The Darkest Hour

9

Mario Amato stopped at the avenue with his two companions and tried to decide how to spend the rest of the evening. It was cold and windy on the corner and he pulled the collar of his fancy overcoat up tight about his throat. The traffic was light and the sidewalks were empty. Ahead of them the neon signs of bars winked invitingly into the black tunnel of the street. But he didn’t feel like drinking; liquor had never had much appeal to him. A girl would be more like it. He wanted to forget the look of Glencannon’s face, and the heavy depressing scent of the flowers. A girl would do that.

Retnick came silently from the darkness behind him and put a big hand on his arm. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

Mario started nervously. “What the hell’s the idea?” he said in a high, angry voice. One of his companions surged forward, but Retnick struck him across the chest with a forearm that was like a bar of iron, and the young man backed off quickly, gasping for breath. “Keep out of this,” Retnick said. The two young men stared at him, breathing hard, checked by the look in his face.

Mario tried to pull free but Retnick’s hand was like an iron collar about his arm. “What’s the idea?” he said again, but plaintively now. “I don’t know you, Mac.”

“Tell me you don’t know my sister.”

Mario smiled weakly. What he saw in Retnick’s eyes made him very nervous. “I don’t think I know your sister,” he said. “Maybe I met her somewhere. What’s her name?”

“Nancy Riordan. And you aren’t running out on her, get that straight.”

“Look, mister, I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“I want to hear you tell her that,” Retnick said. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Now wait a minute,” Mario cried.

“That’s Nick Amato’s nephew,” one of his friends said. “You better be sure what you’re doing.”

Retnick stared at him. “You mean he’s too good for my sister?”

The young man shrugged and tried to smile. “No, I just thought I’d tell you.”

“Well, don’t bother telling me things,” Retnick said. “You guys aren’t involved in this. But you will be if you keep shooting off your mouths. I’ll deal you in for free.”

Both young men shook their heads quickly. “It’s between you and him,” one of them said.

“Fine. Beat it.”

“Sure, we were going.” They nodded jerkily to Mario. “See you around,” one of them said. Mario stared wistfully after them as they hurried off, their heads pulled down into the collars of their coats. There was no one else in sight. Not even a cop. The city was dark and empty.

“Mister, you got me wrong,” he said, smiling uncertainly at Retnick. “I never treated any girl wrong, I swear.”

“That’s what we’re going to make sure of,” Retnick said. “Maybe you’re not the guy. If so, there’s no harm done. Let’s walk. She’s waiting for us a few blocks from here...”

Retnick unlocked his room, ushered Mario in ahead of him and closed the door. When he snapped on the lights the little cat blinked at them from the bed. It yawned and stretched a paw tentatively into the air.

“What’s the gag?” Mario said, looking around with a worried smile.

Retnick tossed his coat on the bed and unloosened his tie. “Sit down, Mario,” he said. “You know Red Evans, I guess.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Mario said slowly.

“We’re going to talk about him,” Retnick said, walking toward young Amato. “Sit down, I told you.”

“Yeah, but your sister—”

“There’s no sister,” he said, and shoved Mario into a straight-backed chair. Standing over him, his eyes bright and hard, Retnick said, “There’s just you and me, sweetheart. We’re going to talk about how much you paid Evans to murder Frank Ragoni.”

Mario wet his lips and tried desperately to keep the fear inside him from showing in his face. He was no stranger to violence, but not at these odds. As Nick Amato’s nephew he lived in a cocoon of security and privilege. He had never faced trouble alone; his uncle’s men saw to that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, putting what strength he could muster into his voice. “You got me all wrong, I tell you.”

“Where did you know Evans?”

“Well, around the docks. Just to say hello to. You know how it is?” He tried to meet Retnick’s eyes directly, but it was almost impossible; there was something in them that was like the frightening stillness in old Glencannon’s face. “I wasn’t a friend of his,” he went on anxiously. “We just nodded to each other, that’s all.”

Retnick stared at him in silence. Then he said quietly, “We won’t have any trouble if you tell the truth, Mario. I know you hired Evans to do the job on Ragoni. I got that from the winchman, Grady. Did your uncle tell you to hire Evans? That’s what I want to know.”

“You got no right to accuse me of being a murderer,” Mario said. He was becoming excited now and some of his fear left him. “You’re asking for real trouble, buddy. I’m no punk you can push around.”

He started to get up but Retnick put a hand against his chest and slammed him back into the chair. “I told you to sit down,” he said, smiling unpleasantly. “Why did your uncle want Ragoni killed?”

Mario’s breath came unevenly; he was suddenly close to tears. “I don’t know anything about it,” he said. “Somebody gave you the wrong dope on me.”

Retnick knew he was lying; fear and guilt were stamped on him like a brand. For an instant he debated the wisdom of knocking the truth out of him; it wouldn’t be hard. This was a punk, a pretty boy with soft nervous eyes and skin like a girl’s. He’d be hopping bells or jerking sodas if it weren’t for his uncle. But Retnick decided against force. Amato could toss him to the parole board.

Turning away he took out his cigarettes. “You can beat it,” he said. “We’ll have another talk one of these days.”

Mario stood up and edged nervously past Retnick to the door. “You got me wrong, I’m telling you.”

“You’re in trouble, sonny,” Retnick said. “And your uncle can’t fix it. Tell him a guy by the name of Retnick told you that.”

When Mario had gone Retnick locked the door and sat down on the edge of the bed. The cat curled up beside him and closed its eyes. Retnick stroked her absently and she began to purr. Frowning through the smoke of his cigarette, he tried to guess what was coming. Trouble, of course. Mario would run squealing to his uncle and that would start it. But there was no other way to play it. He had to push until something started to give.