The Darkest Hour

11

It was a few minutes past eleven when Retnick rang the bell at Amato’s home. A cold wind hammered at the garbage cans set out along the curb, and street lights thrust cones of pale yellow light into the deep shadows along the sidewalk. Joe Lye opened the door, nodded jerkily at him, and said, “Come on along with me.”

Retnick stepped past him and walked down a hallway to the kitchen. He wasn’t worried about Lye’s advantageous position behind him; it wasn’t likely that Amato would try to kill him in his own home. Amato was sitting in his shirtsleeves at the kitchen table, smoking a short black cigar. The room was brightly lighted and smelled of peppers and ground coffee.

“What’s on your mind?” Retnick said, as Lye drifted to one side of him and stood with his back to the wall.

Amato smiled and shook his fingers gently before his face. “You could turn that around, eh?” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“You wanted to see me,” Retnick said. “Here I am.”

“Come on, don’t be so hard,” Amato said. “How about some coffee?”

“Don’t bother.”

Amato shrugged and sighed. “So you’re mad at me,” he said. “Maybe you think you got reason to be. Maybe you think I put Hammy up to picking a scrap with you. Well, that’s wrong, Steve. Hammy was working on his own, and I fired him for it. Now don’t that prove I’m trying to get along with people?”

“Everyone knows you’re a decent, generous guy,” Retnick said, smiling coldly. “Tell me something new.”

Amato cocked his head to one side and studied him for a second or two with narrowing eyes. Then he said gently, “There’s no point being sarcastic. I’m trying to be fair. You thought I turned Hammy loose on you. All right, that’s understandable. So you pick up my kid and rough him up a little. I don’t like that, Steve. It was a dumb move. But I figure the two mistakes cross each other out. I’m ready to forget them. How about you?”

Retnick shrugged. “I’ve already forgot about the fight with Hammy,” he said. “But he won’t forget it that fast.”

“Yeah, you really landed on him,” Amato said slowly. “Now I got something else to say. How would you like his job?”

“Let’s don’t strain to be funny,” Retnick said.

A little flush of color moved up in Amato’s dark cheeks. “I ain’t being funny, Steve. That ain’t my way. The job pays two hundred bucks a week. And you can do better than that in a fairly short time. A business agent ain’t a bad job, as I guess you know. You could make it in a couple of years if you played everything smart. You listening to me?”

“Sure, I’m listening,” Retnick said.

“There’s no point worrying about the past,” Amato said. “Here’s how I feel. You live today. You got a living to make, a family to take care of, things like that. That you got to do now, today, not last year or five years ago. Carrying grudges don’t pay no bills. So how about it? With a steady job you can get an apartment, get back with your wife, start living a good normal life again. And there’s plenty of room with me, I guarantee you. So how about it?”

“I don’t need a job,” Retnick said slowly. Amato was serious, he knew, and that was the most disgusting part of it. Men compromised themselves in order to work. That was the rule and Amato understood it well. The choice was not between good or bad, but between bad and worse; a man was either an active participant in evil, or a silent accomplice. To stand in a middle ground meant economic suicide. And the necessity to compromise performed a moral alchemy on men; it altered them drastically and made them very easy to manage.

Amato shrugged and smiled. “Everybody needs a job, Steve.”

“I’m wasting time. You have anything else to tell me?”

“Sure, sure,” Amato said softly. He stood and came around the table, looking up at Retnick with cold sharp eyes. “You want to be a hard guy, eh? Make trouble, bother me. How long you think you’ll last, eh?”

“What’s your guess?”

“I don’t have to guess,” Amato said. Tilting his head to one side he flicked the back of his hand across Retnick’s lapels in a contemptuous gesture. “Big tough guy, eh? Make trouble for me.” Amato’s grip on his temper was slipping; his voice was suddenly hoarse and thick. “Well, I tell you this. You’re a big mouth, that’s all. A big-mouth slob. I tell you now keep out of my way. You put your nose in my business and I’ll cut it off for you. You forget about Ventra, forget about Ragoni, forget about my business. Then you’ll stay alive. You bother me and you’ll get your head blown off. You understand that?”

“Why should I forget about Ventra?” Retnick said, very softly.

“Because I say so,” Amato shouted, and with the back of his hand slapped Retnick across the chest. “You do what you’re told if you want to stay alive. I tell you—”

Retnick smiled and hit him in the stomach then, almost casually, and Amato bent over with a convulsive flurry of motion, hugging his arms tightly to his body and sputtering feebly through his straining mouth. His face was very red as he sagged helplessly against the kitchen table and put out one hand quickly to prevent himself from sliding to the floor.

