“Fine.”
“Where may we pick up the, er... deceased?”
“At the city morgue.”
He managed to look more distressed. Danny filled out the necessary forms and left.
The station house squatted between two tall tenements. It was faded red and grimy, and people kept going and coming through its wide, low door. At a desk behind a railed enclosure a uniformed man was pecking away at a typewriter. He was beefy, and his face and neck were red from the heat. Drops of perspiration ran down his nose and he wiped them off with an irritated flick of his hand. He pulled the form out of the machine and looked up at Danny.
Danny handed him the letter and waited.
The man read and asked, “You a relative?”
“Friend.”
He said, “That would be Buchanan and Zimmerman. Have a seat and wait.” He swung open the gate in the enclosure and disappeared down a narrow corridor. Danny sat down and waited.
Men in plainclothes and men in uniform kept going by. Citizens came in and made their complaints. The sweat rolled down Danny’s back, and his seat felt wet.
After awhile he dozed. He awoke with a jerk when he realized that his name was being called. He went back to meet Detective Zimmerman.
Zimmerman was seated behind a littered desk in the cubicle. The walls were bare and cracked. A window looked out over a small tenement yard, and Danny could see kids playing.
The detective was a small, wiry man with stooping shoulders and a large head which was balding back from the sides. Dark eyes embedded deep in their sockets set off a sharp, hooked nose. There was a large angry-looking pimple along his jawbone and he kept fingering it. He looked to Danny like a man resigned to his job.
Zimmerman said, “Sit down,” and looked at the letter. “What’s your interest in this, Faber?”
“Nick was my friend. His mother asked me to take care of it.”
“How long did you know Dukas?”
“About eight-ten years.”
“Tell me.”
Danny shrugged. “What’s to tell? Haven’t seen him in about two years. Got my lung shot out in a Carny fight last year and I’m just starting to get around now. The last time I saw Nick, some place down in Indiana. We had a pitch there.”
“He didn’t write? Tell you what he was doing in Chicago?”
Danny looked out the window. “You never talk much about your business to other guys... How did it happen?”
Zimmerman sorted through the papers on his desk looking for one. Danny heard the voices of the kids at play. One was crying now, in shrill high tones. A man came out in undershirt and soiled khaki pants and shouted at the kid to shut up. When she didn’t, he slapped her and went back into the building.
Zimmerman found the paper he had been looking for. He scanned it, found the part he wanted, and started reading. “Shot, at extremely close range from back. Twice.” He skipped some. “Twenty-two caliber.” He looked up at Danny, “A woman?” then went back to his skip-and-read. “Deceased known to have been involved as front in various rackets. Possible reason for slaying. Living with man Harry Adler... dope addict. No known past record.” He lay the paper down with a shrug.
“He was your friend, Faber, what would you say had happened?”
“This Adler. Who’s he?”
“Came to Chicago from Cleveland about two years ago. Says he met Dukas at a party and they decided to move in together. I’d say he was a little queer. What about your friend?”
Danny said, “Not that I ever knew.”
“You taking care of the burial?”
“Yes.”
“Well, keep in touch.” The detective went back to his papers, and Danny sat there a moment longer. He looked out at the yard, and another kid was crying. He left.
The next day Danny buried Nick Dukas. He was the only mourner.
He stood with his hat in hand and a suitcase by his feet while a bored minister read the service. Dirt rattled onto the wood.
Later, he walked down State Street. He had forgotten how noisy Chicago was. Men kept going in and out of bars, and the women were just beginning to make their rounds. He hurried along, the suitcase banging against his calves. His chest hurt the worst it had in weeks, and he worried about that.
The apartment house was old. High ceilings made the three flights up a climb, and Danny felt winded. He used the key he had got from Zimmerman to open the door. It was different from anything he had expected. There were clocks. Dozens of them — all ornate, with pendulums swinging. All ticking their own rhythm. At one end of the stuffy room a big overstuffed couch faced the window. Danny couldn’t see over the back of it.
He wandered aimlessly around the room, ending up by the couch. A small man with bloodless lips was lying there, breathing with a little wheeze that Danny hadn’t heard because of the clocks.
He was a very thin man and the skin of his face was drawn tight over his cheek bones. Occasionally his body would jerk in his sleep, and he kept mumbling something that Danny couldn’t make out.
Danny doubled up with a spasm of coughing and waited for it to pass. The noise woke the man. He leaped from the couch and scrambled for the door. When he realized that Danny wasn’t going to bother him, he stopped and peered at him.
Danny asked, “Who are you?”
He perched on one foot uncertainly. “Harry.” He snickered a little.
“Harry Adler?”
“Harry... that’s all. Harry.” He came uncertainly back into the room and his courage came back with him. “Who do you think you are, busting in on a man’s place like this! I’ll call the cops... the cops. That’s what I’ll do!”
Then he forgot what he had said and started stumbling around the room.
His voice was thin and reedy. “Where’s Nicky? Where’s Nicky?” He kept brushing back the hair at his temple.
He turned anxiously to Danny, “What time is it, Mister? What’s the time of day? I’ve got to wind the clocks. Nicky won’t like it if they aren’t running.” He came up to Danny, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, leaned close to him and whispered, “Nicky’s particular about his clocks, Mister. Oh, he’s very particular. But then he’s a particular man. Isn’t he, Mister... Mister?”
“Faber.”
“Isn’t he, Mister?” Harry giggled liked a school girl.
It was the fall season and Chicago was damp and dreary, and Danny sat huddled on the couch feeling the dampness creep into his bones. He was weary, and his head was sagging on his neck. He laid his head on the arm-piece and closed his eyes. Harry’s frantically erratic steps and mutterings came to him vaguely.
Danny began coughing again, and the pain of it doubled him up. He passed out.
He had been conscious of the murmuring for some time before he could focus on it. It was a woman’s voice, husky and soft, and she was talking with Harry.
“But who is he?”
“A friend. A friend of Nick’s. He buried Nick.” Harry’s voice became a sharp whisper, “But Nick’ll come back. I know. His friend doesn’t know. But I do...”
“Stop it, Harry. Nick’s not coming back. He’s dead. Please understand. He’s dead.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? That’s what you came for. Oh, I know, you’d like that.” Harry was mad. Danny heard steps and the slam of the bedroom door.
Danny tried to sit up too quickly. It hurt, and he put his head against the back of the couch with a groan. She sat beside him. She had a rag that was damp and cool, and she wiped his face with it.
“How do you feel?”
“Dizzy.”
“Don’t you think you had better lie down?”
“It’ll pass.”
She made a gesture to the other part of the room, “Did you hear...?”