The Darkest Hour

2

The Gramercy was a supper club in the East Fifties, an intimate spot that featured excellent food and unobtrusive music. There was a small bar and several banquettes at one end of the room to accommodate patrons waiting for tables; it wasn’t a place for stags to get drunk in. The bartender looked dubiously at Retnick’s cheap suit, and said, “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“No. Give me a whisky with water.”

“Very well, sir.” The bartender didn’t argue the point; as a judge of men he bet himself that this one wouldn’t start trouble. Finish it, more than likely—

Retnick glanced into the crowded, dimly lighted dining room and saw the tiny white piano placed against the far wall.

“When does the music start?” he asked the bartender.

“Nine-thirty, or thereabouts.”

“Is she here now?”

“You mean the pianist?”

“That’s right, Marcia Kelly.”

“I believe she’s changing, sir.”

Retnick took the paper coaster from under his drink and wrote his name on it. “Would you send this back to her, please?” he said, pushing the coaster across the bar.

“Well, sir, we have a rule about that, you know.”

“It’s all right. I’m an old friend of hers.”

“In this case—” The bartender hesitated, smiling uncertainly. Then he signaled a waiter, hoping that his estimate of this man had been accurate.

The waiter returned in a moment or so and said to Retnick, “She’d like to see you, sir. Will you come with me?”

Walking through the little flurries of laughter and conversation in the dining room, Retnick noticed the piano again and remembered that a piano had figured in their first meeting. This was no feat of memory; there were few details of their days and nights together that he couldn’t recall effortlessly and vividly. When he met her he had been bird-dogging for Father Bristow, looking for someone to give piano lessons to three kids in the boys club. The priest had suggested Marcia Kelly, a girl from the parish who had studied music in college.

She had been willing to help out...

They were married in the summer, six months or so after they had met. And a short while after that, a month to the day before Christmas, he was in jail on a murder rap.

They turned into a short corridor and the waiter pointed to a door at the end of it. “Right there,” he said.

“Thanks.” When the waiter had gone Retnick hesitated, feeling nothing but the pressure of the lifeless anger in his breast. It was all right then, he knew. Nothing could touch him.

He walked down the corridor and rapped on the door. She said, “Come in, please,” in a light, expectant voice. Retnick smiled and twisted the knob.

She stood in the middle of the softly lighted dressing room, a small girl with close-cut, curly black hair. There was humor and intelligence in her delicate features, and her body looked slimly mature and elegant in a simple black evening gown.

Retnick closed the door and stood with his back to it, watching her with a cold little smile. For an instant neither of them spoke and the silence became oppressive in the perfume-scented room.

She’s twenty-eight now, he thought irrelevantly. The years had touched her; the planes of her face were more sharply defined and the look of gay and careless happiness was gone from her eyes. He noticed that her bare shoulders were lightly tanned but that her face was very pale.

“Steve,” she said, and took a tentative step toward him, smiling uncertainly into the coldness of his eyes.

Retnick leaned against the door. “This isn’t a social call,” he said.

“I waited at home for you yesterday,” she said.

“Home?”

A touch of color came into her face. “The apartment then. I... I hoped you’d come back. I had a steak, a bottle of wine—” She made a helpless little gesture with her hands, smiling too brightly now. “It was quite a production, Steve. Too bad you had to miss it.”

“A big welcome for the hero, eh?” he said. “The kind GI’s get, with all the neighbors in to add to the festivities.”

“I thought—”

“I didn’t get out of the army, I got out of jail,” Retnick said.

She brought her hands up slowly to her breast. “Why didn’t you come home?”

“What for?”

“I’m still your wife.”

“That’s your decision, not mine,” Retnick said. “I told you to get a divorce.”

“I didn’t want a divorce. I wanted to wait for you.”

“And did you wait?” Retnick said evenly. “Like a pure and faithful wife in some medieval romance? Is that how you waited?”

“Please, Steve,” she said. She turned away from him, hugging her arms tightly against her body. “Let’s don’t talk about it. Not now. Can’t we go somewhere and have a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Can’t you give me the tiniest break?” she said, turning and looking steadily into his eyes. “I want to tell you what happened. It’s not a long and fancy story. There aren’t any twists or surprises in it. And I don’t come out as the brave and lonely little heroine.” She took a step toward him, smiling with trembling lips into his hard face. “I’m not trying to make it sound cute, Steve. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I knew you,” he said.

