The Darkest Hour

7

At four o’clock that afternoon Retnick stood watching the entrance to the North Star Lines terminal. It was almost dark then; the snow had stopped falling but a damp heavy fog swirled in massive clouds off the river. Floodlights, mounted on the piers, picked up shifting gleams on the surface of the water, and the moan of fog horns was a threatening sound above the rumble of traffic. Retnick smoked one cigarette after another, and kept his eyes on the entrance to the North Star Lines. Finally the little Irishman, Grady, appeared, leaving work with a group of longshoremen. This was the man Retnick wanted to talk to, Grady, the winchman whose job Red Evans had taken over. The men crossed the street, their figures black and clumsy in the gray fog, heading for the welcoming yellow gleam of Tim Moran’s saloon. When they disappeared inside Retnick lit another cigarette and settled down to wait.

It was six when Grady came out of Moran’s. He was alone now, and his step was brisk but slightly unsteady as he started uptown.

Retnick followed him through the darkness for a block or two and came up behind him in an empty stretch of the avenue. He put a hand on Grady’s arm and crowded him against the brick wall of a warehouse. “I’ve been looking for you, Grady,” he said.

Grady was slightly drunk and he didn’t quite understand what was happening. “What’s the matter with you now?” he said, blinking at Retnick. “Let me by. What kind of funny business are you pulling?”

“I was a friend of Frank Ragoni’s,” Retnick said.

“Sure we were all his friends,” Grady said. His mood changed and he sighed. “It was a dirty shame, a dirty shame. Him with a family and everything.” He stared up at Retnick, a frown twisting his small, flushed face. “You were at the pier this morning, weren’t you?” he said. “You’re Retnick.”

“That’s right. I want some answers. You got sick and Evans took your job. Did somebody tell you to get sick?”

Grady shook his head quickly. “No, it’s God’s truth I had the flu. I couldn’t get out of me bed.”

“And while you were sick Red Evans took your winch,” Retnick said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Grady said, nodding vigorously.

“And Evans dropped a load on Ragoni. It missed by an inch. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Grady shrugged and smiled weakly. “I wasn’t there, you know. But that’s what I heard.” He looked up and down the dark street, wetting his lips. “My old lady is waiting supper for me. I’d best be going.”

“Don’t be in a hurry,” Retnick said. “Do you know why I went to jail?”

“Well, they said you killed a man, but I never put any stock in that.”

“Put some stock in it,” Retnick said staring into Grady’s watery blue eyes. “Why did you stay off the job?”

“It was the flu, I told you.”

“Will you stick to that when the cops get to you?”

Grady looked up at Retnick and a strange fear claimed him completely. He began to breathe rapidly. “They told me not to shape for a week,” he said, catching hold of Retnick’s hands. “They said I’d get myself killed.”

“Was the hiring boss in on it? And Brophy?”

“I don’t know, I swear to God. Nobody talks about it.”

“Amato is ready to take over your local, eh?”

“It’d be worth your life to stand up to them now,” Grady said, glancing anxiously up and down the dark street. “Old Union Jack, himself, is dead, you know. Happened today. Who knows who’ll be next? Hah! Ask Joe Lye. Or Hammy. Or Dave Cardinal. They can tell you maybe.” Grady smiled shakily, trying to coax sympathy into Retnick’s bitter eyes. “I... I didn’t feel good about laying up pretending to be sick. I knew they were after somebody. But what could I do? A man can’t stand up alone to them killers, can he? My boy is in the Army, and there’d be no one to look after the old lady if something happened to me. You see how it was, don’t you?”

“Sure, it never changes,” Retnick said shortly. “Who was it told you to stay home? Which one of them?”

“That was Mario.”

“Mario?”

“Nick Amato’s nephew. He’s a punk, but he’s got them others behind him.”

“Go on home,” Retnick said. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“What else could I do?” Grady said, staring guiltily into Retnick’s dark hard face. “What else could I do?”

Retnick turned without answering him and walked into the darkness. Now he had two names: Mario Amato and Red Evans. It was a good bet that Mario had engineered the execution. If that were true, if young Mario had hired Red Evans, they would have to be thrown together under pressure. One of them might crack. Not Evans, who was probably a cold and tough professional, but young Mario was another matter; Retnick remembered him as a boy of seventeen, weak and petulant, vain about his looks and clothes, getting by on his uncle’s reputation. Now he would be twenty-three, Retnick thought. A tough boy, doing man-sized jobs for Amato, arranging murders like an old hand. Retnick smiled coldly into the darkness. We’ll see how tough he is, he was thinking...

Retnick ate a lonely dinner that night, savoring his dark thoughts like a miser. They were all he had, these bitter anticipations of vengeance, and he didn’t realize how dear they had become to him; he lived in a sense on anger, and he hadn’t thought very much about what he would be when his anger was finally satisfied.

When he finished dinner he walked uptown on Broadway, going all the way to Harlem, barely noticing the people and streets he passed. Then he turned around and came back downtown, with no destination in mind, but only hoping to tire himself enough to sleep. At nine-thirty he stopped in front of the Gramercy Club staring at his wife’s picture, which was in a glass panel to one side of the entrance. It had been taken a long time ago, shortly after they were married; her hair had been long then, brushed down to her shoulders in a page-boy, and her eyes were bright with careless happiness. Retnick studied the picture for a full minute, tracing the soft curve of her lips with his eyes.

Finally he turned away and walked slowly toward the corner, staring at the bright busy street, and the cheerful-looking people coming in and out of bars and restaurants. Snow was falling again, softly and lightly; the wind had died away and the bright flakes fell in slow straight lines, gleaming prettily in the colored light from neon signs. Retnick stopped, confused by his feelings and walked back to the Gramercy. He went inside and took a seat at the bar, not bothering to check his hat and coat. The bartender remembered him and smiled and said hello.

“It was whisky with water, I believe,” he said.

“That’s fine,” Retnick said, staring across the dining room at his wife. She was playing an old show tune, lightly and stylishly, smiling down at the keyboard. A light behind her threw her face in shadows; he could only see the soft gleam of her lips.

The bartender leaned toward him and said, “Do you want me to send word to her that you’re here?”

Retnick rubbed a hand over his forehead. “No, never mind.” Standing abruptly he started toward the door. He had to wait an instant to let a group of people come in, and it was then, as he glanced once more at his wife, that he noticed a dark-haired man sitting alone at a table that faced the piano. The light was uncertain, soft and hazy with cigarette smoke, but Retnick was able to pick out the man’s features, the heavy lips, the dark full eyebrows. He hesitated a second or two, frowning, and then walked back to the bar. When the bartender came over to him Retnick pointed out the man, and asked if he were a regular customer.

“Not a regular, certainly,” the bartender said thoughtfully. “This is the first time I’ve noticed him.”

“Okay, thanks,” Retnick said. Outside he crossed the street and stood where he could watch the entrance of the Gramercy Club. The man watching his wife with such interest was Davey Cardinal, one of Amato’s enforcers.

It was an hour later that Cardinal strolled out of the club and waved to a cab. He was short and stockily built, with the manners of a show-off; he played to an audience always, delighting in his role of tough guy. But behind this childish, arrogant facade, Retnick knew he was extremely shrewd and ruthless. Watching the tail light of his cab winking into the darkness, Retnick began to frown. His concern was blended of anger and exasperation; it wouldn’t do them any good to strike at him through Marcia. But they didn’t know that.

When he got to his room that night he found a note from Mrs. Cara under his door. Sergeant Kleyburg had called and asked if Retnick would stop by his home in the morning. Around eight.