Retnick turned with dangerous, menacing speed and struck Lye’s forearm with a chopping blow of his hand. The gun Lye was raising clattered onto the floor, and he stiffened against the wall, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, his mouth twisting cruelly in his small pale face.

Retnick picked up the gun and put it in his pocket. He was breathing hard, trying to control his anger; it wasn’t time to make a final move. Staring at Amato he said thickly, “You’re lucky. Don’t crowd it.”

Amato’s eyes were strange and wild. “You’ll die for this, Retnick. I swear to God.”

Retnick backed to the door, his hand sliding down onto the gun in his pocket. “Don’t say anything else, Nick. I don’t want to kill you.”

Amato stared at him, breathing raggedly. He shook his head slowly from side to side then, knowing he was close to death.

“Not yet,” Retnick said.

Outside he crossed the dark street and stopped in the shadow of a parked car. For a moment or so he watched Amato’s door, but it remained closed; Lye wasn’t coming after him tonight.

Retnick walked quickly toward the avenue. Turning left at the intersection he went by closed shops and markets, dark theaters that advertised Spanish subtitles. He wanted to find a phone, but everything was closed for the night. Two sailors across the street were arguing with drunken good humor about something or other, but there was no one else in sight. And there were no cabs. Retnick walked four blocks before coming on an all-night drugstore, and from there he put in a call to the Thirty-First. Lieutenant Neville was on another line, a clerk said. Would he hang on?

It was a short wait. Neville said hello, sounding tired and impatient.

“This is Steve,” Retnick said. “I want to see you tonight.”

Neville hesitated. Then he said, “Where are you?”

Retnick told him and Neville said, “This had better be interesting. I was on my way home. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

Retnick waited in the darkness a few doors from the drugstore, his back to a brick wall and a cigarette in his lips. When Neville’s black sedan slowed down at the intersection, he moved out to the curb and held up his hand. The car pulled up alongside him and stopped. Retnick climbed in, Neville released the clutch, and they headed north on Tenth Avenue, cruising evenly to make the lights.

“Well, what is it?” Neville said.

Retnick glanced at him, and in the faint light from the dashboard he saw the hard lines around his mouth, the cold impersonal cast of his features.

“I’ve got a link between young Mario Amato and the guy who murdered Frank Ragoni,” he said. “You want to hear about it?”

“I’m surprised you thought of me,” Neville said dryly. “I got the impression earlier this evening that you figured me for one of Amato’s boys.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Retnick said. Neville’s tone bothered him. Most of what he had learned about police work had come from Neville; not the routine of it, but the important intangibles, the need for patience and fairness, the objective, sympathetic consideration of human beings, this had come from Neville. There was no man in the department Retnick had respected more, no man whose approval meant more to him. But the significance and warmth of that relationship were gone. And it was he who had changed, not Neville. That was what seemed to hurt. “I need help,” he said. He wished he could explain what he felt, but there was no way to unlock the words. “I’ve gone as far as I can on my own.”

Neville slowed down and pulled over to the curb. When he cut off the motor the silence settled abruptly and heavily around them. There was very little traffic; an occasional truck rumbled past, briefly disturbing the silence. Ahead of them the wide avenue stretched into empty darkness. “Let me have a cigarette, Steve,” Neville said. His voice was weary. Retnick gave him a cigarette, held a light for it, and then Neville pushed his hat back on his forehead and settled down in the seat. “You’re going to tell me about Red Evans, I suppose,” he said. “Is that it?”

“You know about him?” Retnick said. He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“We try to earn our money,” Neville said. “We know he drifted into Ragoni’s gang, and disappeared the night Ragoni turned up missing. What have you got?”

“Quite a bit more,” Retnick said. He told Neville what he had learned then; of Ragoni’s letter to him in jail, of Ragoni’s conviction that he knew who had killed Joe Ventra; of the winchman, Grady, who had been warned to stay off the job by young Mario Amato; of the accident by which Red Evans had almost killed Ragoni, and of Dixie Davis and his certainty that she was still seeing Red Evans in Trenton. “Here’s how it looks to me,” he said finally. “Ragoni was on the spot. Either because he knew who had killed Ventra, or because he was fighting as best he could to keep Amato and his hoodlums from taking over the local he belonged to. Mario Amato hired Red Evans to kill him and make it look like an accident. That didn’t work, so Evans stuck a knife in him and blew. Doesn’t that sound like the script to you?”

Neville shrugged lightly. “It could be, Steve.”

“I talked to Mario tonight,” Retnick went on. “He’s a scared little punk. But he denied any connection with Evans. I could have beaten the truth out of him, but that wouldn’t have held up in court.”

“You’re developing an odd common sense,” Neville said, glancing at him sharply. “How did you get to talk to Mario?”

“I took him to my room.”