“You left me with nothing,” she said, shaking her head helplessly. “Why did you do it to me? You told me not to visit you in jail. You wouldn’t even see me when I went there. You told me to get a divorce the day the trial ended. And you acted as if you hated me. I couldn’t understand it. I tried to wait for you, Steve, I tried. I—”

“There was a man, right?”

“Please, Steve.” She turned away from him and put a hand to her forehead. “I wrote you everything. I needed your help. I still need it.”

“You needed something,” Retnick said, “but it wasn’t me. So let’s forget it. When did you see Frank Ragoni last?”

She stared at him with something like wonder in her eyes. “What did they do to you, Steve? You used to understand people, you used—”

“When did you see Ragoni last?” Retnick’s voice fell across her words like a cold dead weight.

She sat down at the dressing table and shrugged her slim bare shoulders. “Okay, okay,” she said wearily. “You think I’m a leper and that’s that. I’ll stop trying to change your mind. So on to something important. Frank was in here about a month ago, I think. With his wife. They were celebrating an anniversary.”

“A month ago. Did he give you any message for me?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “What am I supposed to remember?”

“This would have to do with Joe Ventra’s murderer.”

She looked at him and her hand moved slowly to her throat. “I’m sure he said nothing about that.”

Retnick hesitated an instant. “Did he ever mention Ventra to you?”

“Only to say you’d been framed for his murder. He said that over and over.”

“Did you see Ragoni often?”

“He asked me to come out for dinner every few months. And I had his family up to the apartment occasionally for breakfast after Mass.” She smiled bitterly. “We got along fine. He used to tell what a great fullback you were at Fordham. His wife liked me, too.”

Retnick turned abruptly to the door.

“Steve, wait!” she said, coming swiftly to her feet.

Without looking at her, he said, “I’ve waited five years. I’m through waiting. So long.”

It was ten o’clock when Retnick stepped into a telephone booth a block from the Gramercy. He dialed a number and a woman’s voice answered the phone. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Glencannon,” Retnick said.

“Who’s this?”

“My name is Retnick, Steve Retnick.”

“Is there any other message? This is his sister speaking.”

“I want to see him tonight, if that’s possible.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Retnick lit a cigarette and waited, staring out at the shining counters of the drugstore, at the couples sitting at the fountain.

“Hello? My brother would be glad to see you tonight. Do you have our address?”

“Yes. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

Retnick left the drugstore and picked up a cruising cab on Lexington Avenue. He gave the driver Glencannon’s address and settled back to think. Jack Glencannon was the president of Ragoni’s local, 202. And that local was heading for trouble. It adjoined Nick Amato’s area of operations, and Amato was preparing to expand in an obvious direction. Retnick had learned this the day before from Frank Ragoni’s wife. Amato and Glencannon were as dissimilar as two men could be; one was honest, the other was a thief. But Retnick wondered if Amato were big enough to take on Glencannon; if so it was a tribute of sorts to his nerve and cunning. Glencannon was a tough and powerful old man, a legend on the docks for more than thirty years. He was Union Jack to his boys, and they had always stuck to him with fierce loyalty. Glencannon’s hold on his men was simple; he ran an honest local. He didn’t believe in short-gangs, loan sharks, kickbacks or organized theft. It was a formidable set-up to oppose, Retnick knew; but he also knew that Amato never started a fight if there was a chance of losing it.

Glencannon lived on the fifth floor of an apartment building in the West Seventies. Retnick knocked and the door was opened by a gray-haired woman who smiled and said, “Come in, please. I’m Jack’s sister.”

“I’m sorry to be calling so late,” he said.

“Goodness, don’t let that bother you,” she said, with a little laugh. “People keep coming in at all hours. Friends, judges, politicians, the mayor himself sometimes, they just drop in when it suits them.” She took off her rimless glasses and smiled philosophically. “I’ve looked after Jack since my husband died eighteen years ago, and I tell you frankly I marvel to this day at his patience. Well, now, was it something in particular you wanted to talk to him about?”

