The Darkest Hour

3

At midnight Nick Amato sat behind his desk, slumped deep in the chair, with one foot propped up against a pulled-out drawer. The strong overhead light filled the small office with harsh brilliance, revealing cracks in the uncarpeted floor, the worn spots on the furniture, and the chipped gilt lettering on the windows that read: Headquarters, Local 200.

Joe Lye stood with his back to the wall, his hands deep in the pockets of his black overcoat, and watched the single door.

Amato was studying a Christmas card, a small frown on his broad, swarthy face. Smiling at him from the card was a photograph of his own face, looking absurd under a Santa Claus hat. The inscription read: Happy Holiday Greetings From Uncle Nick.

“This stinks,” Amato said, glancing at Joe Lye. “It’s cheap. Why did you use my picture? I’m not running for office.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Dave to take it back to the printer,” Joe Lye said.

“The picture would be in every ash can in the neighborhood after Christmas. Great, eh? Figure out something else.”

“Okay,” Joe Lye said.

Amato tossed the Christmas card on his desk and glanced at his watch. Then he yawned comfortably, a stockily built man of fifty, slightly below middle height, with a face as dark and hard as mahogany. Except for his eyes, which were cynical and pitiless, he could have passed for any sort of small businessman. He usually wore cheap brown or gray suits, and his only curious mannerism was an occasional air of abstraction; he gave the impression then that he was listening with amusement to some invisible story-teller.

“How old is Glencannon?” he said, glancing again at Joe Lye.

“I don’t know. Seventy-five maybe.”

Amato shook his fingers gently in front of his face. “That’s too old to be up this time of night,” he said.

“Did it have to be tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight, tonight, right away,” Amato said, and yawned again. Then he began to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Joe Lye asked him, not sure of what to expect. You never knew with Amato when he was in these dreamy moods. Sometimes he wanted to talk, sometimes he wanted you to shut up. You never knew.

“Glencannon is worried,” Amato said, smiling gently. “He can’t wait till morning. Maybe he wants to give us 202.”

“I wish he’d waited till morning,” Lye said. He crossed the room, a thin figure in black, and leaned against the wall. His eyes were irritable in the unhealthy pallor of his small, lean face. There was the suggestion of a smile about his lips but this was a matter he couldn’t control; a tic pulled his mouth into a tight grimace when he was nervous or worried. It looked like a grin at first glance, but the illusion of humor was shattered by the dangerous tension in his face.

“You wish he’d waited till morning?” Amato said. “What was you doing that was so important?”

“Well, I don’t go to Kay’s to watch television,” Lye said. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut; Amato loved this little game.

“What was you doing?” Amato said.

“Getting ready to eat, if you want details.”

“This late?”

“Sure.” Lye gestured nervously with a slim pale hand. “I didn’t get there till nine. We had a few drinks, Martinis, if you’re interested, and she was just ready to put in the steak when you called.”

“Martinis and steaks,” Amato said, smiling and shaking his head slowly. “Just like the movies. You got the life, Joe. Not like it was in jail, eh?”

Lye felt his mouth twisting painfully. Lighting a cigarette, he changed his position against the wall, turning the unmarked side of his face to Amato; it filled him with a sick rage to be stared at. “Why talk about jail?” he said, flipping the burned match across the room.

“Because it’s interesting,” Amato said, watching Lye with a little grin. “Those guards up there used to tell me how you were doing.”

“I know, I know,” Lye said. “They should keep their big fat mouths shut.”

“They said you prayed every night,” Amato said. “Down on your knees like you was in a church. That’s funny, eh?”

“You got a funny idea of what’s funny.”

“What were you praying for?”

“The place gets you,” Lye said. He looked quickly around the room, his eyes switching like those of an animal in a trap. Since those two weeks in the death cell a dream the color of blood had plagued his sleep, turning every night into an occasion of potential terror. It was always in red, a dull crimson shot with flecks of black, and there were laughing guards who rushed him down a corridor to the chair. Only it wasn’t a chair when they reached it, but a high rude altar, and they stretched him on it and tightened the straps about his body until he couldn’t breathe.

“It must be pretty bad,” Amato said, shaking his head. “But I don’t get the praying business. What’s that going to help?”

“I don’t know,” Lye said, dropping his cigarette on the floor. “The place softens you up, that’s all. You act buggy.”

Amato said casually, “You ought to get your face fixed up, Joe. It looks like hell, you know.”

“Sure I know,” Lye said, rubbing his mouth nervously. “You think I like it? But the doc says it’s in my head.”

“He thinks you’re nuts?”

“He’s the nutty one if you ask me,” Lye said. Relax, the doctor said. But how could he relax when he couldn’t even sleep?

“You shouldn’t have worried in jail,” Amato said. “Didn’t you know I’d get you out?”

“Time was getting short,” Lye said.

“Trust me,” Amato said. “Don’t waste time praying to anybody else. Well, what about Retnick?”

