“Sure, it never changes,” Retnick said shortly. “Who was it told you to stay home? Which one of them?”
“That was Mario.”
“Mario?”
“Nick Amato’s nephew. He’s a punk, but he’s got them others behind him.”
“Go on home,” Retnick said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
“What else could I do?” Grady said, staring guiltily into Retnick’s dark hard face. “What else could I do?”
Retnick turned without answering him and walked into the darkness. Now he had two names: Mario Amato and Red Evans. It was a good bet that Mario had engineered the execution. If that were true, if young Mario had hired Red Evans, they would have to be thrown together under pressure. One of them might crack. Not Evans, who was probably a cold and tough professional, but young Mario was another matter; Retnick remembered him as a boy of seventeen, weak and petulant, vain about his looks and clothes, getting by on his uncle’s reputation. Now he would be twenty-three, Retnick thought. A tough boy, doing man-sized jobs for Amato, arranging murders like an old hand. Retnick smiled coldly into the darkness. We’ll see how tough he is, he was thinking...
Retnick ate a lonely dinner that night, savoring his dark thoughts like a miser. They were all he had, these bitter anticipations of vengeance, and he didn’t realize how dear they had become to him; he lived in a sense on anger, and he hadn’t thought very much about what he would be when his anger was finally satisfied.
When he finished dinner he walked uptown on Broadway, going all the way to Harlem, barely noticing the people and streets he passed. Then he turned around and came back downtown, with no destination in mind, but only hoping to tire himself enough to sleep. At nine-thirty he stopped in front of the Gramercy Club staring at his wife’s picture, which was in a glass panel to one side of the entrance. It had been taken a long time ago, shortly after they were married; her hair had been long then, brushed down to her shoulders in a page-boy, and her eyes were bright with careless happiness. Retnick studied the picture for a full minute, tracing the soft curve of her lips with his eyes.
Finally he turned away and walked slowly toward the corner, staring at the bright busy street, and the cheerful-looking people coming in and out of bars and restaurants. Snow was falling again, softly and lightly; the wind had died away and the bright flakes fell in slow straight lines, gleaming prettily in the colored light from neon signs. Retnick stopped, confused by his feelings and walked back to the Gramercy. He went inside and took a seat at the bar, not bothering to check his hat and coat. The bartender remembered him and smiled and said hello.
“It was whisky with water, I believe,” he said.
“That’s fine,” Retnick said, staring across the dining room at his wife. She was playing an old show tune, lightly and stylishly, smiling down at the keyboard. A light behind her threw her face in shadows; he could only see the soft gleam of her lips.
The bartender leaned toward him and said, “Do you want me to send word to her that you’re here?”
Retnick rubbed a hand over his forehead. “No, never mind.” Standing abruptly he started toward the door. He had to wait an instant to let a group of people come in, and it was then, as he glanced once more at his wife, that he noticed a dark-haired man sitting alone at a table that faced the piano. The light was uncertain, soft and hazy with cigarette smoke, but Retnick was able to pick out the man’s features, the heavy lips, the dark full eyebrows. He hesitated a second or two, frowning, and then walked back to the bar. When the bartender came over to him Retnick pointed out the man, and asked if he were a regular customer.
“Not a regular, certainly,” the bartender said thoughtfully. “This is the first time I’ve noticed him.”
“Okay, thanks,” Retnick said. Outside he crossed the street and stood where he could watch the entrance of the Gramercy Club. The man watching his wife with such interest was Davey Cardinal, one of Amato’s enforcers.
It was an hour later that Cardinal strolled out of the club and waved to a cab. He was short and stockily built, with the manners of a show-off; he played to an audience always, delighting in his role of tough guy. But behind this childish, arrogant facade, Retnick knew he was extremely shrewd and ruthless. Watching the tail light of his cab winking into the darkness, Retnick began to frown. His concern was blended of anger and exasperation; it wouldn’t do them any good to strike at him through Marcia. But they didn’t know that.
When he got to his room that night he found a note from Mrs. Cara under his door. Sergeant Kleyburg had called and asked if Retnick would stop by his home in the morning. Around eight.
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.