“It’s about Frank Ragoni.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Then she hesitated. “Jack hasn’t been well lately. I know you’ll understand.”

Retnick sensed something behind the literal meaning of her words. “I’ll make my visit brief,” he said.

Retnick lit another cigarette and glanced about the large, comfortably furnished room. He had known Glencannon pretty well in the past. The old man had followed his football career with interest, and had been one of his references for the police department. Which certainly hadn’t hurt.

The door opened and Glencannon’s sister came in. Retnick knew from her expression that something was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she said, making an awkward little gesture with her hands. “My brother just doesn’t think he’s up to seeing anyone tonight.”

“That’s too bad,” Retnick said slowly. “Is it anything serious?”

“No, thank heaven, it’s just one of those heavy colds that is working down to his chest.”

“He was all right when I called,” Retnick said. “That was ten minutes ago.”

“Ups and downs are fairly common at his age,” she said, in a cooler voice. “Some other night would be better, I think.”

“He didn’t go down until he heard Ragoni’s name,” Retnick said. “Was that what bothered him?”

“It isn’t my place to interpret his messages,” she said. “He doesn’t want to see anyone tonight. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Maybe the name Ragoni bothers you,” Retnick said.

“It means nothing to me.”

“You’ll be an impartial audience then,” Retnick said quietly. “Frank Ragoni was a member of your brother’s local. He’s been missing for more than a week. Could you guess why?”

“I don’t know anything about these matters.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Retnick said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to your brother. Ragoni is missing, and he may be dead. Maybe he got killed for standing up to Nick Amato. That’s not his job, of course, that’s your brother’s.”

“You know all about killing, don’t you?” she said, in a rising voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re Steve Retnick, aren’t you?”

Retnick stared at her. “That’s right.”

She took a step backward, flushing at the look in his eyes. “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “But you have no right to be badgering me this way. My brother is a sick, overworked man.”

“Tell him I’m sorry for him,” Retnick said. “Nick Amato won’t be. Good night.”

Retnick’s room was on the first floor of a brownstone that had somehow preserved a remnant of dignity over the years. The wide, high-ceilinged hallway was clean and freshly painted and the beautiful old woodwork had been treated with care; it shone like satin in the light from the ornate brass chandelier. Kleyburg had rented this place in his name a month ago, after checking the landlady’s reputation, and making sure that none of the other tenants had police records; this was a parole board requirement and Kleyburg had satisfied it with scrupulous care.

Retnick was searching for his key when a faint scratching noise sounded behind him. He turned quickly, his instincts alerting him to danger, but it was a thin, gray-and-white cat that stared up at him from the shadowed comer of the hallway. Its eyes gleamed like blue-green marbles in the darkness. Retnick let out his breath slowly, and rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. Relief eased the tension in his arms and shoulders. He knew he was in a dangerous mood, ready to explode at the slightest pressure. But there was nothing he could do about it. He picked up the cat and felt its claws tighten nervously against the rough cloth of his overcoat.

As bad as I am, he thought, rubbing the little animal gently under the chin. But you’ll get over it. A cup of milk and a sweater to curl up on will fix you up fine. Shifting the cat to his left hand he opened the door of his room and snapped on the lights. He had nothing to feed her, he realized, and the delicatessens in the neighborhood were closed by now. Annoyed with himself, he turned back to the hallway. He didn’t want to be responsible for anything, even a kitten. But he couldn’t leave her now. After this promise of attention and company she’d keep the whole house awake scratching and crying at his door. Finally he walked down the hall and rapped gently on his landlady’s door. This was a fine way of getting thrown out of here, he thought, waking Mrs. Cara in the middle of the night over a stray cat. But he was wrong. Mrs. Cara opened the door, tightening the belt of her blue robe, and her fat brown face broke into a smile as she saw the cat in Retnick’s arm.

“Well, you found Silvy,” she said, in a fond, pleased voice.

“She was in the hallway. I thought she was probably hungry.”

“No, she’s been fed. The trouble is she just likes to wander around.” She looked up at him then, an appraising little smile on her lips. “Look, you like cats?”

