The Darkest Hour

8

Miles Kleyburg lived alone in a small apartment a few blocks below Yorktown. His wife had died in childbirth leaving him two sons to look after. But they, too, were gone now. One had married and moved to California to live, and the other had chosen the Army as a career and was presently stationed in Germany.

Retnick knew all about the boys; he had served as the chief outlet for Kleyburg’s parental pride during the years they had worked together as partners. Then he had sympathized with the old man’s loneliness. Now he knew that it was an inescapable factor of existence. Everybody’s alone, he was thinking, as he rang the bell to Kleyburg’s apartment. The sooner people learned that, the better off they were. But it was a bitter truth, and they fought against it. They wanted to belong to someone, anyone at all, and they closed their eyes to the fact that they were nakedly alone. They went through ritualistic rites pretending the opposite was true, making faith a hostage against loneliness and betrayal. Trusting their friends, repeating words like love and honor to their brides before solemn altars, believing out of fear in someone who was all-kind, all-loving, all-powerful. And, to that someone, they made the most pathetic commitments of all, because they thought they could belong to him forever. But none of it was true, none of it signified anything. I know, he thought, and felt a bitter sterile pride in the knowledge.

Kleyburg opened the door and grinned as he put out his hand. “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said. “Come on in.”

“Did you get a line on Dixie Davis?” Retnick said, as he entered the warm, clean living room.

“I think I got what you need,” Kleyburg said. “Go on, take off your coat. We’re not heading for a fire.” Kleyburg was freshly shaved, and wore an old jacket and a pair of slacks. “I’m off duty today and I thought we could sit around a while and chew the rag. After we chew up some breakfast. How about it?”

Retnick took out his cigarettes and said, “I’m in a hurry, Miles. What about the girl?”

“Sure, if that’s the way you want it.” Kleyburg ran a hand over his gray hair and smiled awkwardly. He looked old and tired, Retnick thought. “Remember, though, how we used to come up here for breakfast sometimes after finishing the twelve-to-eight shift? I thought we could do it like that. Come on, Steve, I’ve got fresh sausages and fresh eggs on tap. How about it? You look like you could stand a solid meal.”

“I’ll have coffee if it’s ready,” Retnick said. “The big breakfast will have to wait.”

Kleyburg was obviously disappointed. “Okay, Steve,” he said, shrugging and smiling. “Sorry I can’t sell you the whole menu though. Sit down, I’ll get the coffee.”

When he left Retnick lit a cigarette and glanced around the room. The place had a comfortable, cluttered look to it. Sports magazines, pipes, a couple of big reading chairs, and the pictures of the boys on the mantel. Dozens of pictures, ranging from large tinted portraits to informal snapshots. The soldier boy, his silver bars agleam, stared solemnly into the future from one end of the mantel, while opposite him his brother stood tall and erect in a wedding picture with his bride. There were snaps of the married couple in California, lounging in shorts in the sun, and several of the soldier boy preparing for his trade. Sighting over a forty-five, posing on the turret of a tank, lying in the prone position with a rifle tucked expertly under his chin.

Kleyburg came in with the coffee and said, “Here we are!” Then he smiled at the pictures of his sons. “They’re doing okay, don’t you think?”

“They look good,” Retnick said. He took a cup of coffee and sat down on the edge of the couch. There should be something else to say, he thought. Kleyburg obviously expected it; this was like old times for him, relaxing after a night’s work, bragging inoffensively about his kids. But these weren’t old times for Retnick, and he hadn’t the warmth or interest to pretend that they were. “How about the girl?” he said.

“I got a break on her,” Kleyburg said, changing his tone to match Retnick’s. “Nielsen at the Twentieth had her up on a charge a few months ago. Her name is Dorothy not Dixie, but the last name is honest. She works at an Eighth Avenue clipjoint. Nielsen arrested her and a few others like her on a Navy complaint. Seems the girls were taking the gobs for everything but their gold fillings, and the Navy asked us to look into it. Dixie’s twenty-nine and she’s been in and out of lots of trouble. Shoplifting, hustling, con games, you name it. Dixie takes off two days a week, Tuesday and Thursday.” Kleyburg shrugged. “That’s about it, Steve.”

“No line on her boy friends?”