Neville shook his head. “Steve, you’re begging for trouble.”

“Okay, okay,” Retnick said. “But I’m getting what I want. I just left Nick Amato’s home. Joe Lye called and asked me to come over, this was about an hour after I let Mario go. Amato offered to forget the whole business, and then he offered me a job. When I told him what to do with it, he blew his top and told me to forget about Ventra and Ragoni. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t. That caused a row. I belted Amato and slapped a gun out of Joe Lye’s hand. Then I left. Don’t you see this the way I do? If we throw young Mario and Red Evans together we’ll get the whole story.”

“And you want me to pick up Mario? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“I might,” Neville said slowly. “I might if I caught him stabbing my wife or something like that.”

“But not to sweat him?”

“This job isn’t much, but it’s all I’ve got,” Neville said.

“So it’s no, eh?” Retnick said, staring at him. “I give you a case against a murderer and you talk about losing your job. Is that it?”

“Now listen to me: you were trained as a cop and you know the meaning of evidence. But you seem to have forgotten it. You’ve got suspicions but you won’t prove them by slapping people around. We’ve got two detectives working on the Ragoni murder. They’ll stay on it until they get results. Leave the job to them. They’re paid for it.”

“I’m giving you a short cut,” Retnick said. “But you want it the long way.” He knew there was no point in further talk; no one cared as much as he did. No one had his reasons. Neville could wait for the slow turn of the wheel of justice, and meanwhile draw his pay and live his quiet pleasant life. But for him the waiting was over.

“Forget Mario Amato,” Neville said. “We couldn’t hold him for two hours. And what would I say when Amato sprung him? That I’d picked him up on the word of an ex-convict?”

“Supposing I got Red Evans?”

“We’ll get Red Evans,” Neville said. “You keep out of this. That’s all I can give you, Steve, a piece of damn good advice.”

“Save it,” Retnick said. “Put it away with your pension.”

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” Neville said angrily. “Where can I drop you?”

“The boarding house. It’s on Fortieth and it’s on your way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t trouble you.”

“You’re a stubborn Polack,” Neville said, and let out the clutch with an exasperated snap. The car leaped forward, the wheels whining at the pavement.

Retnick’s street was dark and empty. The lieutenant coasted to a stop and let the motor idle. “Now hold it a second,” he said, as Retnick opened the door. He turned toward him, a troubled frown on his face. “I want to say one more thing.”

“More advice?”

Neville sighed. “I’m trying to help, Steve. In my way. I think it’s the right way. But let’s assume for argument’s sake that I’m wrong. Say I’m a pension-happy cop who’s afraid to rock the boat, afraid of hoodlums like Amato. Say that if you will. All I want you to do is think hard about what I’ve said. Get this chip off your shoulder and start thinking sensibly. Will you do me that favor?”

“I’ve thought about your advice,” Retnick said. “Good night.” Stepping from the car he slammed the door and went up the short flight of worn concrete steps to the doorway of his building. He took his keys from his pocket and turned halfway around to get some light from the street lamp. Neville started up the block under a rush of power, and Retnick turned back to the door and fitted his key in the lock. A high cold wind was blowing and a tin can tumbled along the gutter with a sudden clatter of sound. Retnick’s key stuck and he pulled it out and turned once again to the light. And it was then that he saw the shadow of a crouching man moving along the line of cars at the curb. He hesitated an instant, feeling the sudden heavy strike of his heart, the warning tension in his muscles. The shadow moved again, rising slowly as the man came to a standing position behind a black sedan.

Retnick turned back to the door. Standing perfectly still he counted to three, giving the man time to aim, and then he dropped to his knees and dove down the stairs toward the sidewalk. He landed on his right shoulder and tucked his head into his chest to keep from being brained on the concrete; the momentum of his lunge rolled him over, and he came to his feet in a crouch at the curb. And by then the street was echoing with a report of a gun and the scream of a ricocheting bullet. A second shot bounced from the front of the building, sending fine particles of brick whining into the darkness.

Retnick saw the flash of the gun’s muzzle two car lengths ahead of him, on the curb side of the cars.

He held Lye’s gun in his hand. The silence was complete now and he knew that Neville’s car had stopped somewhere up the block. That meant the lieutenant had heard the shots.

The man who had fired at him was only two car lengths away, and Retnick heard the scuff of his shoes on the sidewalk as he moved closer through the darkness. There was no place for Retnick to hide. The cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb and he couldn’t slip between them to the street. He could only wait for Neville.

Somewhere down the block a window went up with a protesting shriek and a woman shouted into the silence. And the wind rattled the can near Retnick’s hand.

He knew Neville would probably come back along the line of cars on the opposite side of the street. Crouching low he felt around for the tin can in the gutter. Then he tossed it over the cars into the street, and flattened himself on his stomach.

