The Darkest Hour

5

Retnick walked into Tim Moran’s saloon a few minutes after ten. The bar was crowded then with longshoremen who had been skipped over at the morning’s shape-up. They were smoking and chatting over their beers, killing time until they could shape again in the afternoon. Several of them glanced curiously at Retnick as he moved to a vacant spot at the bar, his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Tim Moran waved a greeting and came to meet him, a tentative smile touching his small red face.

“Has my wife been in here this morning?” Retnick said.

“I haven’t seen her, Steve.”

“I’ll take a booth. Send her back, will you?”

“Sure. Can I bring you something to drink?”

“No, never mind.”

Retnick walked to the rear of the big noisy room, moving down a narrow corridor formed by the crowded bar on his left and the line of brown wooden booths on his right. He hung up his hat and sat down in the last booth without bothering to take off his overcoat. From here he could see the length of the bar, the front doors and the big plate glass windows that faced the avenue. It was snowing again and the wind was higher. The big soft flakes rushed past in fast formations, straight lines of white against the windows.

Retnick lit a cigarette and stared at two longshoremen who were regarding him with simple curiosity. They turned away, confused by the cold anger in his eyes, and went back to their beer and talk. He settled down in the booth then and watched the smoke curling in slow spirals from his cigarette, isolated from the cheerful noises of the bar, by the dark and bitter cast of his thoughts. He glanced up when his wife came in. She closed the door quickly against the rush of cold air that swirled into the room, and stood indecisively for an instant, a small uncertain smile touching her lips. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind. She wore a gray tweed topcoat with a flaring skirt, and flakes of melting snow glistened in her close-cut, curly black hair. Moran saw her and waved, and she went to the bar and shook hands with him, moving with a quick light grace that seemed appropriate to any place or occasion. The men at the bar made room for her, grinning sympathetically as she stamped the snow from her small black pumps. There was a quality of direct, unself-conscious friendliness about her that put them completely at ease. A pretty picture, Retnick thought, staring impassively at her clean warm beauty. Charming the simple souls with a quick smile, the turn of a slim ankle. No wonder she looks good, he thought, putting out his cigarette. She’s had five good years. Big good years. Anger twisted in his breast like the turn of a cold blade. She hadn’t missed anything, anything at all.

She smiled at something Moran said in parting, and then walked quickly toward the rear of the room. But the smile left her face when Retnick stood up and she saw the look in his eyes; she faltered for an instant, as if a heavy weight had suddenly been placed on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sliding into the booth. “There weren’t any cabs. Have you been waiting long?”

The words meant nothing; they were defensive little flurries against the barrier in his face and eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

She was silent a moment, frowning at the backs of her hands. Then she sighed and looked at him. “Last night was all wrong, Steve.”

“What did you expect?”

“I thought we could talk to each other, at least.”

“We talked,” he said.

“We just made noises,” she said. “There was no more communication than you’d find between a Martian and a... a Zulu.”

“Did that surprise you?”

She stared at him for a few seconds, studying the lines in his hard face. Then she said slowly, “Do you hate me so much you won’t even listen to me? I want to explain what happened. Don’t I deserve that much of a break?”

Retnick laughed shortly. “A break,” he said. “That’s very funny.”

“It isn’t funny,” she said, with a sharp note of anger in her voice. “Who says I’m dirt on the floor? Who treats me like God’s greatest slut? You, the final judge! But you won’t listen to my side of it. You’ve made up your mind and the case is closed. I can go whistle.”

Retnick lit a cigarette and flipped the match aside. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

She put her hands over his suddenly. “I want a break and I don’t deserve one. Is that so terrible? You’ve got to have some compassion left. They couldn’t change you that much.”

“I’m not interested in forgiving people,” Retnick said.

She withdrew her hands from his slowly. “Forgiving your enemies isn’t optional,” she said. “It’s something you’ve got to do. There’s a direct order, isn’t there? ‘Father forgive them’. Or maybe that’s not it. You could check with Father Bristow.”

“I’ve got nothing to talk to him about,” Retnick said.

“This is just a waste of time then,” she said slowly.

Retnick’s hands burned from the touch of her cool fingers. He swallowed a tightness in his throat and said, “Sure, it’s a waste of time.”

She looked down at the surface of the table and moistened her lips. For a moment she was silent. Then she said dryly, “That’s that, I guess. If you want to play it like the great stone face, all right. What I wanted to talk to you about was this: I saved some money while you were gone. About six thousand dollars. I’d like you to take it and go away and do what you want with it. Go fishing or hunting, or go to Florida and lie in the sun, or get drunk for a year if you like. Then come back. Maybe we could talk by then. Would you do that, Steve?”

He smiled bitterly. “You think I’m mixed up, eh? Like a GI with battle fatigue. Give him a few helpings of apple pie and let him loaf in the sun and he’ll be okay.”

“Then what is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said sharply. “I’m going to find the men who killed Ventra and there’ll be a big, loud pay-off. That makes sense to me. If you don’t think I’m right, then I suggest you take the dough and go on a therapeutic binge. You need it.”

