Savage Streets

Chapter Nine

Ат three-thirty the following afternoon Farrell was called out of an Atlas conference by his secretary. “It’s your wife, and she said it was urgent.” Farrell excused himself and walked down to his own office, his anxiety leavened by a certain amount of irritation; the conference was important, not only for itself, but because of what Colby had said to him at lunch. Casually and without preamble Colby had offered him a job as his assistant on Atlas. He had said: “All it means is less coolie labor at your typewriter and a chance to sit around with me and look wise. And some more dough, but that’s a detail. The thing is we need a guy with a little balance to look over Weinberg and Shipley’s shoulders. Weinberg is a nut on the idea that all consumers are sneaky, guilt-ridden bastards, buying things to pay off their old men or to justify a low-amp sex drive. And Shipley, well the poor guy thinks a recording of Boola Boola affects everybody like the siren song. They’re both pretty sharp, but they’re inbred or something. I think you might loosen them up a bit.”

Farrell picked up his phone. “Hello, honey, what is it?” The connection was not clear and he said impatiently, “Hello — I can’t hear what you’re saying.” And then he realized that she was crying.

“Barbara! What is it? What’s the matter?”

“It’s Angey. She was hit by a car on the way home from school. I’m at Memorial Hospital with her now. Please hurry, John.”

The words struck him like blows. “Is she all right? How bad is it, Barbara? Tell me, for God’s sake!”

“She’s in the accident ward now. It’s her legs. She isn’t conscious.”

“I’ll get there as fast as I can. Look, calm down. It’s going to be all right.” He was gripping the receiver so tightly his hand hurt. “Do you hear me? I’ll be there right away.”

“Please hurry, please.”

Farrell dropped the phone and grabbed his suit coat hanging on the back of his chair. His secretary was holding his topcoat and hat.

“My daughter was in an accident,” he said. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. Tell Colby, will you?”

“Yes, of course. Is there anything we can do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Poor, poor thing. Is — she badly hurt?”

“Mrs. Farrell said something about her legs.” He pulled on his topcoat. “I’ll call you when I find out.”

“Dear God, I hope she’s all right.”

It took Farrell an hour by cab to reach the hospital. A nurse at the reception desk directed him to a room on the sixth floor. Barbara was standing in the rubber-tiled corridor talking with a doctor. Farrell held her tightly against him and felt the tremors shaking her body.

“How is she?” he said. “Is she all right?”

“Her left leg is broken but there’s nothing else wrong, thank God.” The words were a muffled blur against his chest. “She’s all right, John, she’s all right.”

“What a hell of a thing for you to go through.”

“That doesn’t matter. She’s all right, that’s all that counts.” She brushed tears from her cheeks and laughed shakily. “I’m behaving like a fool. This is Doctor Kaye, John. He took care of Angey.”

Dr. Kaye was balding and middle-aged, gravely courteous. After shaking hands he said, “The break is at the knee which, colloquially but accurately, is a bad break. But except for normal abrasions and contusions she’s in good shape. No concussion, which is usually an inevitable by-product of being struck by an automobile, and no internal damage so far as I can determine.”

“You say it’s a bad break.” Farrell hesitated, reluctant to put his fears into words. His mind was crowded with a thousand images of Angey dancing, running, skipping rope, hula-hooping, and charging everything she did with the excitement of her relentless energy. “You mean — well, that her leg might be stiff. Something like that?”

“There’s always that possibility,” Dr. Kaye said, and the measured statement sent a chill through Farrell. He tightened his arm around Barbara as Dr. Kaye added: “But her bones are still growing and that will be working for her if there’s no complication. I wouldn’t borrow trouble, Mr. and Mrs. Farrell; when the cast is off we’ll know what we’re up against. And I believe we can hope that her good angel will still be there looking after her.” He glanced at his watch. “Will you excuse me now? There’s nothing I can do until she comes out of the anesthetic. You can go in, if you like. It will be good for you to be there when she wakes up.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”

Angey’s body seemed pathetically tiny in the narrow hospital bed. She lay with her arms at her sides, the sheet pulled smoothly over her thin shoulders, and her long blonde hair shining against the starched and immaculate white pillow slip. The nurse smiled at them and said softly, “She’s such a sweet, brave child. Just before we put her to sleep she looked up at the doctor and said, ‘Don’t you worry, my daddy will be here soon.’ Imagine! Telling the doctor not to worry. I don’t think she’ll wake for ten or fifteen minutes. You can wait here if you wish, or there’s a reception room in the corridor — it’s for expectant fathers. The chairs are more comfortable, I think.”

