The Darkest Hour

13

Retnick lay on his bed smoking one ciagrette after another, unable to find relief from his painful, turbulent thoughts. When a knock sounded on the door he got quickly to his feet, grateful for the distraction. Mrs. Cara stood in the hallway, an anxious and worried frown on her face.

“Mr. Retnick, I shouldn’t bother you, but one of my old men is sick.” She sighed and shook her head. “Not sick but drunk. He is weeping and drinking and I can’t do nothing for him. I thought you could talk to him, maybe.”

“What good would that do? If he wants to drink he’ll drink.”

“But he’s not like that. Mr. Nelson is very steady all the time. Something just happened to him, that’s all.”

“You could call the cops,” Retnick said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. He’s a very nice man.”

“Where is he?”

She smiled then, and some of the worry left her eyes. “Good, I show you. Come with me. Maybe another man can help him.”

Mr. Nelson had a room on the first floor at the back of the house, a clean, neat cubicle with a window opening on an air shaft. He was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, a tall thin man with silver-gray hair and gentle brown eyes that were sunk deep beneath bushy eyebrows. A half-empty bottle of whisky was on the floor near his trailing hand. He was fully dressed. His overcoat was folded over the back of a chair but he still wore a gray wool muffler. He had been crying, obviously; his nose was red and tears glittered in his staring eyes.

“You go back to bed,” Retnick said to Mrs. Cara. “I’ll sit here with him awhile.”

“Can I get him anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Nelson was apparently unconscious of their presence, but Retnick knew from the altered rhythm of his breathing that he had heard their voices. He pulled up the chair and sat beside the bed. Mrs. Cara looked uncertainly at the two men for a moment, and then sighed and tiptoed from the room.

“You can’t help,” Nelson said, without looking at Retnick. His voice was unexpectedly clear. “You might as well go, too. I’m not likely to become violent.”

“You gave Mrs. Cara a scare.”

“I didn’t mean to. I... she’s a good friend of mine. But I couldn’t help it.”

“She’ll understand. She’s just worried about you, that’s all. You mind if I smoke a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t mind. But you might as well go back and sleep. You can’t help me.”

“I’ll just finish the cigarette then,” Retnick said.

Nelson said nothing for three or four minutes. Retnick glanced around the small, tidy room; it was a still life of sterile loneliness. No snapshots, no pictures, no personal notes. The clutter of life was absent; the change and keys to use tomorrow, the stamped letter to mail on the way to work, there were no such things in this wrapped-up little box. A toothbrush stood in a clean glass on a shelf above the sink, and a bar of soap gleamed dully in the bright light. But they looked new and unused, like props in a department store window. Except for a tiny crucifix above the bed the walls were bare.

“My cousin died this morning,” Nelson said, in his clear distinct voice. “That’s... well, that’s why I got drunk. Would you explain that to Mrs. Cara?”

“That’s too bad,” Retnick said. “She’ll be sorry to hear it.”

Nelson shook his head. “She didn’t know him. I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. He lived in Boise. He was a school teacher. Never married. But he was the only relative I had. It — just hit me today. I’m alone. There’s nobody to bury me. The police will come when I die and they won’t know what to do with my body. I... I just started drinking this morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen to me, and I couldn’t stop drinking. I’m not a drinking man. I worked thirty-two years in the post office and I don’t suppose I had a dozen glasses of beer in all that time. You might as well go to bed, mister.”

“When I finish the cigarette,” Retnick said. His eyes moved to the crucifix, and he stared defiantly at the suspended figure. “You believe in God, don’t you?” he said.

“I don’t know. Not enough, maybe. I don’t know.”

“What did you do in your spare time when you were working?”

“I used to go out to the track,” Nelson said. “I never bet, but I liked to watch horses. Thoroughbreds, I mean. I was born in Virginia and I got the look of them stamped in my head. I just like to watch them run.” He smiled nervously and turned to look at Retnick. “You ever do that?”

“No, I was born on the East Side. I thought horses came with milk wagons attached to them until I was about ten, I think.”

“Well, you missed something. They’re pretty to watch, I tell you.”

“Maybe you could show me what to look for some day. They’ll be running at Belmont in a few months.”