“Connors talked to him,” Lye said. He felt the tension easing in his straining lips. “Retnick’s in no mood to play ball. Connors couldn’t get anything definite from him.”

“That Connors never has anything definite,” Amato said. “It’s getting bad when you can’t buy anything better than a dummy like Connors.”

“Retnick’s got a one-track mind. He’s still thinking about who killed Ventra.”

Amato frowned slightly at the top of his desk. “That’s a Polack for you,” he said. “Stubborn.”

A step sounded on the stairs and Amato raised a hand quickly for silence. But it was Hammy who opened the door and sauntered into the room, a drunken grin on his big red face. “Sorry I’m late,” he said to Amato, and slumped into a chair that creaked under his great weight.

“Where’ve you been?” Amato said, in a deceptively pleasant voice.

“Around. Here and there.” Hammy laughed and massaged his bumpy forehead with the back of his hand. “Celebrating.”

“I didn’t say twelve o’clock just to be talking.”

The look in Amato’s eyes sobered Hammy. “Sure thing, boss, it won’t happen again. I—”

“Okay, okay,” Amato said, cutting him off irritably. “Joe, you figure something for Retnick.”

“All right,” Lye said.

Hammy was smiling. “Retnick? That guy couldn’t lick his upper lip. I can take him, boss.”

“Where? To a movie, maybe?”

“I deliver, you know that.” Amato’s sarcasm didn’t diminish Hammy’s childish confidence in his own ability. There were many things his small brain didn’t understand; but he understood perfectly well that he could kill most men in a matter of seconds with his hands. Not in a ring maybe, but an alley or barroom was different.

A bell jangled from below, and Amato said, “Well, here’s the old man. Go bring him up, Hammy.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Amato smiled faintly at Lye as they heard the slow, heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. “We should have had an oxygen tent handy,” he muttered.

The door opened and Jack Glencannon came into the room, blinking at the harsh overhead light.

“Take a seat,” Amato said, staring at the old man’s flushed face. “You don’t look so chipper.”

“The stairs get my wind these days,” Glencannon said, taking a deep breath. He sat down slowly and patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief.

“Relax a second,” Amato said, smiling coldly. “You’re no spring chicken any more. You should be soaking up the sun in Florida on a nice pension. Maybe it’s time to let somebody else run your local.”

The old man straightened his shoulders then and tried to put a suggestion of defiance into the thrust of his big jaw. But it was a futile effort. Everything about Glencannon was old and weary and beaten; the clothes hung loosely on his once-powerful frame, and there was a good inch of space between his collar and the withered skin of his throat. Networks of tiny blue veins had ruptured in his cheeks; he had been drinking heavily that night, and for many nights in the past, but he hadn’t numbed himself sufficiently for this showdown. There was a core of fear in him that the liquor hadn’t been able to dissolve.

“We need a frank talk, Amato,” he said, trying for a hearty tone. “We’ve needed it for a long time.” He hesitated then, conscious of Lye’s bright stare, and Amato’s supercilious smile. “I guess you know what I mean,” he said.

“You’re talking,” Amato said. “Keep going.”

“We don’t have to fight each other,” Glencannon said, smiling with obvious effort. “Some of your boys are pressuring the men in my local— I guess we both know that, Nick. And it’s got to stop.”

Amato didn’t answer him for a moment. Then he said gently, “You say it’s got to stop. Okay. You stop it, then.”

“It’s your men that need the stopping,” Glencannon said, standing and putting his hands on Amato’s desk for support. “I don’t hire the likes of your bums and hoodlums. You tell ’em to keep away from my local. It’s a clean place. The men are satisfied. They don’t want killers with guns telling ’em how to vote.”

“Killers?” Amato said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty strong word, old man.”

Glencannon stared at Amato, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence. “Frank Ragoni didn’t stab himself in the back and jump into the river,” he said.

“You’re talking real stupid,” Joe Lye said.

“Shut up,” Amato said casually. “You think we killed Ragoni?”

“He was told to get off the docks by your men,” Glencannon said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “He was told to stop talking about the elections. He got a last warning. Shut up or get killed. He didn’t shut up, and he got a knife in his back.”

Amato leaned forward, and his face settled into cold ugly lines. “Now listen to me, you washed-up old slob,” he said, softly and quietly. “You want your local, you fight for it. Elections are next month. The boys will make their choice. That’s all there is to it. I got nothing else to say to you.”

“Wait a minute, Nick. I didn’t come here to start a fight. This thing can be worked out peacefully.” Glencannon’s smile was a travesty; his lips were pulled back against his teeth but his eyes were bright with fear. “We’re on the same side, after all. We’re union men, Nick. How will it look for us to be squabbling? I—”

“I told you I had nothing more to say.” Amato stood up and stared with distaste at the old man’s trembling lips. “You’re a drunk and a slob and I’m tired of looking at you. Now beat it.”