“Oh, we’ll wait here,” Barbara said.

When the nurse left Farrell pulled two chairs close to the bed.

“Do you remember when she had her tonsils out?” Barbara sat down and smoothed the bangs on Angey’s pale forehead. “Remember what a foul temper she was in?”

“I sure do. She was reeking of ether and she wanted to have her hair shampooed on the spot.”

“She’s going to be all right, John. I know it.”

“How in God’s name did it happen? And where’s Jimmy?”

“The police took him home in a squad car. I got hold of Mrs. Simpson fortunately, and she was available. She’ll stay with him until you get home. They’re putting a cot in here for me. I thought I should stay.”

“Of course. Well go on: how did it happen?”

“I’ve just got the bare details. They were crossing Whiting Boulevard, it seems, when a car shot through the red light. Jimmy jumped out of the way but Angey dropped a book or something and stopped to pick it up.”

“She would,” Farrell said. “Who was driving the car?”

“They don’t know yet.”

“What do you mean, they don’t know yet?”

“The car didn’t stop. Maybe whoever was driving didn’t realize he’d struck her.”

“Like hell,” Farrell said. The anger flowing through him was like an antidote to the poison of sick worry he felt for his child. “A jail sentence is a damned sight too mild for a bastard who’d drive off and leave an injured child in the street.” He rubbed her cold hands. “But weren’t there any witnesses? That intersection is crowded at that hour.”

“Apparently Jimmy was the only one who got a look at the car. The police from Hayrack talked to him at the scene. I came right over here.”

“It was a rough experience for him, damn it. You don’t know if he was able to tell the police anything helpful?”

“No, I don’t.”

There was nothing else to say. They sat in silence watching Angey’s pale profile, protectively close together in the cool, impersonally antiseptic room. The nurse came in once to check Angey’s pulse. She held the child’s slim and weightless wrist between thumb and forefinger and studied her watch with professional severity. She wrote on the chart hanging at the foot of the bed, smiled sympathetically to them and left the room soundlessly on rubber-soled shoes.

It was almost an hour before Angey opened her eyes. Barbara leaned forward and touched her forehead. “Hi, honey,” she said gently. In the same tone she murmured to Farrell: “I guess you’d better ring for someone.”

A signal cord was looped on the head of the bed. Farrell pressed the button and the nurse looked in immediately. She smiled cheerfully and went away. A moment later Dr. Kaye came in. “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty is waking up, eh?”

Angey clung to her mother’s hand. She murmured vaguely and closed her eyes.

“She’ll come around bit by bit,” Dr. Kaye said. “She’ll be confused at first. Don’t expect her to make sense. Everybody coming out of an anesthetic finds the world a pretty odd place for a while. I’ll look in again a little later.”

At six-thirty the nurse put her head in the door and said, “There’s a police officer here to see you, Mr. Farrell. A Lieutenant Jameson. He said any time you have a moment will be all right. He’s in no hurry.”

“Naturally,” Farrell said drily. “The police have the large view on these things. You hold the fort, honey.”

Lieutenant Jameson was waiting at the reception desk, wearing a tweed topcoat and holding a gray felt hat in his hand. Farrell experienced a pointless irritation at the sight of his lean, well-groomed figure and severe, emotionless features.

“I was damned sorry to hear about this,” Jameson said. “How is your daughter coming along?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess.” Farrell needed a cigarette. He glanced at the nurse behind the desk, and said, “Can I smoke here?”

“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “There’s a waiting room down the corridor.”

Farrell and the lieutenant walked to the waiting room which was furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofa, and a long table covered with stacks of magazines. The window panes were black and the lights of Rosedale sparkled against them in brilliant patterns.