“Sure they will. I’d be glad to show you, too. A kid misses a lot growing up in the city.”

He was okay now, Retnick knew. Maybe he could even get to sleep. “How about a nightcap?” he said casually.

“You go ahead. I... I think I had enough.”

Retnick rinsed the toothbrush glass, and poured himself a small drink. Then he said good night. But Nelson didn’t answer him. His eyes were closed and his breathing had become regular.

When Retnick stepped into the dark hallway, Mrs. Cara put her head out of her door. “He’s all right?” she asked him quietly.

“I think so. His cousin died this morning, and it hit him hard. But he’ll be okay.”

“I’m glad. He’s a nice man. He’s lived here eighteen years.”

“Good night,” Retnick said, but Mrs. Cara put her hand on his arm. “You were good to him. Your voice was almost like a woman’s. You don’t mind my saying this, I hope, but it ain’t like the voice you used with your wife on the phone.”

Retnick stared at her. “My trouble didn’t come from a bottle. And it won’t go away with a hangover.”

“Things are never as bad as you think they are, Mr. Retnick. You remember that.”

“Sometimes they’re worse,” Retnick said. “Good night.”

He slept little that night and was up at six in the morning. He went to the corner restaurant for coffee and returned to his rooming house without bothering to eat breakfast. Today he had to look for Red Evans. This was Thursday, Dixie Davis’ day off, and if she followed her customary pattern she would go to Trenton to meet Evans. Retnick decided to pick her up there. That would be less risky than attempting to trail her from New York.

The day was clear and crisp with an occasional flurry of snow in the air. Two men stood talking together in front of his rooming house. They were staring at the place in the street where Hammy had died. Retnick heard one of them say, “The guy who shot him was a cop. It says that in the paper. Some luck, eh? Pull something and find a cop in the same block waiting for you.”

Retnick let himself into the room, trying not to think of anything at all, trying particularly not to think of his wife. That was over. She would go to Chicago and he would stay here with his dark heavy thoughts. The little cat, Silvy, blinked at him from an open drawer, stretching comfortably on his small stack of new shirts. He put her down on the floor and then took Joe Lye’s gun from his pocket and looked at it for a moment, unable to decide whether or not to take it with him. There were risks either way. But he finally decided against it. He would go right back to jail if he were picked up carrying a gun. He put the gun under his shirts, closed the drawer and left.

It was an hour’s ride to Trenton and by eight o’clock he had taken his post in the waiting room, sitting where he could watch the passengers who got off the New York trains. He spent the morning in the dusty, overheated room, using a newspaper to shield his face when people trickled in off the hourly trains. He wasted the morning and most of the afternoon before he became convinced that she wasn’t going to show. It would have been more reasonable to trail her from New York and take the risk of being seen, he thought. Evans had probably left Trenton when he heard that Retnick was looking for him.

It was five o’clock when he got back to New York. He ate a sandwich and drank a cup of coffee, and then tried to find a cab. But the evening rush had started by then and the increasingly heavy snow had created traffic snarls throughout the midtown section. Retnick joined an exasperated group of people under a hotel canopy. A red-faced doorman stood in the street whistling for a cab with pointless optimism, while the snow fell softly and silently into the black congested city.

Retnick didn’t get to Dixie Davis’ apartment until almost seven o’clock. In the foyer he brushed the snow from his hat and shoulders before pressing her buzzer. She answered almost immediately, “Who is it?”

“Retnick,” he said. “Remember?”

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to see you.”

“Look, Buster, there’s a thing called a telephone,” she said. “People use it to make dates with.”

“I didn’t have time to call,” he said. “This is important.”

There was a brief silence. Then she said, “Important to who? You or me?”

“It could be for both of us.”

“Okay, come on up.”

She was waiting for him in the doorway, a bored little smile twisting her freshly painted lips. Except for her eyes, which were cold little points under the red bangs, everything about her was designed as part of an obvious piece. The red silk dress straining tightly at the curves of her small body, the sheer nylons and wedge-soled ankle straps, the huge junk bracelet on her wrist, they all advertised an old, old product.

“Well, what’s the good news?” she said. “You strike gold in a back tooth or something?”