Glencannon fought to say something, anything, but there were no words in his sick, tired old mind. Thirty years ago, he thought, remembering what he had once been, seeing again the man who could shout down a hall full of workers, and if necessary enforce his orders with rock-hard fists. He put a hand to his forehead and took an involuntary step backward, wanting nothing now but to get away from the contempt and anger in Amato’s eyes. “You didn’t understand me, Nick,” he said weakly.

“Take him home, Hammy,” Amato said.

“No. I’ll look after myself.”

“You need a nurse. Take him home, Hammy.”

When they had gone Amato shook his head and sat down at his desk. “He’d do himself a favor if he laid down and died,” he said.

“You handled him right,” Joe Lye said.

“Hell, a two-year-old baby could handle him,” Amato said. “But he used to be quite a boy. Years ago, that was. Well, turn out the lights. You can drive me home.”

“Look, Kay is waiting for me,” Lye said, and wet his lips. “I mean, she’s right downstairs.”

Amato was getting into his heavy black overcoat. He stopped, one arm in a sleeve, and looked blankly at Lye. “How come she’s here?” he said at last.

“She drove me down and I told her to wait,” Lye said. Anger ate at him like a corrosive acid. Amato was playing the puzzled peasant now, one of his most maddening roles. Everything would have to be spelled out for him in capitals. “You said to hurry,” he explained. “I thought I’d make better time if she drove me.”

“And she waited for you?”

“Well, I didn’t think we’d be long.”

“I see.” Amato nodded and finished putting on his coat. “You don’t want to drive me, is that it?”

“No. I’ll tell her to go on home.”

“It’s no trouble?” Amato was smiling slightly.

“Of course not.”

“Where does she live?”

“On the East Side. Near Park.” He knew damn well where she lived, Lye thought bitterly.

“Pretty fancy neighborhood,” Amato said shaking his head. “You’re flying high, Joe.”

“Well, it’s her place, not mine.”

Amato smiled cynically. “What does she pay the bills with? She ain’t been in a show in ten years. How old is she anyway?”

Lye felt his mouth tightening. Turning away from Amato he said, “She’s thirty-five.”

Amato laughed and strolled to the door. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, let’s go.”

Lye went downstairs ahead of him, his footsteps clattering noisily through the silent building, and Amato smiled as he snapped off the lights. The smile lingered on his lips as he went slowly down to the first floor.

Moving with short jerky strides, Lye crossed the street to the gray convertible that was parked in the darkness opposite union headquarters. He rapped his knuckles against the window and the girl at the wheel rolled the glass down quickly.

“What is it, Joe?” she said. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing the matter,” he said in a low tense voice. “Does there have to be something the matter? You always act like the world’s about to blow up in your face.”

“Joe,” she said pleadingly.

“I got to drive him home,” he said. “I’ll be up later.”

“Sure, Joe.” She was a pretty blonde woman, expensively cared for, but her eyes were miserable with fear. “Don’t get excited,” she said, and touched his hand gently. “Is he riding you again?”

“I got to take him home, that’s all,” he said, spacing the words deliberately and coldly. “Why do you make a Federal case out of everything?”

“I know what he does to you,” she said.

“Will you stop it?”

“All right, Joe. But hurry.”

“I’ll make it as soon as I can.”

Amato stood in the darkness across the street, listening to the murmur of their conversation. He saw the small pale blur of her face, and the pearls gleaming at her throat. Kay Johnson, he thought, turning the name slowly in his mind. He had seen her in a movie once, back in the late thirties.

She wasn’t a very good actress, but she was damn good-looking, one of those long-legged, pink-and-white college-kid types, full of healthy sex and bounce. Amato had met her a couple of times with Joe, but always briefly. She was thin and elegant now, with a shining blonde hair-do, and very classy clothes. Nice for Joe, he thought. Too nice for Joe.

The engine turned over, filling the dark silence with the sound of power, and Joe Lye crossed the street and joined Amato on the sidewalk. When the car was halfway down the block, Amato said abruptly, “I’ll take myself home.”

Lye turned and stared after the red tail lights of her car.

“You can’t catch her,” Amato said irritably. “Get a cab.”

“Sure,” Lye said. He was breathing hard, but his anger was dissolving in relief and anticipation. “You sure you’re okay?”

“For Christ’s sake, yes.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Amato put his hands in his pockets and watched Lye hurrying off into the darkness, his thin black figure moving in a jerky, puppet’s rhythm. In a sour and bitter mood, Amato finally turned and walked down the block to his sedan. With a conscious effort he tried not to think of the home he was going to, the cluttered, close-smelling apartment with its profusion of holy pictures and expensive, tasteless furniture. He shook his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge a disagreeable memory. Money meant nothing to his wife. If he gave her a hundred dollars she’d buy something for their nephew, or drop it in the poor box. Nothing for herself but a black dress that looked just like every other black dress she’d bought in the last twenty years. Amato slid behind the wheel of his car and made an attempt to change the direction of his thoughts. He didn’t want to be envious of Joe Lye. That could mean trouble.