The Darkest Hour

20

Amato sat stiffly beside the driver and watched the heavy concrete supports of the elevated highway flash past them into the darkness. Twelfth Avenue stretched ahead of him, a black, wind-swept tunnel into which the car’s headlights bored like thick yellow lances. A small leather suitcase rested on his lap, and his arms were wrapped around it, hugging it tightly against his body. Under the black brim of his hat his cold brown eyes were tense and worried. This was the last big jump. If he slipped now it was all over.

“Everything is set, eh?” he said to the driver for perhaps the fifth time.

“Sure, there’s nothing to worry about,” the driver said casually. He was a short, slender man with graying hair and features that were pinched together into an expression of foxy good humor.

“I better not have to worry,” Amato said. “I don’t pay money to have things go wrong.”

“It was short notice, Mr. Amato,” the driver said. “We done our best. The launch is waiting at Pier 17. The guard there left a door open and took a walk for himself. You’ll go down the Hudson, through the Narrows and over to Sheepshead Bay. I didn’t get a final check yet, but the fishing boat is supposed to be there with two men to run it. The trip to Cuba takes a week. After that we’re out of it.”

“I got things set in Cuba,” Amato said. “I had that set a long time.”

“Well, we done our best on this end,” the driver said philosophically. “You got to be lucky, though.”

“You better hope I’m lucky,” Amato said, glancing at him with his awkward little smile.

“We done our best,” the driver said. Some of the good humor left his face as he felt Amato’s eyes on him. Most men on the run were at the mercy of those who helped them; they could only pay and pray. But Nick Amato wasn’t like most men. If this thing went wrong the driver knew that the waterfront would be a very unhealthy place for him.

Amato stared straight ahead again and hugged the grip to his chest. Instinct had made him run. There were men who would have stood fast and fought, betting on themselves, betting on money, influence, lawyers. But Amato had a peasant’s instinct for survival. He fled without regret, as he would have fled from a volcano that threatened his village. Maybe he would come back some day. But he didn’t think about this. Now it was important to get to Cuba and from there to Naples. He carried the harvest of thirty violent but profitable years in his suitcase, and in Naples he could live comfortably, and perhaps think about coming back. Amato needed time to think, and he was buying that as much as safety.

The car slowed to a stop in the darkness before Pier 17’s vast silent warehouse. “Well, here you are,” the driver said, letting the motor idle. “The door is unlocked, the guard is a couple of blocks away having a cup of coffee. The motor launch is tied up at the end of the terminal waiting for you. Okay?”

“It better be okay,” Amato said. “If nothing goes wrong I’ll send you a bottle of Lacryma Christi from Naples.”

“We’ll appreciate that, Mr. Amato.”

Amato grunted and got out of the car. The driver nodded at him, his face a thin pale blur in the darkness, and then started up toward Ninth Street. Amato stood in the darkness watching the red tail light until it disappeared at the intersection. He was suddenly aware of the silence; it stretched out on all sides of him, spreading hungrily to those distant places where there was noise and laughter and life. He was alone on the little island of sound that was bounded by the rapid beat of his heart. Turning abruptly he walked to the warehouse. The small door used by the guard was open; a light from inside drew a thin bright line along the edge of the jamb. Amato pushed the door in cautiously. A single bulb gleamed in the checker’s office, spreading a circle of brightness around the entrance to the warehouse.

But beyond this small yellow pool the terminal was lost in a vast echoing darkness. The launch waited for him at the end of this black cavern, the first link in the chain that would pull him to safety.

Amato closed the little door behind him, breathing more easily. A hundred-yard walk and he was on his way. He shifted the heavy suitcase to his right hand, tugged unnecessarily at his hat brim and started into the shadows.

And one of them began to move.

A little cry of terror broke through Amato’s lips. He backed toward the door, feeling the sickening speed of his heartbeat, and tasting the strong bitter fear in his mouth. Something darker than the shadows was coming toward him silently.

He saw the gleam of black shoes as they stepped into the yellow light, and then a voice he knew said, “The trip is off, Nick. It ends here.” Joe Lye came out of the darkness, his face pale and tense above the narrow black cylinder of his body. One side of his mouth was pulled up in an unnatural, ghastly smile, and a gun glinted in his hand. “You should have taken me for a partner,” he said. “That way you wouldn’t have to die.”