As he was talking Retnick heard the front door open and felt the sudden draft of cold air about his ankles. But he paid no attention to it until he became conscious of the strange, expectant silence that had settled over the room. He looked up then and saw Joe Lye and Hammy standing at the far end of the bar.

“Steve,” she said. “Listen to me. I want—”

“I’ll get you a cab,” he said.

“Please. If you leave this way we can never fix it up.”

“Let’s go,” he said, standing. “I don’t want to talk any more.”

She slipped from the booth, buttoning the collar of her coat, and Retnick picked up his hat. The longshoremen along the bar sipped beer in silence, minding their own business with scrupulous care. Tim Moran stood at the spigots, his face grave and impassive, but Retnick caught the little flash of warning in his eyes.

Marcia walked quickly toward the front door, her high heels sounding sharply in the unnatural stillness. Retnick followed her, ignoring the cautious glances shot at him by men at the bar. Then, when he was at the door, Joe Lye said, “Hello, Steve,” and his voice fell softly into the silence.

Retnick hesitated. Marcia stopped with her hand on the knob and looked up at him, suddenly aware of the tension in the room.

Lye said, “Don’t hurry off because of us, Steve.”

Retnick turned around slowly, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Under the brim of his hat his face was expressionless. He knew it would be wise to clear out before there was trouble; but his control was slipping.

“What do you want, Joe?” he said quietly.

Lye and Hammy stood together at the turn of the bar, with space on either side of them; the men nearest them had drifted casually toward the juke box and lunch table at the rear of the room. Lye, tall and thin in black clothes, looked relaxed and easy, but the straining little smile was flashing like a danger signal at the side of his pallid face. Hammy was grinning expectantly. His hands were hooked onto the lapels of his tan overcoat, pulling it back from his huge chest. He looked slightly drunk; there was a hot gleam in his little eyes, and his round, flat face was flushed and beaded with perspiration.

The smile tightened on Lye’s face. “There’s some talk that you got dumb in jail,” he said. “I wanted to check on that.”

“How do you plan to find out?” Retnick said.

Lye laughed gently. “Well, maybe I’ll give you one of those I.Q. tests. Hammy here can ask the questions.”

Marcia caught Retnick’s arm. “Steve, let’s go.”

“There’s no hurry,” he said, staring at Lye.

“They want trouble. Don’t be a fool.”

Hammy laughed happily. “Your wife says you’re a fool and I guess she should know. How come you’re living with a little kitty cat when you got a dish like that waiting for you, Retnick? That’s the first question in the big I.Q. test.”

The little grin on Retnick’s lips did something ugly to his face. “I’ve got questions too,” he said. “Who killed Frank Ragoni? Who killed Joe Ventra? Those are mine, Joe. Tell Amato I’ll be around to try them on him one of these days.”

Lye’s unnatural smile strained his mouth in a tight, twisted line. “You still talk real big, Steve. I bet Hammy can fix that.”

“He can try,” Retnick said gently.

“Steve, don’t!” Marcia cried.

Hammy laughed again. “You big clown,” he said, and surged toward Retnick, a long powerful arm swinging in an arc at his neck. He loved this work; all he needed was a grip and then he could maul and batter any man to pieces.

But he never got his grip; Retnick slapped his arm away with a blow that spun him around in a half-circle. Then he hit him twice in the body, deliberately and cruelly, bringing the punches up with effortless, terrible power, and Hammy’s breath left his body in an agonized gasp. His hands dropped quickly, as if invisible weights had suddenly been shackled to his wrists, and he fought for breath through a wide, straining mouth. He stared at Retnick, his eyes bulging piteously, and Retnick hit him again, slugging the wide exposed jaw with all the strength in his body. Hammy’s knees quit under him then, and he went down to the floor in a lugubrious sprawl, falling like an old man, limply and helplessly. Lying on his side, he panted for breath, a bloody froth bubbling on his Ups.

Retnick stared at Joe Lye, who stood perfectly still, his face twisted into a fixed weird smile. “Do you want to go on with your little question game?” he said softly. Already, the short, hot anger was gone, purged by the simple moment of action. But the old anger was with him still, cold and lasting, running powerfully under all his emotions.

Lye shook his head slowly. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. “It’s your round.”

“You’re smart, Joe,” Retnick said. The room was silent and still as he looked down at Hammy’s helpless bulk. “Next time I’ll kill you,” he said. “Remember that.”

Then he walked past his wife, opened the door and started uptown, moving with long strides into the driving snow. He heard her call his name and he heard her footsteps behind him, but he kept walking. She caught up with him finally and took his arm in both of her hands. “Steve, stop,” she said. “Don’t run away from me like this.”

He looked down at her. She was very pale; her lipstick stood out as a vivid slash, and her eyes were dark with fear. “Why did you do it?” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“They asked for it, they got it,” he said.

“You wanted to kill him,” she said. “Steve, you’ve got to stop. You’re... you’re like an animal.”

“I’m not stopping. I haven’t started yet.”

She stared at him and then shook her head quickly. “It’s not just me you hate. You hate everybody. You’ll go on hating until you’re killed.”

“That shouldn’t bother you,” he said, and pulled his arm away from her and walked toward the avenue. She stared after him, one hand touching her throat, until his big body disappeared into the clouds of swirling snow.