Kleyburg shook his head. “She’s the Navy’s friend.”

“Any mention of a guy named Red Evans?”

“I gave you all Nielsen gave me, Steve.”

“Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Red Evans? Nothing in particular. Why?”

There was no humor in Retnick’s smile. “I’m looking for him,” he said, standing.

“Hold it a second,” Kleyburg said, frowning at the bitter smile on Retnick’s lips. “I want to say something to you. I was awake most of the night thinking about it, and I want to get it off my chest.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You’re on a downhill slide, boy, and you’ll end in a crash. You’ve got reason to be mad. Sure. But you can choke on hate easier than you can a fishbone. I know. I know because I felt that way when my wife died. I thought I’d got a kick in the teeth from the whole world. And you can’t live feeling like that.”

Retnick shrugged. “I’m alive, Miles.”

“Now wait,” Kleyburg said, shaking his head. “I want to finish. If I get sidetracked I’ll never get this said. When my wife died I hated everybody. I didn’t even want the kids. But I couldn’t walk away from my responsibility. It would have been easy to give the kids away; my sister was itching to get her hands on them. But I stuck it out, and it was no fun doing the job alone. And this is what I want to tell you, I guess. Lots of people helped me over those tough times. My mother-in-law took care of the kids until I got a housekeeper, and neighbors came in with all kinds of assistance, and even my house sergeant, the old crab, Bill Rafferty, gave me details close to home so I could duck in and see that everything was going all right. Most people are decent, Steve. They’ll help you over this trouble. Don’t go on thinking everybody is rotten.”

“I’m not interested in people,” Retnick said. “I’m interested in the men who framed me. Nobody else matters.”

“You’ll ruin yourself,” Kleyburg said, making a futile gesture with his hand. “You were a fine decent guy, Steve. You had sympathy for everybody. Remember how you listened to me talk about the boys? You probably won’t realize what that meant until you have some kids of your own.”

Retnick wished the old man would stop talking so that he could leave, but Kleyburg went on, moving his hands about in anxious little flurries. “I’ve got to make you understand what I’m saying,” he said. “Look, I was never the cop you were. I didn’t have the brains and the drive. You carried me. I know that. You walked into trouble, you went through doorways first, and into dark alleys, and I held down the radio in the car. You think that didn’t mean anything to me? That’s why I can’t stand by and let you wreck your life.”

The words didn’t touch Retnick; they were noises that meant nothing. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll take care of myself.”

“It isn’t a matter of just living or dying,” Kleyburg said, shaking his head stubbornly. “It’s how you live and die, Steve. I’m an old man, and I understand some things better than you can. You’ve got to live in peace. You’ve got to forgive people. You’ve—”

“Stop it,” Retnick said abruptly. “You’re getting comical.” Kleyburg put a hand on his arm, but Retnick pulled away from him and turned to the door. “Save your sermon. I don’t need it.”

At seven o’clock that night Retnick walked into the West Side funeral home where Union Jack Glencannon would receive his last mortal respects. He had spent most of the day making a cautious effort to get on young Mario Amato’s trail; but so far without luck. Now he checked the register of names at the door, knowing that Mario would probably show up at the wake. That was protocol on the docks; everyone went to funerals. But Mario hadn’t made his visit yet.

Retnick signed his name on the mourner’s page and walked into the thickly carpeted chapel, which was heavy with the scent of flowers. The place wasn’t crowded; two men he didn’t know stood before the casket and a third was wandering along the ranks of massed floral pieces inspecting the names of the donors.

Glencannon looked sad and stern in death, his big bold face incongruous against the quilted lining of the coffin. Beside him lay the scabbard and sword of the Knights of Columbus, and a worn Rosary was intertwined about his heavy hands. Instinctively Retnick crossed himself and said a prayer. The words came back effortlessly, which surprised him; it had been so long since he had prayed for anyone.

Leaving the chapel, he found a secluded chair in the adjoining room from where he could watch the foyer. There were half-a-dozen men sitting about in this room, talking in low voices and filling the air with smoke from pipes and cigars.

The crowd began to arrive an hour or so later. It was a solemn and important occasion, and it brought out top officials from the city, the unions and industry. The mayor stayed almost an hour and that word was passed with quiet pride to later arrivals. There was a steady stream of cops, firemen and longshoremen, friends of the old man’s for nearly half a century. And with these came shipping executives, railroad men, heads of the various firms that sprawled along the waterfront.