“Joe, you gave me a scare,” Amato said, trying desperately to smile. “I... I been looking for you. We got to clear out, you and me. I waited as long as I could — but it’s all right now.” He heard the hysterical note in his voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “I got plenty of dough here. And the boat’s waiting. For you and me. We got to go, Joe.”

“You weren’t looking for me,” Lye said. “Connors was looking for me. You shouldn’t have used a punk like him on a tough job, Nick. That’s the biggest mistake you made.”

“Joe, we got no time for talking,” Amato said, trying to swallow the dry constriction in his throat. He dropped the grip and locked his hands together in a desperate appeal. “We’re making Cuba the first stop, Joe. I got everything set. Passports, dough, berths on a freighter. It’s all set for you and me. You’ll like it there. It’s hot but the breezes are cool. And they make drinks with rum and lots of lime. It’s great, Joe.” There was a high giddy tremble in Amato’s voice now, and his smile stretched the skin whitely across his cheek bones. “What d’ye say, Joe? I look after things good, eh? And when we get to Italy I show you a fine time. Up in Milan they got night clubs and restaurants just like here. But we got to get moving. You carry the dough.” He laughed shrilly. “That’s right, you carry the dough. Nick trusts you.”

“You’re not going to Cuba,” Lye said in a cold, empty voice. “You gave Connors that Donaldson rap. That finished me. Now I’m going to finish you. You forgot I knew about this pier, eh?”

“Joe, you’re crazy,” Amato shouted. “I always did the thinking, didn’t I? You do what I say and we’ll make it to Naples.”

“Just a few seconds, that’s all you got,” Lye said in the same empty voice. “You used to wonder why I prayed in the death cell. Now you can find out.”

“Joe, be smart! We got a whole life ahead of us. With dough and—”

A dry metallic click sounded as Lye cocked the gun. “You’re wasting time,” he said. “Here you go, Nick.”

“Joe!” Amato screamed. He fell on his knees and clasped his hands over his breast. “Don’t shoot me. Give me a break.”

“So long, Nick.”

“God—” Amato’s voice was an incredulous whisper. He knew then that he was going to die — here in this cold warehouse, with a satchel of money at his feet and the launch that could take him to safety moored only a hundred yards away. He stared at Lye, while a desolate, hopeless fear spread sluggishly through his body. “God I’m sorry—” His voice broke there; the words of the Act of Contrition spun in his head, eluding his desperate search. “I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to weep. “I didn’t do wrong. There was no other way — because I dread the loss of Heaven.” He groped frantically for the familiar words. “And the pain of Hell. With your help, I amend my life.” That was all. He stared through his tears at Lye and shook his head slowly.

“Who were you praying to?” Lye said bitterly, and shot him twice just below the heart.

The echoes of the report rang through the immense warehouse, racing each other in noisy confusion toward the river. And above this clamoring racket Lye heard the keening wail of police sirens.

For an instant he stood perfectly still, the gun hanging limply at his side. A small, perplexed frown touched his forehead as he looked down at Amato. “Nick,” he whispered, “can you hear it? It’s cops.”

But Amato didn’t answer him; he lay on his back staring in fear and wonder at the shadows closing slowly over his eyes. His breathing was shallow and rapid, a laboring painful sound in the silence.

Lye looked around uncertainly. Then, moving with jerky strides, he picked up the grip that lay beside Amato, and ran into the darkness of the terminal. Ahead of him was the river and the launch. This wasn’t part of his plan; he had no plan beyond killing Amato. But as the desperate illogical hope grew in him, he heard the launch’s motors turn over and kick throbbingly to life. “Wait!” he shouted, but the crescendoing roar of the motors smothered his shrill, pleading voice.

When he reached the end of the terminal the small launch was speeding out of the slip toward the river.

Neville braked his car to a skidding stop before Pier 17. Another police squad was approaching on Ninth Street, its siren whining ominously in the darkness. “Watch yourself!” Neville yelled to Retnick, as he ran toward the pier with a gun in his hand.