“It’s better than that,” he said, smiling slightly. He strolled past her into the scrupulously neat and impersonal room. “We’re all alone, eh?” he said, tossing his hat into a chair.

“Make yourself at home. You want a robe and slippers maybe?”

“It’s a tempting idea.”

“Okay, stop clowning,” she said, staring at him coldly. “What’s on your mind?”

“You don’t sound very friendly,” he said.

“I don’t like guys barging up here like it was a saloon with a free lunch,” she said. “I told you once, I’ll tell you twice, use the damn telephone if you want to see me.”

Retnick stared at her, his face and eyes hardening slowly. “I don’t want to see you,” he said. “Given a choice I’d prefer to play pinochle with somebody’s eighty-year-old aunt. But I don’t have a choice.”

“You know where the door is,” she said, putting her hands on her small, bony hips. “If you don’t like it here, blow.”

Retnick’s smile did something ugly to his eyes. “You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”

“I get by, Buster. I take care of me and mine.”

“But you’re sitting in a very rough game,” Retnick said. “You could get hurt. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“I sleep just fine,” she said.

“You’re still seeing Red Evans,” Retnick said slowly. “And he’s a murderer. I didn’t buy the cute story about the trusting little doll who lost her heart and bankroll to the con man. Life in Canada, a big fresh start, it was all corn, Dixie. Where is he? That’s what I’m going to find out.”

She laughed softly. “You’re an ex-con who got kicked off the police force for murdering a man. Do you think that makes you something special? You think I’ll get down on my knees for a creep like you? Get this straight now, Buster: if I see Red Evans that’s my business. He could be a murderer fifty times over and he’d still be a better man than you are.”

Something in her manner puzzled him; she was relishing this moment, chin raised, eyes flashing, playing it as if she were facing an audience.

“You could get hurt in this deal,” he said, watching her closely. “Hasn’t that occurred to you?”

“I’m scared to death,” she said.

Retnick caught her suddenly by the shoulders and jerked her close to him. “I’ll bet you don’t want to get hurt,” he said softly.

The speed and power in his hands had wiped the wise little sneer from her face; she stared up at him, breathing unevenly, terrified by the strange look in his eyes.

“Don’t,” she whispered, and her eyes flicked past him to the closed bedroom door. It was an involuntary betrayal; she looked quickly back at Retnick, a new fear touching her face.

An audience, Retnick thought, and a little shock went through him. They weren’t alone.

He heard the metallic whisper as the doorknob turned and he saw the straining effort Dixie was making to keep her eyes on his face. Raising his voice he said, “You said you’d finger him for a thousand bucks. So why stall? You want more dough?”

“Don’t move,” a voice behind him said quietly. “That’s good. Now take your dirty hands off her. And don’t turn around.”

Retnick released the girl and she backed away from him, grinning with relief. She rubbed her thin shoulders and said, “We’ll see what a big man you are now, Buster.”

Fast expert hands went over Retnick’s clothes and body. Then the voice said, “Okay, big shot, let’s look at you.”

As Retnick turned, a fist struck the side of his face and the sharp edge of a ring slashed across the cheek bone. The man who struck him stepped back quickly, the gun in his hand centered on Retnick’s stomach. “All right, start something,” he said, smiling faintly.

Retnick touched his cheek and felt the warm blood under his fingers. “You’re Red Evans, eh?” he said.

“Yeah, that’s it. How come everybody thinks you’re dumb? You sound real sharp to me.”

Evans was a tall man with sloping shoulders and a loose, reckless mouth. His hair was bright red, and he needed a shave; the lamplight glinted on the blond whiskers along his heavy jaw. He wore a gaily colored sports shirt with dark slacks, and his brown eyes looked muddy and dangerous.

“The love tap was necessary,” he said, balancing himself on the balls of his feet and keeping a safe distance from Retnick. “My story goes like this: you broke in, started beating up my friend and I had to kill you in self-defense. Does it sound all right? You used to be a cop. You should be a good judge.”

Retnick shrugged. “It sounds okay. But what’s your story for Ragoni? Did you kill him in self-defense too?”

