. He could control this new anger, subjugate it to a proper place in his plans. The old anger was something else again; that existed of itself, independent of his will or desire. Flipping the match aside he walked uptown and turned into a slum block, where only a few yellow lights winked from the tall old brownstones.

This was an area he had learned by heart; the river first with its slow booming traffic, and then the piers, the switching yards, and the mean tough waterfront streets of the West Side. This was a jungle on the edge of the city and Retnick knew most of its secrets.

Retnick walked east for three blocks, occasionally stopping in the shadow of a car to study the street behind him; but nothing moved in the darkness. In the fourth block he passed the heavy incongruous bulk of St. Viator’s and went up the stone steps of the rectory that adjoined the church. For an instant he hesitated before the stained glass cross that was inset in the frosted pane of the door. Then he rang the bell.

Mrs. Simmons, the white-haired housekeeper, opened the door, and when she recognized him she let out a little cry of surprise and pleasure. “Steve, it’s really you,” she said, as he stepped into the lighted foyer. It was obvious she didn’t know quite what to say after that; she made several false starts, stammering with the excitement of it all, and then said, “Wait, I’ll tell Father Bristow. Just wait, he’s in his study.”

Retnick removed his hat and turned down the collar of his overcoat. Brushing flakes of snow from his shoulders, he glanced about the little room, studying the familiar furniture and pictures. Nothing had been changed here. The Madonna, the Crucifix, the faded carpet and old-fashioned hall-tree mirror, they were all the same, just five years older. Everything was five years older.

A door opened and Father Bristow came down the hall, a warm grin spreading on his round brown face. “Well, well, this is wonderful,” he said, putting both hands on Retnick’s shoulders. “Come on into the study and we’ll celebrate properly.”

The study was a small room at the back of the rectory, cluttered with books and magazines, smelling of wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Retnick shook his head as Father Bristow took a bottle of wine from a tiny closet beside the fireplace.

“Never mind the drink,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to celebrate.”

Glancing at him curiously, Father Bristow saw the cold, dispassionate expression in Retnick’s face. He hesitated a second, and then put the bottle away. “All right, Steve,” he said quietly.

“I’m looking for Frank Ragoni,” Retnick said.

Father Bristow sighed. “I wish I could help you.”

“When did you see him last?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Did he have any message for me?”

“No, he and his wife stopped by after Mass, but he didn’t have anything specific to say about you, Steve. Their oldest boy is being confirmed pretty soon, and that’s what he wanted to see me about.”

Retnick was silent a moment, staring at the priest with cold eyes. “Well, it was a long shot,” he said. “Thanks, anyway.”

“What’s all this about?”

“Six weeks ago I had a letter from Ragoni,” he said. Staring into the fire, Retnick’s eyes narrowed against the small, spurting flames. “He said he knew who killed Joe Ventra.”

The silence stretched out between the two men, straining and tight in the cozy little room. Father Bristow was quite pale. “Joe Ventra,” he said slowly.

“That’s right,” Retnick said. “Well, take it easy, Father.”

“Now wait a minute, Steve,” the priest said, putting a hand quickly on Retnick’s arm. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Ragoni. He’ll tell me who killed Ventra. After that, everything will be simple.”

“Please, Steve. I’m not going to make a sermon, but I want you to listen to me. Everyone knows you didn’t kill Joe Ventra. That’s common knowledge from one end of the waterfront to the other. You were framed. Everyone knows that.”

“That’s right,” Retnick said, with deceptive gentleness. “I was framed. Everybody knew it. The cops knew it, and so did the unions. But that didn’t keep me out of jail. I got thrown off the force as a murderer.” Retnick’s voice thickened as he jerked his arm away from the priest’s hand. “I lived in a cage like an animal for five years,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Sleeping alone, eating what they put in front of me, never moving without rifles pointing at my back. I paid five years of my life for Joe Ventra’s death. Now somebody else is going to pay.”

“Steve, you’re heading for trouble.”

“I want trouble,” Retnick said, staring at him bitterly. “I need it.” And then, because he owed the priest this much, he said, “Forget the guy you remember, Father. The guy who taught boxing to your boys clubs and took the kids on fishing trips up to Montauk. I’m somebody else.”

“I doubt that,” the priest said. “But what about Marcia?”

“She’ll get along. She’s good at that.”

“Aren’t you going to see her?”

“Sure,” Retnick said. “She knew Ragoni.”

“Is that the only reason you’re seeing her?”

“Tell me a better one,” Retnick said coldly.

A touch of color appeared in the priest’s face. “I don’t know all your problems,” he said, “but I know your duties. And one of them is to treat her with compassion and sympathy, no matter what mistakes she’s made.”

“And what about her duties?” Retnick said, staring at the priest. Then he turned away sharply. “Talking’s no good. I’ve got to be going, Father.”

The priest went with him to the door. From the steps he watched Retnick walking toward the avenue, walking like a man advancing on an enemy. Father Bristow shivered involuntarily, not from the cold but from the memory of the coldness in Retnick’s eyes.