“Well enough,” Retnick said. “Why?”

“You could help me out maybe,” Mrs. Cara said. “Silvy slips out of here whenever the door is open, and that’s practically all the time with the mail, the laundry, and people asking for messages or paying their rent. Then she roams all over the house keeping people awake.”

“Well, how can I help out?” Retnick said, as Mrs. Cara paused expectantly.

“Let me keep her in your room. Okay? She won’t be no bother, no mess or nothing. I’ll take care of her but she lives with you.” Smiling, she patted his arm. “How about it?”

Retnick shrugged and smiled faintly. “You made a deal, Mrs. Cara.”

“You’re a good man,” Mrs. Cara said. “Lots of people don’t care about cats. They think cats got some trick so they live without food or any attention at all. ‘Drive out in the country and throw ’em anywhere. They’ll get by.’ That’s what some people say. I’d like to throw them out in the woods and see how they like it. ‘Eat some bark,’ I’d tell ’em. ‘You’ll get along fine.’ ”

Retnick patted the cat. “We’ll see that she gets along okay. Don’t worry.”

When he returned to his room the cat leaped from his arms and made a tense trip along the walls, peering around as if she expected to find mastiffs in every corner.

Retnick watched her for a few seconds, and then took off his overcoat and dropped it on the bed. By the time he had stripped to the waist the cat was curled up on the coat, blinking drowsily. Smiling faintly he moved her aside and hung his overcoat in the closet. He stretched tiredly then, and the action brought a web of heavy muscles into play; he was built like a weight-lifter, with tremendous arms and shoulders, but there was nothing freakish or narcissistic about the development of his body. He was designed for function, not display.

He was tired but sleep was impossible, he knew; he would only lie staring into the darkness, thinking. And he had done enough of that in the last five years.

He was lighting a cigarette when a knock sounded on the door. Retnick hesitated, frowning. No one had this address but the Parole Board. The knock sounded again, imperatively this time. Retnick stepped to the door and opened it an inch.

“Retnick?” a voice said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Connors, Thirty-First Detectives.” An open wallet appeared at the crack in the door and Retnick saw the gleaming face of a police shield. “I want to talk to you.”

“Sure, come in,” he said, opening the door.

Connors studied Retnick, taking his time about it, and then he smiled slightly and sauntered into the room. “Cozy little spot,” he said, glancing around casually. “Mind if I take off my coat?”

“Go ahead.”

Connors removed his handsomely cut tweed overcoat and folded it neatly over the foot of the bed. When he saw the cat he looked at Retnick with a quizzical little smile. “I didn’t figure you as a benefactor of stray kittens,” he said.

“How did you figure me?” Retnick said.

Connors shrugged lightly. “You had quite a reputation at the Thirty-First,” he said. “Very rugged, very tough.” There was just a trace of malice in his smile. “I believe I’ve heard Sergeant Kleyburg refer to you as quote, a cop’s cop, unquote.”

“How is Kleyburg?” Retnick said, ignoring Connors’ sarcasm.

“Fine, just fine,” Connors said. He sat down and crossed his legs carefully, shifting his trousers to protect their sharp crease. Then he ran a hand over his wavy blond hair and smiled at Retnick. “Is there a drink in the house?”

“Sorry.” Retnick found Connors’ manner annoying, but he didn’t let that show in his expression. He knew nothing about him, but the quality of his clothes was suspicious; the handsome gray flannel suit, the white-on-white shirt, the expensive neatly figured tie — you didn’t buy items like that on a detective’s salary.

“What are your plans?” Connors said, after lighting a cigarette with a mannered little flourish.

“Nothing definite yet,” Retnick said. “Why?”

“I thought I might help you get your bearings,” Connors said.

“That would be nice.”

Connors was looking about for an ashtray. Retnick picked up one from the bureau and Connors accepted it with a nod of thanks. Balancing it on one knee, he looked at Retnick, a small smile touching his smooth handsome face. “Think of this as a briefing,” he said. “Things have changed since you went to jail. Specifically, things have changed on the waterfront. It will save you time and possibly trouble to keep that in mind. Things are peaceful now. The unions and shippers are getting along, and the locals aren’t squabbling among themselves any more. There’s a rumble every now and then, but strictly on an intramural basis.”

