The Darkest Hour

14

Retnick waited in his room for Neville’s call. He sat on the edge of the bed smoking one cigarette after another and checking his watch every few minutes. It was after midnight now; five hours had passed since Evans and Mario had been arrested.

The lamp on the bureau cast a pale yellow light over the old furniture, the dusty, rose-patterned furniture, and drew dark lines across Retnick’s rock-hard face. Nothing could slip, he was thinking. Evans was in a savage, nervous mood, half-convinced he was being measured for a frame. Young Mario was a weakling and a fool. Slam them together and you’d get an explosion of squeals and denials. But it hadn’t happened yet.

He tried to picture what was going on at the Thirty-First, knowing the cat-and-mouse game Neville would play, knowing the mood of casual but ominous tension he would generate for the benefit of Evans and Mario Amato. He had been part of that scene himself dozens of times but tonight it was difficult to bring it into clear and vivid focus. Another idea slipped softly into his mind, threading itself like elusive music into his hard and bitter thoughts. Tonight would dissolve the swollen fury he had lived with for five years, and then he could see his wife again. Maybe he would understand her then.

The phone rang shrilly and before the echoes died away Retnick was through the door and into the wide dark hallway. He lifted the receiver and said, “Yes?”

“Steve?” It was Neville’s voice, edged with weariness.

“Yes. Did they crack?”

Neville drew a deep breath. “It’s a bust, Steve. They aren’t talking.”

“They will, they’ve got to,” Retnick said, tightening his grip on the receiver.

“We used all the tricks, Steve. Nothing worked.”

“Evans practically admitted to me that he killed Ragoni,” Retnick said angrily. “And he practically admitted that young Mario Amato paid him to do it.”

“They won’t admit anything now,” Neville said. “Now listen: we picked up Mario at his uncle’s house four or five hours ago. Kleyburg made the pinch. Amato raised hell. He told his nephew he’d have him out by morning. Mario believed him, I guess. He won’t talk. And neither will Evans. I’ve had two calls from downtown. They’re getting hotter about this pinch all the time. So far they buy my story. But I can’t convince them much longer.”

“So you’ll turn them loose,” Retnick said bitterly.

“I’ll have to. I expect Amato here in an hour or so with a writ for Mario. After Mario walks out Evans will know damn well we were bluffing. I could hold him for a while but what’s the point? He isn’t going to talk.”

Retnick stared down the dark hallway. He could see the yellow gleam of a street lamp through the glass doorway. He said quietly, “Look, Lieutenant, is that creep Connors around? You know, the detective on Amato’s string.”

“Sure he’s around. He’s trying to find out what’s up. But I’ve kept him away from this deal. Why?”

“Tell him young Mario has spilled everything,” Retnick said.

Neville was silent a moment. Then he said wearily, “Steve, you’re out of your mind. Connors would pass that to Amato. Do you want to back a hunch against that boy’s life?”

“I’m not interested in Mario’s life,” Retnick said. “I want to hang Amato. If he thinks his nephew has squealed on him he’ll play into your hands.”

“No!” Neville said, snapping the single word out with explosive force. “I’ve gone as far as I can with you. I’m not going to set up a murder to prove that your guess is right. Damn it, Steve, think! Do you realize what you’re asking?”

“It was just a thought,” Retnick said. He’d been foolish to hope for Neville’s help on a shady maneuver; Neville played to strict rules. “I guess we struck out,” he said.

“Don’t worry, we won’t stop here,” Neville said.

“Sure,” Retnick said. Then he said casually, “Is Kleyburg around, by the way?”

“No, I sent him home an hour ago. Why?”

“It wasn’t important. It will keep.”

“Get some rest, Steve. And don’t think we’re licked.”

“Of course not. Thanks for the try, Lieutenant.”

When Retnick replaced the phone he stood for a moment in the darkness, a strange little smile touching his lips. Neville wouldn’t help him. But Kleyburg would.

The old man was obviously ready for bed; he wore a dark-blue flannel robe with slippers and the ends of his gray hair were still damp from a shower. He peered up at Retnick, who stood in the shadows of the doorway, and a surprised smile touched his face. “Steve, this is wonderful,” he said. “I couldn’t imagine who it was at this time of night.”

“I know it’s late.”

“Forget it. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” Retnick walked into the warm, comfortable room and dropped his hat on a sofa. Kleyburg had been reading; there was a cup of coffee on the table beside his chair, and a sports magazine on the ottoman. The air smelled pleasantly of coffee and pipe smoke.

“How about a drink, Steve? I’m a long way from turning in. We can jaw away all night if you like.”

Retnick looked steadily at him. “Evans didn’t talk. Neither did young Mario. That’s why I’m here. I need help.”

“Sure, Steve. What do you want?”

“We’ve got to make Evans talk,” Retnick said.

Kleyburg spread his hands helplessly. “Easier said than done, Steve. We’ve tried everything. On him and young Mario. But they didn’t break. They’re more scared of Amato than they are of cops.”