Farrell lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Well, have you found the driver of the car yet?”

“No, not yet. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to your daughter when the doctor says it’s okay. She might be able to tell us something about the car and the people in it.”

“Didn’t my son get a look at them?”

“I’ve talked to Jimmy. He had only a fleeting glimpse of the car and his description is pretty vague. It was green or blue, and he’s not sure if it was a sedan or a convertible.”

“How about the driver? Did he see him?”

“Yes, but again he can’t give us a workable description. There were several boys in the car, that’s all he can tell us.”

“Several boys, eh?” Farrell said quietly. An ugly suspicion grew in his mind, and with it a swift anger. He felt it must be apparent in his face and eyes; it was too consuming to be masked. But Jameson seemed to notice nothing unusual. He said: “That’s all your son could tell us.”

Wasn’t that enough? Farrell wanted to shout at him but instead he took a long pull on his cigarette and nodded slowly.

“There’s a chance your daughter can help us,” Jameson said.

“How did it happen no one got the license number of the car?” Farrell asked him.

“Apparently everyone at the scene ran to help your daughter, assuming, I imagine, that the car would stop. When they realized it wasn’t stopping, it was too late — the car was already turning off the Boulevard.”

“I see,” Farrell said.

“We always have a tough job getting descriptions on a hit-run,” Jameson said. “Unless you’re a trained observer, or unusually calm and collected, it’s damn hard to recall what happened with any accuracy.”

“I can understand that,” Farrell said. He was controlling his temper with an effort. “I’d like to get back to my daughter now, Lieutenant.”

“Of course. There’s just one other thing.” Jameson met his eyes steadily. “I’ve checked out the Chiefs. They’ve got alibis.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Farrell said. He managed a stiff smile. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Angey had waked while Farrell was out of the room. But she had gone back to sleep again, a faint frown shadowing her smooth face. “She doesn’t remember anything yet,” Barbara said. “She’s worried about being late for school. She asked me if she overslept.”

“I think I’d better get on home,” Farrell said. “I want to talk to Jimmy.”

“Did the police have any news?”

“Not a thing.”

She was watching him curiously. “What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look so odd.”

“Nerves, I imagine.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re a little bit shook up yourself. Try to get some rest.”

“I’m all right. As long as Angey’s okay, why I’m just fine.” She smiled and took his hand. “Run along now. I’ll call you later.”

Farrell parked his car at the curb and went quickly up the walk to his house. The night was cold, with the first feel of frost in the air. A wind rose and swept warningly through the thinning trees, but the homes of Faircrest glowed warmly against the darkness.

Jimmy had had his bath and dinner. He was watching television in his pajamas and robe. Mrs. Simpson was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “How is the child, Mr. Farrell?” she asked from the doorway. “As God is my judge, I wish it could have happened to an old woman like myself instead of that child. Is she going to be all right?”

Farrell told her that Angey was coming along as well as could be expected. Mrs. Simpson had a baby-sitting appointment at eight which she offered to cancel, but Farrell assured her this would not be necessary.

“Well, I’ll run along then when everything’s tidy,” she said. “Your dinner is on the stove, roast beef with dumplings. Jimmy wasn’t hungry, but that’s just excitement, I think. Maybe he’d have another little bite with you.”

“Yes, that’s an idea.”

Farrell put his coat and hat away and went in to the study. He sat down beside Jimmy and put an arm around his shoulders. “Well, everything’s going to be all right,” he said. “The first tiling she thought about when she woke up was school. She was afraid she’d overslept.”

Jimmy laughed nervously, and said, “That’s all that’s on her mind, getting to school and putting fresh water in Miss Cooper’s flowers before Hazel Sims beats her to it. You should see how she acts at school! She’s so polite, it just makes me sick.”

Mrs. Simpson looked in to say good night and remind Farrell that his dinner was ready. When the door closed behind her Farrell got up and made himself a drink. Then he turned off the television and sat down in a straight chair facing Jimmy. In the silence Jimmy blinked and looked down at his hands.

“I want to talk to you,” Farrell said quietly. “I want to ask you a few questions. And I want the truth, Jimmy. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said uncertainly. “What do you want to ask me about, Dad?”