“Intramural?”

“That means all in the family.”

“It didn’t when I went to college,” Retnick said. “But go on.”

Connors inclined his head and smiled slightly. “I forgot you weren’t an ordinary cop. You were a cop’s cop. But as I was saying: the docks are quiet. The man who starts trouble won’t have any friends. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Retnick said.

“Good. Another point. Do you have any plans for a job?”

“No.”

“Maybe I can help out there.” Connors took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke toward Retnick. “When you killed Joe Ventra you inadvertently did Nick Amato a favor. That probably hasn’t occurred to you, but Amato is grateful, even though your efforts in his behalf were completely accidental.”

“You’re sure I killed Ventra,” Retnick said.

“I couldn’t care less one way or the other,” Connors said, with an easy smile. “If you say you took a bum rap, I’ll buy that. But the fact is you hit Ventra in a bar, and he went outside and died.”

“I pushed him away from me,” Retnick said. “He went outside and got slugged to death with a blackjack.”

“I’ll buy all that,” Connors said, still smiling. “As I say, if that’s your story it’s okay with me. But the jury heard witnesses say you knocked him around brutally, and that he was half-dead when you kicked him into the street. And they found you guilty of murder in the second degree. But to come back to the point: Ventra and Amato were fighting for control of Local 200 at the time. With Ventra dead, Amato naturally took over. Whoever killed Ventra accidentally did Amato a favor.”

“Maybe Amato did himself a favor,” Retnick said.

Connors looked thoughtfully at him. “You’re forgetting what I told you already. No one wants trouble. But cracks like that can lead to trouble. For you, my friend.”

“Let’s get to the point,” Retnick said. “What’s your deal?”

“Amato’s got a job for you. Chauffeur, bodyguard, something like that. The dough is good.”

“You like it, I guess,” Retnick said.

A slow tide of color moved up in Connors’ cheeks. “Brother, you are stupid,” he said gently. “You’re an ex-cop, an ex-convict. You’re all washed up. If you start any trouble you’ll get your head knocked right off your shoulders.”

Retnick turned away slowly, grinding a big fist into the palm of his hand. “You punks all sound alike,” he said, in a low, savage voice. “Messenger boys, carrier pigeons, doing dirty little jobs for hoodlums so you can dress like dudes and sneak a few week ends off in Miami or Atlantic City. Who’s going—”

“Listen—”

“Shut up!” Retnick said, turning swiftly and dangerously. The anger was a tight cruel pain inside him, a pressure screaming for release. “Who’s going to knock my head off? You?”

Connors got to his feet, wetting his lips. Instinct warned him his gun and badge wouldn’t prevail here. “Don’t fly off the handle,” he said, smiling with an effort into the murder in Retnick’s face. “I’ve told you what Amato is thinking. What you do about it is up to you.”

“You can tell Amato I’ve got a job,” Retnick said. “I’m going to find Frank Ragoni, and I’m going to find out who killed Ventra. And the guy who killed Ventra is going to wish to God he’d shot himself the same night.”

Connors shrugged and picked up his overcoat. “I gave you good advice,” he said. “You’ll appreciate it eventually.” Then, in the doorway, he smiled at Retnick. There was a new confidence in his manner. “Part of that job you mentioned won’t be too difficult. Finding Ragoni, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see it in the papers. Ragoni’s body was pulled out of the river tonight. I saw the report on it before I came over here. Someone stuck a knife into him.” Connors sighed. “Those things happen, Retnick. Good night.” He closed the door.

Retnick sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Ragoni was dead. Connors wouldn’t lie about it. For an instant he felt a curious surprise at his own lack of reaction. Ragoni had been a good friend of his, but he felt no sense of pain or loss at all, nothing but a certain selfish disappointment; this would make his job far more difficult. He swore bitterly and pounded a fist into his palm. It would have been so easy. Find Ragoni, listen to a name. That was all. Now he was on his own. There would be no help for him on the waterfront, no friends. The cat had curled up beside him but he was unaware of its warm presence. He sat perfectly still, staring at his big hands, and the single bare bulb drew deep shadows under his bitter, lonely eyes.