He smiled bitterly. “You think I’m mixed up, eh? Like a GI with battle fatigue. Give him a few helpings of apple pie and let him loaf in the sun and he’ll be okay.”
“Then what is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said sharply. “I’m going to find the men who killed Ventra and there’ll be a big, loud pay-off. That makes sense to me. If you don’t think I’m right, then I suggest you take the dough and go on a therapeutic binge. You need it.”
As he was talking Retnick heard the front door open and felt the sudden draft of cold air about his ankles. But he paid no attention to it until he became conscious of the strange, expectant silence that had settled over the room. He looked up then and saw Joe Lye and Hammy standing at the far end of the bar.
“Steve,” she said. “Listen to me. I want—”
“I’ll get you a cab,” he said.
“Please. If you leave this way we can never fix it up.”
“Let’s go,” he said, standing. “I don’t want to talk any more.”
She slipped from the booth, buttoning the collar of her coat, and Retnick picked up his hat. The longshoremen along the bar sipped beer in silence, minding their own business with scrupulous care. Tim Moran stood at the spigots, his face grave and impassive, but Retnick caught the little flash of warning in his eyes.
Marcia walked quickly toward the front door, her high heels sounding sharply in the unnatural stillness. Retnick followed her, ignoring the cautious glances shot at him by men at the bar. Then, when he was at the door, Joe Lye said, “Hello, Steve,” and his voice fell softly into the silence.
Retnick hesitated. Marcia stopped with her hand on the knob and looked up at him, suddenly aware of the tension in the room.
Lye said, “Don’t hurry off because of us, Steve.”
Retnick turned around slowly, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. Under the brim of his hat his face was expressionless. He knew it would be wise to clear out before there was trouble; but his control was slipping.
“What do you want, Joe?” he said quietly.
Lye and Hammy stood together at the turn of the bar, with space on either side of them; the men nearest them had drifted casually toward the juke box and lunch table at the rear of the room. Lye, tall and thin in black clothes, looked relaxed and easy, but the straining little smile was flashing like a danger signal at the side of his pallid face. Hammy was grinning expectantly. His hands were hooked onto the lapels of his tan overcoat, pulling it back from his huge chest. He looked slightly drunk; there was a hot gleam in his little eyes, and his round, flat face was flushed and beaded with perspiration.
The smile tightened on Lye’s face. “There’s some talk that you got dumb in jail,” he said. “I wanted to check on that.”
“How do you plan to find out?” Retnick said.
Lye laughed gently. “Well, maybe I’ll give you one of those I.Q. tests. Hammy here can ask the questions.”
Marcia caught Retnick’s arm. “Steve, let’s go.”
“There’s no hurry,” he said, staring at Lye.
“They want trouble. Don’t be a fool.”
Hammy laughed happily. “Your wife says you’re a fool and I guess she should know. How come you’re living with a little kitty cat when you got a dish like that waiting for you, Retnick? That’s the first question in the big I.Q. test.”
The little grin on Retnick’s lips did something ugly to his face. “I’ve got questions too,” he said. “Who killed Frank Ragoni? Who killed Joe Ventra? Those are mine, Joe. Tell Amato I’ll be around to try them on him one of these days.”
Lye’s unnatural smile strained his mouth in a tight, twisted line. “You still talk real big, Steve. I bet Hammy can fix that.”
“He can try,” Retnick said gently.
“Steve, don’t!” Marcia cried.
Hammy laughed again. “You big clown,” he said, and surged toward Retnick, a long powerful arm swinging in an arc at his neck. He loved this work; all he needed was a grip and then he could maul and batter any man to pieces.
But he never got his grip; Retnick slapped his arm away with a blow that spun him around in a half-circle. Then he hit him twice in the body, deliberately and cruelly, bringing the punches up with effortless, terrible power, and Hammy’s breath left his body in an agonized gasp. His hands dropped quickly, as if invisible weights had suddenly been shackled to his wrists, and he fought for breath through a wide, straining mouth. He stared at Retnick, his eyes bulging piteously, and Retnick hit him again, slugging the wide exposed jaw with all the strength in his body. Hammy’s knees quit under him then, and he went down to the floor in a lugubrious sprawl, falling like an old man, limply and helplessly. Lying on his side, he panted for breath, a bloody froth bubbling on his Ups.
Retnick stared at Joe Lye, who stood perfectly still, his face twisted into a fixed weird smile. “Do you want to go on with your little question game?” he said softly. Already, the short, hot anger was gone, purged by the simple moment of action. But the old anger was with him still, cold and lasting, running powerfully under all his emotions.
Lye shook his head slowly. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. “It’s your round.”
“You’re smart, Joe,” Retnick said. The room was silent and still as he looked down at Hammy’s helpless bulk. “Next time I’ll kill you,” he said. “Remember that.”
Then he walked past his wife, opened the door and started uptown, moving with long strides into the driving snow. He heard her call his name and he heard her footsteps behind him, but he kept walking. She caught up with him finally and took his arm in both of her hands. “Steve, stop,” she said. “Don’t run away from me like this.”
He looked down at her. She was very pale; her lipstick stood out as a vivid slash, and her eyes were dark with fear. “Why did you do it?” she said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“They asked for it, they got it,” he said.
“You wanted to kill him,” she said. “Steve, you’ve got to stop. You’re... you’re like an animal.”
“I’m not stopping. I haven’t started yet.”
She stared at him and then shook her head quickly. “It’s not just me you hate. You hate everybody. You’ll go on hating until you’re killed.”
“That shouldn’t bother you,” he said, and pulled his arm away from her and walked toward the avenue. She stared after him, one hand touching her throat, until his big body disappeared into the clouds of swirling snow.
6
The building was a handsome brownstone in a quiet block east of Park, a street of neat iron grill-work and well-kept window boxes. The apartment number was 4 B, and the name on the tiny white card was Dixie Davis. This was where Red Evans had told the laundryman to deliver his shirts.
Retnick paused in the small lobby, smoothed down his thick black hair and brushed the snow from his shoulders. He pressed the buzzer then, knowing there was nothing to do but move ahead and hope for luck. Everything else was gone from his mind; his wife, Lye and Hammy, these were phantoms he could dissolve with an exercise of will. A tiny, scratching noise sounded from the speaker and a girl’s voice said, “Hello?”
“This is a friend of Red Evans,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Talk away, friend,” she said indifferently; her voice sounded as if it hadn’t registered surprise in a long, long time.