A big figure loomed in the darkness a dozen feet from him. Swearing hoarsely, the man clambered over the fenders of a car, and leaped into the street. He fired again, still cursing, and then Retnick heard Neville yell sharply, “This is the police. Drop that gun.”

Retnick scrambled to his feet. A lamp on the opposite sidewalk threw a pale yellow light into the street, and Retnick saw a big man in a camel’s hair coat, and saw the fear and rage working in his face as he wheeled and raised his gun in the direction of Neville’s voice. A shot sounded off to the right and he heard the man cry out hoarsely. Turning in a frantic circle the man dropped his gun and hugged his stomach tightly with both hands. Finally he went down to his knees and began to sob. And when he fell forward his voice broke and he cried, “No!” in a high, incredulous voice.

Retnick put his gun away and climbed over the bumpers of a car to the street. Hammy lay sprawled on the pavement staring with wide frightened eyes at the dark sky, his big chest heaving for air. Noises sounded up and down the block as people shouted at each other from open windows. Several men were hurrying to the scene, their running footsteps loud and clear in the night.

Neville stepped from behind a car and crossed the street to Retnick’s side. He was pale, and there was a sharp glint of excitement in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he said, watching Retnick closely.

“Yes. He missed twice.”

Neville knelt beside Hammy. It was obvious the big man was dying. He looked lonely and scared and his face was very white.

“Did Amato tell you to get Retnick?” Neville said, speaking sharply and distinctly. “Come on, Hammy, get squared away before you die.”

Hammy shook his head slowly. “I can’t die,” he said, wetting his lips. “It’s not time. I’m young—” His voice broke and he began to cough.

“Who killed Ragoni?” Retnick said quietly.

Several men had crowded around them and Neville raised his head and glared at them. “Get back home where you belong,” he said. “I’m a police officer.”

The men backed off to the sidewalk and stared in fascination at Hammy.

“I don’t know who killed anybody,” Hammy said. He looked as if he were trying to cry. “You didn’t have to shoot me, I had a lot ahead of me.”

“Help us,” Retnick said. Neville folded Hammy’s fedora and slipped it under his head. “You don’t owe Amato anything,” Retnick said. “Who killed Joe Ventra? Do you know, Hammy?”

“Amato threw me out,” Hammy said weakly. His eyes closed and he drew a deep breath. “Everybody said he killed Ventra. I don’t know. Don’t let me die.”

“We’ll do what we can, Hammy,” Neville said. “Who says Amato killed Ventra? Tell us that.” A police siren wailed in the distance. Neville shook Hammy’s arm gently. “Tell us that,” he said.

Hammy opened his eyes and reached for Neville’s arm. “Wait,” he said in a high clear voice. “It ain’t over so soon. I just—” He tried to sit up then, staring in sudden fear and understanding at Retnick. When he began to cough the strength left his body and he slumped back to the pavement. Tears glistened in his staring eyes.

A squad car pulled up and a big patrolman came toward them with a hand resting on the butt of his gun.

Neville got slowly to his feet and looked at Retnick. “You come on to the station with me,” Neville said. “We’ll need your statement. Then we’ll have a talk.”

Retnick gave his statement to a young detective named Myers, mentioning his fight with Hammy as a possible reason for the ambush. Neville typed out a report without bothering to take off his hat or coat. Then he tossed it in his basket and came into the file room and nodded at Retnick. “I’ll wait for you on the sidewalk,” he said.

When Retnick came out of the station Neville turned to him, his face sharp and white in the darkness. “Amato didn’t wait long to take a crack at you,” he said.

“He believes in direct action,” Retnick said. “He doesn’t wait for an airtight case. You could learn a lot from him.”

“Let’s stop yapping at each other,” Neville said. “Do you know where Red Evans is now?”

“I think he’s in Trenton.”

“You said earlier that you could get him to New York. Does that still stand?”

“I don’t need Red Evans,” Retnick said coldly. “Didn’t you hear Hammy say Amato killed Joe Ventra? That’s all I’ve been trying to find out.”

“A hoodlum’s word isn’t enough to convict Amato.”

“It’s enough for me,” Retnick said.

“Now listen,” Neville said sharply. “We can get Amato my way. But you’ll get nothing by acting like a one-man jury and firing squad. We need Red Evans, but we can’t extradite him. If you get him, I’ll pick up Mario Amato. Then we’ll get the truth. And the truth will point at Amato.”

Retnick hesitated a second, staring at Neville. “Do I have your word on that?”

“You have my word,” Neville said. “But be careful, Steve. Red Evans is a very tough boy.”

“Sure,” Retnick said. “So was Hammy.”