Retnick was at his side when Neville kicked the door inward and stepped into the warehouse. A single light from the checker’s office drew a bright circle on the thick heavy planking and here, in the middle of this brilliant pool, Nick Amato lay dying. Neville knelt beside him and pulled open his tie and collar. “Who did it, Nick?” he said.

“It was Joe. I could’ve saved him—” Amato’s voice dropped away into a dry whisper.

“You’re hurt badly,” Neville said. “Help us now, Nick.”

Retnick was staring down the length of the dark terminal. That’s where Lye was. He glanced at Neville, and saw that he had put his gun on the floor while he worked on Amato’s tie and collar.

“Is it like telling a priest?” Amato said, staring into Neville’s eyes with terrible intensity.

“Who killed Glencannon?” Neville asked him quietly.

Retnick picked up the lieutenant’s gun and walked into the terminal. In two strides he had merged with the darkness, and his big body became a shadow moving silently and deliberately toward the faint shifting lights on the river. The clouds had drifted in the high wind; the winter moon glinted on the water and coated the end of the wharf with a pale yellow glow.

Retnick couldn’t think clearly; his thoughts circled hopelessly in a despairing maze. But he knew precisely what he was going to do. It was a simple, inevitable choice. There was only one more thing for him to lose.

When he reached the wide doors that led to the open wharf he hesitated and stopped in the last few feet of darkness. Ahead of him was the bright arena; he could see the oil-soaked plankings, the stubby iron mooring posts, and a length of frayed rope that trailed down into the river. He glanced at his watch. Ten: five. She was airborne now, settling comfortably in the deep reclining seat, leafing through a magazine or smoking a cigarette and watching the pinpoints of light on the ground.

The one who had brought him kindness and warmth and love was gone forever. Retnick was suddenly aware of a terrible knowledge; he was a stranger to himself, a stranger to this man who stood in the darkness waiting to die. This was a stalking animal who had reveled in the wrong done to him, putting that wrong above every other right. And Retnick saw him clearly now, studied him with eyes he had closed five years ago.

He hesitated no longer. With the gun hanging at his side he stepped onto the open wharf. The cold wind struck his body, chilling the tears on his face and then above the noise of it, he heard Joe Lye shout: “Don’t move, Retnick!”

Retnick turned toward the shrill voice. Lye stood against the wall of the warehouse on his left, his body thin and black in the pale light. The sight on the barrel of his gun gleamed like a splinter of ice.

“You can try shooting if you want,” he cried.

“I’m through shooting,” Retnick said in a weary, hopeless voice. “Somebody else will have to kill you, Joe. A dozen cops are on the way. Any of them will enjoy the job.” The gun fell from his limp fingers.

From the darkness behind him a voice shouted his name and he heard the sound of running footsteps.

“Pick up that gun!” Lye screamed.

For a turbulent instant, Retnick regretted his decision; perhaps he could have paid the price if he lived. But it was too late to think of it.

“You get it in the stomach,” Lye shouted at him. “Pick up your gun.”

And Retnick knew then that Lye wanted to be killed, too. They were both looking for the easy way out. “You’re wasting your time, Joe,” he said. “You might as well toss your gun into the river.”

“They won’t take me back,” Lye yelled, and put the gun to his temple. For an instant that seemed frozen in time he swayed back and forth, while his lips twisted into a helpless frenzied smile. And then he began to sob terribly; the gun dropped from his fingers and he went slowly down to his knees. The strength seemed to have been squeezed from his body. He fell over onto his side, and the sound of his weeping was like that of a lost and frightened child.

There were three uniformed patrolmen behind Lieutenant Neville when he came out of the terminal onto the wharf. He gave a short order, and two of them hauled Lye to his feet while a third picked up the gun that had fallen from his hand. Then he glanced at Retnick, who was staring at the river. “You okay?” he said, still breathing hard.

“Sure.”

Neville looked at Lye and said, “You’re going back to the death house, clever boy.”

Lye’s face was blank as an idiot’s. “I never left there,” he said in a soft wondering voice, as if this were something Neville should realize.

Neville nodded at the cops who held his arms. “Get him out of here.” When they had gone he looked at Retnick and then at his own gun which was lying on the thick planking of the wharf. Picking it up, he studied it with a little frown. “You didn’t mean to use it, I guess,” he said.