“The accident. First of all, you told the police it was a green or blue car. Can’t you make up your mind? Which was it? Blue or green?”

“Well, it was kind of a dark color. I mean, dark blue or dark green.”

“Was it a big car or a small car?”

“I don’t know exactly. I just saw it from the front.”

“Did they honk their horn at you?”

“There’s always a lot of noise around the Boulevard. Horns and things like that. I don’t remember if they did or not.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“A boy, I guess. I mean, I didn’t see him very well, but he didn’t have a tie on.”

“Who else was in the front seat?”

“Well, there was somebody there, that’s all I know.”

“There were two boys in the front seat? Or more?”

“Just two.”

“And how about the back seat?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see.”

Farrell lit a cigarette and took a long swallow from his drink. He might have been drinking water; the whiskey didn’t touch the coldness in his stomach. “What exactly did you do when you saw the car?” he asked.

“Gee, Dad, it was so fast. It was coming at me and I just jumped out of the way, that’s all. I shouted at Angey...” He stopped and wet his lips. “It didn’t do any good. I should have grabbed her, I guess.”

“No, that’s all right. You didn’t know she was going to stop to pick up her book. You did okay. Don’t worry about that. Let’s go on.” Farrell finished his drink and put the glass aside. “You jumped out of the way of the car. You turned around and looked at it then, right?”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy’s eyes slid past Farrell to a spot on the wall. “I told the police everything I could think of, Dad.”

“Well, here’s what I’m getting at. You know the car was a dark blue or dark green. You couldn’t have seen that from the front, because from your line of vision all you’d see would be bumpers and grill work. You must have noticed the color when it went past you. Isn’t that the way it was?”

“I think so. Yes, I guess that’s how I saw the color.”

“All right. Now you told me you couldn’t see if there was anyone in the rear seat. You were in front of the car at that time. But standing beside the car you had a clear look at the back seat. Think now, Jimmy. Were there any boys in the rear of the car?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know.”

“You either saw them or you didn’t, Jimmy. Which is it?”

“I’m not sure, that’s all.”

“What about the boys in the front seat? You said that one wasn’t wearing a tie. It’s a cold day. So he must have been wearing a coat or a sweater. Did you notice which?”

“I guess it was a sweater.”

“Would you recognize this boy if you saw him again?”

“Well, he didn’t look like anyone special.”

“You’re sure you never saw him before?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jimmy hesitated; some of the pink healthy color from his bath had drained from his face. “I mean I might have seen him somewhere, but I don’t remember if I did or not. It’s not impossible, that’s all.”

“You saw the boy from the front,” Farrell said slowly. “Then you must have seen him from the side. You got a good look at him, didn’t you?”

“Well, it was all so fast.”

“Listen to me carefully: are you certain you don’t know those boys? Will you swear to that?”

“Gee, Dad, I don’t know.” Jimmy’s voice was shaking. “I told you everything I saw. Don’t you believe me?”

Farrell caught his shoulders. “Why should I? You lied before, didn’t you? In the police station. You wouldn’t identify Duke or Jerry. You lied because you were afraid of them. Isn’t that right?”

“I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t sure — Andy Ward wasn’t sure either.”

“Don’t go on lying. You knew who they were. But you were too scared to speak up.”

“I told you what I saw,” Jimmy whimpered, his eyes sliding away from the anger in Farrell’s face. “I told you all I know.”

“Like hell you have,” Farrell said. “You’re still lying. Angey’s in the hospital with a broken leg because of those hoodlums. She might be dead. Have you thought of that? Why are you covering up?”

“I can’t... I don’t know it...” Jimmy began to cry. “Dad, please. Don’t be mad at me. I want to do what you want. But I don’t know.”

“Duke and Jerry were in that car, weren’t they?” Farrell shouted at him. “Look at me. Look me in the eye.” He shook the boy’s shoulders. “Tell me the truth, damn you. It was Duke and Jerry, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

“Yes!” Jimmy almost screamed the word, his voice rising and breaking hysterically. “Yes! Yes!” He threw himself into his father’s arms, his body shaking with convulsive sobs. “I saw them. I saw them.”