“I don’t need any story for Ragoni,” Evans said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. “I never touched him. But it annoyed me when I heard you were talking pretty loud about me and Ragoni. That kind of talk can cause trouble. I checked with Amato and he told me you got this delusion I killed your pal. So I decided to come over and set you straight.”

“You didn’t trust Amato to handle it, eh?”

Evans said gently, “They sounded a little scared of you. Tough cop and all that crap. But things like that don’t scare me, Retnick.”

“Before you shoot you’d better be sure your chum here will back up the story.”

Evans smiled at Dixie. “She’ll back me up, she’s smart.”

“Sure, she’s smart,” Retnick said. “She offered to lead me to you for a thousand bucks.”

Dixie laughed softly. “Did I, big shot? Did I lead you to him? Or was it the other way around?”

“She held out for more dough,” Retnick said, watching Evans. He had little hope this would work. They weren’t fools; they were shrewd and tough and ruthless.

“So she’s double-crossing me,” Evans said, with a sigh. He looked sadly at Dixie. “You’re a naughty one, selling out the old redhead.”

“It’s funny,” Retnick said, hardening his voice. “Real funny. Cops make most of their pinches because clowns like you have such fine senses of humor. How do you suppose I knew you killed Ragoni? You think I heard that on a newscast?”

Evans’ expression changed slightly. He still smiled, but a wary glint appeared in his muddy eyes. “Okay, big shot, where’d you hear it?”

“Ask her,” Retnick said.

“Sure,” Evans said slowly. “I’ll ask her. Dixie knows better than to kid around with me.”

“He’s just trying to steam you up, Red,” Dixie said. One thin hand moved uneasily along the seam of her skirt. “I never told him anything.”

“But he knows something,” Evans said, looking thoughtfully at Retnick. “If he ain’t guessing, then somebody’s been talking.”

“I’m guessing, sure,” Retnick said. “I guess Mario Amato paid you to do the job on Ragoni. And I guess it was Mario who got you the job on the winch in Ragoni’s crew. And I guess it was just damn carelessness when you almost hit him with a load of freight.” He smiled coldly at Evans. “You want me to keep guessing?”

“You know about Mario Amato, eh?” Evans said. He looked genuinely puzzled. “Who’s been talking to you?”

“Ask her,” Retnick said.

Evans sighed deeply. “You goofed that time, big shot. I never told her about Mario.”

“Somebody did,” Retnick said. “Before you blast me and hit tomorrow’s front pages, ask yourself who’s been spreading the news about you.”

“Red, wake up!” Dixie cried. “He’s just stalling. Can’t you see that?”

“Something cute is going on,” Evans said. He looked mad and dangerous. “Come here, baby. Don’t cross in front of him or you’ll get a bullet through you.”

“What do you want?”

“Just come here.”

When she reached his side he put an arm around her and twisted his fingers into her hair. His eyes and gun stayed on Retnick. “I want to get things straight,” he said, very quietly. “We’ll take our time and find out what’s going on. You first, Dixie,” he said, and forced her head back until the tendons in her throat stood out tightly under the white skin.

“Red, don’t!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I just want you nice and quiet. Now listen: if you talked to anybody I got to know about it. Understand me? Maybe somebody put pressure on you or offered you a big payoff. That’s okay. I don’t care if you talked. But I got to know if I’m being fitted for a frame.”

“Red, I swear to God,” she cried.

“Let me finish. If you squealed say so. I won’t hurt you. But I got to know.”

“I swear I never talked, Red. Stop it, please.”

“I think I believe you, baby,” Evans said, watching Retnick with his muddy, dangerous eyes. “Now it’s your turn, big shot. Where’d you get your information?”

Unconsciously, his hand tightened in Dixie’s hair, and she said hoarsely, “For God’s sake, Red, stop it!” The words were thick with pain in her straining throat, and tears started in her eyes. She tried to drive a sharply pointed heel into his foot, and then her right knee jerked upward in a spasmodic, convulsive reaction and knocked his gun hand into the air.

Retnick was on him like an animal. He caught Evans’ upraised wrist with one hand, his throat with the other, and slammed him backward across the room. The rush of his body knocked the girl spinning to the floor and sent a chair crashing crazily onto its side. Evans’ body struck the wall with a crash, and Retnick saw the dazed pain and fear streak into his eyes when his head snapped against the wall.

