“Hey,” Nat said, “what’s the racket?”
He walked to the entrance of the garage, peering to see.
At first he saw only the two police cars, and then he saw one of them move on farther along the street. He saw the wrecked cars, the Horch and the car it had struck.
“Jesus,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Hermann said, coming out beside him.
Peering, Nat saw the two policemen hurrying along the sidewalk with flashlights. The policemen passed Looney Luke’s lot, and Nat, still watching, saw the shape creep from behind the tower, to the row of cars, and then into one of the cars. He saw the door open and shut. He saw Grimmelman inside Looney Luke’s car, fiddling with the ignition.
“He’s stealing one of Luke’s cars,” Nat said.
“Yeah?” Hermann said. “Where?”
“See?” Nat said, “he’s in the car; look at him, he’s trying to jump the ignition cable.”
“He sure is,” Hermann said.
Nat said, “I’m going to call the cops.”
“Why?” Hermann said.
“He’s stealing one of Luke’s cars.”
Hermann said, “Don’t call the cops.”
“Why not?” Nat ran back toward the phone.
“So he steals one of Luke’s cars,” Hermann said. “You damn fool, Luke’s the biggest thief in San Francisco. Every car in that lot he stole in the first place, you know that.”
“It’s against the law,” Nat said. He disappeared into the garage and Hermann heard him dialing excitedly.
“What’s one car,” Hermann said, “to Luke?” He watched the figure within the car trying to get the engine started. What kind of a man, he wondered, was Nat Emmanual? What a strange idea he had of what was right. How little Nat had learned. “Let him steal it,” he said, but he was talking to himself.
Parked off Van Ness Avenue in the Plymouth, Joe Mantila and Ferde Heinke witnessed the wrecking of the Horch and the capture of Grimmelman by the police.
“It’s gone,” Ferde said.
They drove with their headlights off, away from Van Ness Avenue. When they were safely on a side street, they switched on the lights and speeded up.
“He sure didn’t have a chance,” Joe Mantila said. “He never even got that car off the lot.”
For a half hour they parked at Dodo’s, trying to decide what to do. If they stopped by the loft, they ran a risk. Neither of them said it, but the Organization had ceased to exist. Now they hoped only to stay out of the hands of the police.
“We better tell Art,” Ferde Heinke said.
“The hell with it,” Joe Mantila said. “I’m going home. We better not be seen together for a while.”
“Suppose he goes over to the loft?”
“He stopped going there,” Joe Mantila said. “He’s gone back home.” But he backed the Plymouth onto Fillmore and made a left-hand turn. “I’ll keep the motor going while you run and tell him.”
In front of the house, Ferde leaped from the car and ran up the walk to the basement steps. The lights in the living room were on, and be knocked on the door.
Art opened the door. “What’s going on?” he said, surprised to see Ferde Heinke. “They got Grimmelman,” Ferde said. “Don’t go near the loft.”
“How about the Horch?”
“They got that too. Better lie low for a while.” He started back toward the Plymouth. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Art waited until the Plymouth shot off, and then he went back inside the apartment.
At the kitchen table Rachael was writing a letter.
“What was it?” she asked, putting down her pen.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Did they get Grimmelman? I knew they would.” She continued writing. “It’s too bad. But you knew it was going to happen. I think it’s a good thing as far as we’re concerned, but I’m sorry for him.”
He seated himself across from her and leaned back until his chair was resting against the wall. “That’s the finish,” he said, “of the Organization.”
“Good,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it was a mistake. What was Grimmelman trying to do? Fight them the way they fight. So naturally they won. If you fight them that way, they have to win; they have all the power. The thing we have to do is keep quiet and not let them notice us.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “I’m already down on the draft list.”
Rachael said, “But maybe they’ll get tired and give up. They may decide it isn’t worth it. If every time you’re called we go down there and argue with them and keep stringing it out . . .”
“Sometimes I feel like giving up,” Art said. “And just saying, w-w-what the hell. Go ahead and draft me.”
“If they draft you, we won’t make it.”
“Will we anyhow?” he said. “If we want to.”
“I sure want to,” he said vigorously.
Rachael said, “Did she buy you the clothes you were wearing when you came back? I never saw them before, and you didn’t have any money.”
“She bought them for me,” he said.
“Even the suit?” She put down her pen. “Did she pick them out?”
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s a nice suit. I was looking at it. I guess she really liked you, and she wanted you to look nice.” She beckoned him toward her. “See if there’s anything you want me to change.”
Going over he found that she was writing to Patricia. In the letter she was wishing them luck in their marriage and saying that she hoped the four of them could get together some day soon.
He read the letter, and it seemed okay to him. Below his wife’s signature he signed his own name. Rachael folded the letter and put it in an envelope.
“How do you feel?” she asked. Since his return, both of them had been under the weather; they were still hesitant in each other’s presence.
“Better,” he said.
“How would you feel,” Rachael said, “if I worked full time for a while? So we’d have more money.”
“I don’t think you have to.”
“It might be a good idea. Then there wouldn’t be any chance that we’d have to ask somebody for help.” She picked up her coat and put it over her shoulders. “You want to come with me?”
“I’ll mail it,” he said, taking the letter.
“Do you want to see them again?”
“Sure,” he said, “I don’t care.”
“But we have to be careful,” Rachael said. “Anything from outside could hurt us. Isn’t that so? Anything that might come in and get between as again. There’s so much danger that something that isn’t real might come along, and they’d convince us it was important. You know? Something they made up, a bunch of words. They never stop. There’s always something they’re saying.”
Her face showed worry, a tight little face, lined with concern. He kissed her, and then he walked to the door. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Anything you want?”
“Maybe you could pick up something,” she said. “Maybe at Dodo’s. Some ice cream.” Following him, she said, “You know what I’d like? One of those pizzas.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll bring one back.”
He walked up the steps to the path, and then, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, he turned in the direction of Dodo’s. Against the pavement his heels scuffed and clacked. In the cold evening wind, his black leather jacket flapped back, lifted up, and held.
At the corner he mailed the letter. Then he went on toward Dodo’s. The drive-in was several blocks away, and he walked slowly, gazing at the bars, the closed-up shops, studying the cars that passed. He nodded to a couple of friends . . .. At a corner four guys he knew were lounging at the side of a drugstore, and he stopped to say a few words to them.