Farrell held him close and rubbed his back and shoulders until he stopped crying. Then he said, “Now listen, Jimmy, I’ve got to go out for a while.”

“Do I have to stay here alone?”

“No, of course not.”

“When’s Mommy coming home?”

“She’ll spend the night at the hospital with Angey. So how would you like to stay at the Wards’? You won’t even have to change. Just go up and collect a toothbrush. I’ll call Mrs. Ward.” He held Jimmy at arm’s length and smiled into his tear-streaked face. “It’ll be fun, eh?”

“Okay, Dad.”

Farrell called Grace Ward, who said quickly she was delighted to have Jimmy for the night. When Jimmy came downstairs Farrell kissed him and opened the door. “Run for it,” he said. “They’re expecting you.” He waited in the doorway until he saw that Jimmy had crossed the street and was ringing the Ward doorbell. Then he closed the door and went quickly up to his bedroom. He changed clothes with a furious haste, flinging his coat and tie aside, and pulling on a heavy woolen sweater. He kicked off his shoes and put on a pair of rubber-soled moccasins. A thread of guilt flickered like quicksilver against the bright red anger in his mind. He was almost glad of what had happened to Angey; without it, there would never have been this savage sense of release.

He was on his way downstairs when the phone began to ring.

“Yes, hello,” he said, and was shocked at the sound of his voice; it was that of a stranger, harsh and strident.

“John? This is Sam Ward.”

“What is it?”

“Now listen to me; calm down. I know where you’re heading. Jimmy told me who was driving that car.”

“This is my affair, Sam. Keep out of it.”

“Don’t be a fool. You don’t know what you might run into. I’ll call Detweiller and we’ll go with you.”

“I don’t want any help. They ran down Angey; I’m going to pay them off for it.”

“Use your head, for Christ’s sake. You’re not Superman. You’ll get jumped by those bastards.”

“You keep out of this, Sam,” Farrell said, and put the receiver down with a crash. He stared about the room like a man in a trance, aware of the stillness around him and feeling like a stranger in this worn, comfortable room, isolated from associations and objects once as familiar to him as his reflection in a mirror.

He poured himself a drink and drained the glass in one swallow. The whiskey was cold and then hot, exploding in his stomach and fanning out through his body.

Farrell turned sharply as a key clicked in the front door; in the silence, in the unrealness of the house, the sound was as ominous as the cocking of a pistol.

The door opened and Barbara stepped into the hallway, the cold wind swirling about her ankles and whipping at the skirts of her tweed coat. She laughed as she pushed the door shut. “What a night! I was going to call you to bring me a nightie and toothbrush, but Angey’s asleep and I decided I had time to run over myself. Where’s Jimmy?”

“I sent him over to the Wards’.”

“But why? Don’t you think it would be better for him to be home tonight?”

“I’ve got to go out.”

She had come to the door of the studio. “Out? What for?”

He still held the empty glass in his hand. His face was flushed and hot. “I’m going out,” he said.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Jimmy told me who was driving the car that hit Angey. Duke and Jerry.”

“Why didn’t he tell the police? Is he sure?”

“He’s sure.” Farrell’s voice rose. “Do you think he’d lie about it?”

“No, of course not. But why do you have to go out? Wouldn’t it be simpler to call the police? It’s such a bad night and...”

“I’m not going to the police.”

“What are you talking about? Have you been drinking?”

“You think I’d have to be drunk to care about what happened to Angey?”

“Now stop this, John.” She took off her coat and threw it over a chair. “Stop it this minute. Put down that glass, for Heaven’s sake, and stop glaring at me. I know you’re upset and worried, but that’s no reason to...”

She caught her breath as Farrell suddenly threw his glass aside. It struck the bookshelves and crashed to the floor in pieces. “I could remind you that drinking isn’t a problem of mine,” he said. “It was your old man who got himself tanked every night, remember.”

“John, please,” she said, barely whispering the words. Tears had started in her eyes but she made no move to brush them away; they welled up, gleaming like crescents of silver in the lamplight. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You couldn’t want to hurt me that way. I’m not going to let you go. Think of what you’re doing, for God’s sake.”