“Drop the gun,” he said, holding him by the arm and throat. “Drop it!” Evans struggled against him, desperately trying to twist his pinioned hand and bring the gun to bear on Retnick.

“Tough guy,” Retnick said, and closed his fingers with all his strength on Evans’ wrist.

Evans screamed in pain, the sound of it high and incredulous in his throat, and the gun clattered from his distended fingers to the floor. Retnick hit him in the stomach then, and something brutal and guilty within him savored the impact of the blow and the explosive rush of air from Evans’ lungs.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back and let him slide to the floor. He picked up the gun, dropped it in his pocket and stared for a second or so without feeling or compassion at Evans’ red, straining face and jackknifed body. Finally he looked at the girl who sat on the floor supporting her weight with one outstretched hand. Her eyes were wide with terror as she stared at him.

“Get up,” he said.

“Don’t hurt me, please.”

“Get up. Keep quiet and you’ll be okay.”

Retnick walked to the phone and put in a call to the Thirty-First. Watching Evans, he told the clerk who answered to put him through to Lieutenant Neville. When Neville came on, Retnick said, “I got him. Evans. Can you pick him up right away?”

Neville whistled softly. “Is he marked up?”

“Nothing that will show.”

“Where are you?”

Retnick told him and Neville said, “Sit tight.”

Retnick put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he felt some of the tension dissolving in his body. But he felt no elation or triumph. Only a curious bitterness and distaste.

“You’re working with the cops?” Dixie asked him in a small, uneasy voice.

“That’s right.”

“You made him think I crossed him,” she said. Staring at Evans a little shudder went through her body. “What’ll happen to me when he gets loose?”

“Maybe he won’t get loose.”

“But if he does?”

“That’s your problem.”

“What have you got against me?”

“Nothing,” Retnick said shortly.

She was very pale and her lips were trembling. “Why did you put me in this spot?”

“You put yourself in it,” Retnick said, staring at her. “This guy is a killer. He killed a man he’d never seen before, slipped a knife between his ribs for a piece of change. And you knew about it. You thought he was a hero.” Retnick made an abrupt, angry gesture with his hand. “Behind every one of these vermin is a dummy like you, loving them, protecting them, treating them like glamour boys. Until you get in the middle. Then you get religion. You think that—” Retnick stopped and ground out his cigarette. He felt disgusted with himself. “You’ll be okay,” he said.

She was weeping now. Fear had stripped the cynical, wise-guy mask from her face. She looked suddenly childish and vulnerable. Even the cheaply sexy clothes seemed incongruous on her small thin body, like props borrowed from an older sister.

“You don’t know him,” she said. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s mad.”

“He’ll have enough problems without worrying about you.”

The buzzer sounded and he went to the speaking tube that was hooked to the wall. He made sure it was Neville, then pressed the button that unlocked the inner door of the foyer.

Neville and Kleyburg walked into the room a few seconds later. Kleyburg put a hand on Retnick’s arm, his eyes going worriedly to the blood on his face. “You okay, Steve?” he said.

“It’s nothing serious.”

Neville was staring down at Evans. “They never look worth the trouble they make,” he said. Then he nodded at Dixie, his pale face completely without expression. “Who’s this?”

“The girl friend,” Retnick said.

“You’ve got to protect me,” Dixie said, smiling nervously at Neville.

“Will you testify against him?” he said.

“There... there’s nothing I could tell you,” she said, as her eyes slipped away from his contempt. He turned to Retnick, dismissing her completely. “Did you get anything from him?”

“He’s your boy,” Retnick said. He was sure Evans was listening, so he said, “He knows Amato is trying to frame him and keep the kid in the clear.”

Neville picked up the cue. “Amato will get away with it too.”

Evans straightened himself painfully to a sitting position. “You guys are real comedians,” he said. “Comic book cops, that’s what you are.”

Kleyburg looked at him with a pleased smile. “On your feet, buddy. We’re going to take you some place where you can tell us your life story. I’ll bet it’s good.”

Neville touched Retnick’s arm and drew him aside. “You fade,” he said quietly. “We’ll pick up Mario Amato now and toss these two babies together. I’ll call you when there’s a break.”