Retnick saw Nick Amato and Joe Lye when they came in around ten o’clock. Amato wore a bulky brown overcoat and smiled at people he knew like an eager-to-please fruit peddler. Only his eyes gave him away; they reflected his cynical contempt for this exhibition.

Lye stayed behind Amato, his eyes quick and alert in his tense face; he carried his body as if it were a ticking bomb, a thin black cylinder of potential destruction. It was this strange explosive quality about Lye that made him feared and hated along the waterfront. And it was no act. He didn’t play at being a toughie like Dave Cardinal. The dangerous pressures inside him were nakedly apparent in his pale eyes and queer straining lips.

The night wore on. The five Antuni brothers arrived, dignified, rather courtly men who ruled five thousand longshoremen in Jersey with hands of steel, and who feared nothing in the world except their youngest brother, a priest on Staten Island. The crowd kept coming, ex-fighters, cops, newspapermen, dockworkers, saloon keepers, union officials, hoodlums and politicians. But there was no sign of young Mario Amato.

Retnick was putting out a tasteless cigarette when Lieutenant Neville drifted over to him and said, “Who’re you waiting for, Steve?”

Retnick hadn’t seen him come in. He said, “No one. Why?”

“Don’t kid me. You haven’t taken your eyes off the front door. Who’re you expecting?”

“Mario Amato.”

“What’s your interest in him?”

Retnick shrugged. “Let’s say it’s personal.”

Lieutenant Neville lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip. There was a puzzled expression on his lean intelligent face. “What’s the point of being cozy with me, Steve?” he said. “We’re after the same thing, but your way is wrong. I told you yesterday to keep out of trouble.”

“Am I in trouble?” Retnick said, looking at him evenly.

“That fight with Hammy was a pretty stupid business.”

“He wanted it, I didn’t.”

“It gave Amato a chance to gripe,” Neville said. “Not to me, but downtown. I get the repercussions. He doesn’t want a labor-hating ex-con roaming around the docks beating up his boys.”

“Labor hating,” Retnick said. “That’s good.”

“So I have an official order to keep an eye on you.”

“That must make you feel fine,” Retnick said. “Getting orders relayed to you from that hoodlum.”

“I don’t want to argue about it,” Neville said.

“Thanks a lot,” Retnick said. “Now we can move to important considerations. Such as who killed old man Glencannon. And Frank Ragoni.”

Neville ignored the bitterness in Retnick’s voice. “The lab isn’t sure about Glencannon,” he said. “It could be a homicide, or it could be a natural death. He went to Amato’s office around midnight, and Amato says he was in good shape when he left. He was found a dozen blocks from there yesterday, behind a string of gondolas on a storage siding.”

Retnick grinned coldly. “You want some advice? Arrest Nick Amato for the murder.”

“We aren’t calling it a murder yet,” Neville said. Spots of color had come up in his pale cheeks. “Glencannon was an old man. His heart could have quit on him. The bruise on his head could have resulted from the fall. He could have crawled to where he was found.”

“That’s very logical,” Retnick said dryly. “Or he might have been hit by lightning, or died laughing at old jokes. Investigate those angles, too. But don’t bother Nick Amato. He’s too busy planning his next murder.”

Neville said coldly, “I’m getting fed up with you, Steve. You think you’re a lonely tragic figure who’s been wronged by everybody in the whole world. That may fatten up your ego but it’s lousy logic.”

“You don’t get logical in jail,” Retnick said. He was starting to say something else when he noticed Mario Amato moving through the thinning crowd with two young men about his own age. He was slim and dark, with soft brown eyes, and he walked with a little swagger, as if he were certain that everyone in the room knew who he was, and was staring at him with interest and respect. He wore a beautifully fitted topcoat and carried a white fedora. Smiling broadly, he seemed in high spirits, obviously delighted to be leaving this place of gloom and death.

When he had passed through the doors Retnick said, “I’ve got to go, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, I guess you do,” Neville said wearily. He had seen Mario, too, and his eyes were troubled as he watched Retnick crossing the floor, moving with the deliberate stride of a hunter.