He caught her shoulders and moved her away from the door, his big hands smothering her reflexive, futile struggles. “I don’t want to think,” he said, almost shouting the words at her. He jerked open the front door and ran down the walk to his car, hearing her voice calling to him above the frantic wind. As he started away from the curb he saw her framed in the doorway, a hand raised and the wind whipping her skirt about her legs. She was calling his name but the roar of the motor drowned out her voice as he shot into the black tunnel of the street.

Farrell parked across the street from the Chiefs’ clubhouse and cut the motor. In the close warm silence of the car rain pounded on the thin metal above his head and rolled down the windshield in slow level waves. The block was deserted and the street lights on tall iron poles cast lonely yellow reflections on the streaming sidewalks and gutters. When he stepped from the car the gusting wind blew a tangle of hair across his forehead, and the rain soaked through his sweater in the time it took him to slam the door.

There was no light above the entrance to the clubhouse but the curtained window beside the door was a golden square in the darkness.

Farrell hesitated as two cars swung into the block, tires whining on the slick pavement, the low beams of their headlights leaping up the wet black street. The lights flashed on his face as the first car swerved suddenly toward him; Farrell leaped back to the curb, a spray of water splashing his legs as the ear skidded to a stop. The car door opened and Sam Ward swung his legs from under the wheel. “The reserves are here,” he said, shouting over the wind. Detweiller climbed out of the front seat and came around the splash of the headlights, a peaked golf cap on his head, his body bulking large in a trench coat. Malleck got out of the back, the collar of an Air Force flight jacket turned up around his neck.

The second car had pulled carefully to the curb, and the driver was hurrying to join the group. It was Wayne Norton, Farrell saw, his neatly handsome features tight with excitement. He was wearing a tie, Farrell noted irrelevantly; a neat blue tie, a gray suit and a dark overcoat.

The four men faced him in a semicircle and Malleck yelled over the wind: “It’s your game, Farrell, don’t worry about that. We’ll just make sure it’s played according to the rules.”

“I told Ward I didn’t want any help.”

“You’ve got it anyway,” Detweiller said, gripping his shoulder. “Don’t be stubborn. Let’s go.”

Farrell was conscious of a fierce gratitude for their support; they were on his side. He had to be right; it was inconceivable they were all wrong.

“What’s the procedure?” Norton said shrilly.

“Play it by ear, I guess,” Ward said.

“Just watch me if you’re in doubt,” Malleck said. The smile that was like a flame lit the fissures in his rocky face. “Come on, let’s go.”

They crossed the street quickly and went down the steps to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Malleck halted them by raising a hand and pointing at the window. Inside a couple danced slowly under the naked light bulb but the cheesecloth curtains blurred the harsh illumination and the dancers were remote and insubstantial figures, as weightless and languid as underwater acrobats.

The dancers were Cleo and Jerry. She wore high heels and stood on tiptoes, but her head did not reach his shoulders. She was like a doll in his arms, her face pale and pouting under black bangs, her firm, provocative little body snuggled tightly against him.

They were alone in the long, narrow room.

“Okay?” Malleck whispered to Farrell.

“My show, remember?” Farrell said, and tried the knob; it turned under his hand and he pushed the door open and walked into the room.

The light dazzled him for an instant; the illusion of a shimmering translucence was gone, and everything was revealed in a merciless intensity; the girl’s frightened, excited eyes, the worn furniture, the shining wooden surface of the bar, the photographs and pictures of Indians on the damp stone walls.

Malleck said to Ward: “You wait outside, hear? Knock if anybody else shows up.” And to Detweiller: “Close that door and keep it closed.”

Jerry had pushed Cleo away from him and was watching Farrell with a swiftly growing anger hardening on his big square face. “What do you mean busting in here like this?” he said. “Who the hell do you guys think you are, anyway?”

“Take him,” Malleck said gently. “Don’t waste no time talking.”

“I told you not to bother me or my family again,” Farrell said in a cold, heavy voice. “This afternoon you ran down my daughter. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re crazy,” Jerry said, crouching slightly and staring from Malleck to Farrell with wary eyes. The overhead light drew incongruous furrows down his broad young face. “Every time something happens to one of your cry-baby brats you blame it on us.”