“That’s right,” Retnick said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He shrugged heavily, staring at the dancing lights on the water. “Like most good ideas it didn’t work.”

“We got an earful from Amato,” Neville said, watching Retnick’s face with a frown. “Glencannon, Dixie Davis, the works. Aren’t you interested?”

“Sure, it’s great,” Retnick said heavily.

“And Joe Ventra. Amato killed him, Steve. That will be part of the newspaper story. You’re in the clear. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I was in the clear when I went to jail,” Retnick said. “Now that I’m clear I’m guilty. That’s a cute twist, isn’t it?” The moment of dual perception was gone; there were no longer two men in his mind, there was only one. Retnick, who had taken what he wanted and couldn’t pay the price. The moral bankrupt. That was the man he had to live with; the man who could hold him in judgment had died five years ago.

“Steve, part of what you accomplished was good,” Neville said, seeing the pain in Retnick’s eyes.

“Part of it,” Retnick said bitterly. “How’s Kleyburg?”

“One of the boys in the squad heard a report. He’s got a better than even chance. The old man lived a healthy life and that’s working for him now.”

Retnick looked at him. “They think he’ll live?”

“It looks good,” Neville said. “I said you couldn’t help him a while ago. But I could be wrong. Will you go to see him tomorrow?”

This would be the start of it, Retnick knew. The payment. “Yes, I’ll see him,” he said slowly.

Neville glanced at his watch and said awkwardly, “Well, I’ve got work to do, Steve. We can talk about this later.”

“Sure, let’s go.”

Neville caught his arm. In the moonlight Retnick saw the little smile on his lips. “I meant that. You know where I am. I’ll expect to see you.”

“Sure,” Retnick said, in a different voice. The lieutenant’s words reminded him of what Kleyburg had said: Most people are decent. They want to help. “I’ll see you around, Lieutenant.”

It was almost eleven o’clock when Retnick let himself into the hallway of his rooming house. He had walked here from Pier 17, simply because he had had nowhere else to go; even the thought of stopping for a drink had left him without enthusiasm. What was there to celebrate? And getting drunk wouldn’t help. There were no easy outs. He had learned that much.

Mrs. Cara looked out of her room at him and said, “You got a phone call to make.” She came down the hallway, holding her blue flannel robe tightly about her throat. In the soft overhead light her olive-dark eyes were bright with excitement. “It’s important. It’s from your wife.”

“My wife?” Retnick said, and a little chill went through him. “You’re sure?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Did she call from the airport?”

“No, she was home.” Mrs. Cara watched him with frank curiosity. “You going to call her?”

Retnick couldn’t answer her; his throat was suddenly tight. Turning he went quickly down the hall to the telephone. Marcia answered the first ring and said, “Yes? Hello?”

She’d been waiting at the phone, he thought, and a hope that was sharper than pain went through him. “This is Steve,” he said. “You called me.”

“I switched over to an early morning flight,” she said. “You told me your job might be over and — I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“Everything is over,” he said thickly. She’d switched flights, that was all. Hearing her voice now was almost more than he could bear.

“You don’t sound too cheerful about it.”

“It’s—” His fist suddenly tightened on the receiver. “I need you, baby,” he said, in a harsh and desperate voice. “I need you,” he said again feeling a tremor shake his body. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s the other way around. And I can’t pay you back. Ever. But let me see you before you go.”

She didn’t answer him for a moment. Then she said unsteadily, “I thought we’d been over everything important, but — I could be wrong. Do you remember that bar on Seventieth? Tony’s?”

“Yes, sure.” He stood, breathing as if he had run a race. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said, in a voice so low that he barely heard the words. Then she hung up.

Retnick went down the hall to the doorway, and Mrs. Cara smiled at him and said, “You going out?”

“Yes, I’ve got to,” he said, hardly conscious of her presence. But with a hand on the door, he turned to her. “You’d better look after the cat,” he said.

“You’re not coming back?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Then he became aware of her smile. “I guess you understand,” he said.

“I’ll take care of Silvy,” she said. “You go home.”

Retnick opened the door and went quickly down to the street. In the pale moonlight a soft snow was falling gently over the city. Turning up his collar he started for the avenue where he knew he could find a cab. And then he began to run.