“There’s one more thing you can try, Miles.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Tell Amato his nephew squealed.”

Kleyburg smiled uncertainly as the silence stretched and grew in the small, comfortable room. “Now, Steve,” he said at last, still smiling nervously and uncertainly. “Amato wouldn’t believe us. He’d know we were bluffing.”

“Not if he got the word from Connors,” Retnick said.

Kleyburg’s smile faded slowly. He gestured nervously with one hand and then, to gain time it seemed, removed his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief he took from the pocket of his robe. “Yes, he’d believe Connors,” he said finally. “That’s what he pays him for. Information. But what good would that do?”

“The word would get back to Evans,” Retnick said. “Right now he’s ready to blow sky high. If he thought the kid had talked he’d start singing, too. And he’d tell us who paid him to kill Ragoni.”

Kleyburg shook his head quickly and turned away from Retnick. Without glasses he looked weary and vulnerable; his eyes blinked against the light and a tense frown gathered on his forehead. “You... you can’t be serious,” he said.

“All it will take is one phone call. From you to Connors.”

“No!” Kleyburg said, still shaking his head. “Good Lord, Steve, do you realize what you’re asking. Spreading the word that Mario squealed would be like handing him a death sentence. And that’s a verdict only a judge and jury are qualified to make. You know that, Steve. I’m a police officer, not an executioner.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to the kid,” Retnick said. “Amato won’t kill his own nephew. All this will do is put pressure on Evans. One phone call from you to Connors can break Nick Amato. What are you stalling for?”

“Steve, don’t ask me to do this,” Kleyburg said, rubbing a hand helplessly over his forehead. Turning away from Retnick he looked at the pictures of his sons on the mantel, staring at them as if he could find some strength and resolution in their earnest young faces. “I’ve never pulled anything shady or crooked in all my years on the force,” he said, and it seemed as if he were speaking to his boys now instead of Retnick. “Maybe that’s no claim to fame. But I slept nights. I never had any trouble looking at myself in a mirror.” Sighing, he turned and looked up into Retnick’s eyes. “You see why it’s impossible, Steve? You’re taking a chance on that boy’s life. I can’t go that far.”

“You’ve got a fine bleeding heart for hoodlums all of a sudden,” Retnick said bitterly. “I’m after the guy who framed me into jail for five years. But you won’t lift a finger to help. All you’ll do is make pious speeches about how honest you are and what a pity it would be if a pampered little creep like Mario got hurt. Did you forget that I got hurt too? I lost every goddamn thing that made sense in my life, but that doesn’t mean anything to you. To hell with Retnick. This is Be-kind-to-the-Amatos week.”

“Steve, don’t talk that way,” Kleyburg said. He rubbed his mouth nervously and glanced around the room, avoiding Retnick’s eyes. “If... if you’d calm down you’d see I’m right about this.”

Retnick walked to the mantel and picked up a picture of Kleyburg’s older son. He stared at the grave young face, and a bitter smile touched his lips. Then he looked at Kleyburg. “How do you think you lived long enough to raise these kids?” he said quietly. “When we worked together who kicked open the doors, and walked into dark alleys? You or me?”

“Steve, I know you carried me, I know—”

“Sure, I carried you,” Retnick said harshly. “I took the tough jobs and let you sit on your can in the car. You think I liked that? You think I was tired of living and wanted some hopped-up punk to blow my brains out?”

“Steve,” Kleyburg said helplessly, but Retnick cut him off with an angry gesture. “You made your speech, let me make mine. I carried you because you had kids. Because they needed you alive and on a payroll. Otherwise they might have been on the streets. Think about that when you look at these pictures. Think about that when you’re sitting around in Florida on your pension.”

Retnick put the picture back on the mantel and turned to the door. Kleyburg hurried after him and caught his arm. “Steve, wait a minute,” he said, in a soft, pleading voice. “Don’t leave this way. We were friends, remember.”

With a hand on the door Retnick turned and stared at him. “Sure, I remember,” he said. “You’re the one who forgot it.”

“Wait, please.” Kleyburg rubbed his forehead and shook his head. He looked very tired and beaten; his lips were trembling and his eyes were dull and hopeless. “I can’t let you go this way,” he said, barely whispering the words. “I... I’ll get the word to Connors.”

Retnick caught his shoulders in his big hands. “He’s at the Thirty-First now. If he’s gone try his home. And for God’s sake don’t be obvious about it.”

“I’ll handle it,” Kleyburg said wearily. “We’re working on a case. I’ll call him about that and let him pump me. He thinks I’m an old fool anyway.”

“That should work,” Retnick said. “Don’t worry about the kid. It’s Nick Amato who’s going on the hook.”

Kleyburg nodded but his eyes slipped away from Retnick’s. “I... I’m glad to be able to help, Steve. I know you carried me. Even if it was just because of the kids I appreciate it.”

“We’ll have a drink the day they hang Amato,” Retnick said. “Make that call now.”