“My son saw you,” Farrell said.

“He’s lying,” Cleo cried. “He’s a liar. Jerry wasn’t anywhere near the Boulevard today.”

“They know where it happened,” Malleck said. “They got their stories all set.”

“I don’t give a damn what happened to your kid,” Jerry said furiously. “You guys get out of here. Go blow off somewhere else. You hear me?” He walked toward Farrell, drawing a deep breath that hardened the muscles in his big chest and arms.

Farrell went to meet him, and Malleck said, “Ah!” in a hoarse exultant voice as Farrell’s first blow caught Jerry high on the cheek, staggering him, dropping him to his knees. A thin and brilliant streak of blood gleamed on his cheekbone, vivid and theatrical in the glaring light. Jerry touched the cut and looked stupidly at his fingertips. Cleo was crying. She said, “Leave him alone, leave him alone,” in a shrill, hysterical voice. She picked up a shoulder bag from the bar and struck at Wayne Norton’s head and shoulders, sobbing, “Get out of here, all of you, leave him alone,” while tears sparkled like cut glass on her face.

Without raising his voice Jerry said: “Get Duke, Cleo! Get him!”

Malleck said, “Shut her up, for God’s sake,” and Norton caught her wrists and pulled the bag from her hands. He said, “Now calm down, just calm down a bit,” in a tense, insistent voice, and threw the shoulder bag into a comer. The latch opened and the contents of the bag spilled onto the floor, a lipstick and compact, a notebook with a silver pencil fitted to it, and a half-dozen odd coins that rolled about in erratic circles under the bright light.

Norton put his hand over the girl’s mouth, his arm about her waist, and pulled her down with him onto the couch. She kicked and tried to bite him, and he said, “Cut it out, cut it out,” his lips close to her ear.

“A handful, eh?” Malleck said, grinning.

Norton’s forehead was damp with perspiration. “Damn you,” he said, forcing her head back and pulling her against him with all the strength in his arm. He trapped her flailing feet with his legs, pinioning them at last with a scissors grip just above her ankles.

Jerry rolled to his feet and charged at Farrell. “Let her alone, you bastards,” he yelled, and swung a roundhouse at Farrell’s head. The blow missed by six inches. Farrell swung at his head, but Jerry got inside the punch and Farrell’s arm curled around his thick neck. Jerry took a two-handed grip on his sweater and flung him against the wall. He hit Farrell twice then, once in the chest and again on the side of the head. Farrell fought back furiously; he was conscious of nothing but Jerry’s flushed and twisted face, the curses spilling from his lips. Once he fell, crashing drunkenly across a three-legged table and taking it to the floor under him, and again he stood alone in the naked light as Jerry crawled toward him on his knees, sobbing and shaking his head in pain, and finally — he didn’t know how much later — he stood swaying helplessly and watched Malleck step forward and hit Jerry with two vicious blows, once across the jaw and again — as the boy fell forward — across the back of his wide, corded neck, which was as exposed and vulnerable as that of an animal on a chopping block.

“No — don’t,” Farrell said thickly. “Let him alone. Don’t...”

Detweiller grabbed his arm. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.”

Malleck went out first and disappeared with Sam Ward up the stairs into the darkness.

“You okay?” Detweiller said anxiously.

“Sure. Get going.”

Detweiller’s feet clattered on the stairs. Farrell stood in the open door gulping in the cold damp air, the wind whipping his flushed face. He looked down at Jerry’s sprawled body, and rubbed a hand over his forehead.

Norton was still holding Cleo. She was no longer struggling.

“I’ve got my car,” Norton whispered to Farrell. “You go on. We can’t leave together. Go on, beat it.”

Farrell went slowly up the stairs, moving like an old man and tasting the salty bite of blood on his lips. At the top, with one hand on the iron railing, he almost stumbled and fell; the light below him had winked out, and in the sudden darkness he nearly lost his footing. For an instant he rested, breathing with care. The street was still empty, the wind battering noisily against garbage cans set out on the curbing. Farrell straightened himself with an effort and went slowly across the wet street to his car.