Kleyburg came in with the coffee and said, “Here we are!” Then he smiled at the pictures of his sons. “They’re doing okay, don’t you think?”
“They look good,” Retnick said. He took a cup of coffee and sat down on the edge of the couch. There should be something else to say, he thought. Kleyburg obviously expected it; this was like old times for him, relaxing after a night’s work, bragging inoffensively about his kids. But these weren’t old times for Retnick, and he hadn’t the warmth or interest to pretend that they were. “How about the girl?” he said.
“I got a break on her,” Kleyburg said, changing his tone to match Retnick’s. “Nielsen at the Twentieth had her up on a charge a few months ago. Her name is Dorothy not Dixie, but the last name is honest. She works at an Eighth Avenue clipjoint. Nielsen arrested her and a few others like her on a Navy complaint. Seems the girls were taking the gobs for everything but their gold fillings, and the Navy asked us to look into it. Dixie’s twenty-nine and she’s been in and out of lots of trouble. Shoplifting, hustling, con games, you name it. Dixie takes off two days a week, Tuesday and Thursday.” Kleyburg shrugged. “That’s about it, Steve.”
“No line on her boy friends?”
Kleyburg shook his head. “She’s the Navy’s friend.”
“Any mention of a guy named Red Evans?”
“I gave you all Nielsen gave me, Steve.”
“Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Red Evans? Nothing in particular. Why?”
There was no humor in Retnick’s smile. “I’m looking for him,” he said, standing.
“Hold it a second,” Kleyburg said, frowning at the bitter smile on Retnick’s lips. “I want to say something to you. I was awake most of the night thinking about it, and I want to get it off my chest.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You’re on a downhill slide, boy, and you’ll end in a crash. You’ve got reason to be mad. Sure. But you can choke on hate easier than you can a fishbone. I know. I know because I felt that way when my wife died. I thought I’d got a kick in the teeth from the whole world. And you can’t live feeling like that.”
Retnick shrugged. “I’m alive, Miles.”
“Now wait,” Kleyburg said, shaking his head. “I want to finish. If I get sidetracked I’ll never get this said. When my wife died I hated everybody. I didn’t even want the kids. But I couldn’t walk away from my responsibility. It would have been easy to give the kids away; my sister was itching to get her hands on them. But I stuck it out, and it was no fun doing the job alone. And this is what I want to tell you, I guess. Lots of people helped me over those tough times. My mother-in-law took care of the kids until I got a housekeeper, and neighbors came in with all kinds of assistance, and even my house sergeant, the old crab, Bill Rafferty, gave me details close to home so I could duck in and see that everything was going all right. Most people are decent, Steve. They’ll help you over this trouble. Don’t go on thinking everybody is rotten.”
“I’m not interested in people,” Retnick said. “I’m interested in the men who framed me. Nobody else matters.”
“You’ll ruin yourself,” Kleyburg said, making a futile gesture with his hand. “You were a fine decent guy, Steve. You had sympathy for everybody. Remember how you listened to me talk about the boys? You probably won’t realize what that meant until you have some kids of your own.”
Retnick wished the old man would stop talking so that he could leave, but Kleyburg went on, moving his hands about in anxious little flurries. “I’ve got to make you understand what I’m saying,” he said. “Look, I was never the cop you were. I didn’t have the brains and the drive. You carried me. I know that. You walked into trouble, you went through doorways first, and into dark alleys, and I held down the radio in the car. You think that didn’t mean anything to me? That’s why I can’t stand by and let you wreck your life.”
The words didn’t touch Retnick; they were noises that meant nothing. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll take care of myself.”
“It isn’t a matter of just living or dying,” Kleyburg said, shaking his head stubbornly. “It’s how you live and die, Steve. I’m an old man, and I understand some things better than you can. You’ve got to live in peace. You’ve got to forgive people. You’ve—”
“Stop it,” Retnick said abruptly. “You’re getting comical.” Kleyburg put a hand on his arm, but Retnick pulled away from him and turned to the door. “Save your sermon. I don’t need it.”
At seven o’clock that night Retnick walked into the West Side funeral home where Union Jack Glencannon would receive his last mortal respects. He had spent most of the day making a cautious effort to get on young Mario Amato’s trail; but so far without luck. Now he checked the register of names at the door, knowing that Mario would probably show up at the wake. That was protocol on the docks; everyone went to funerals. But Mario hadn’t made his visit yet.
Retnick signed his name on the mourner’s page and walked into the thickly carpeted chapel, which was heavy with the scent of flowers. The place wasn’t crowded; two men he didn’t know stood before the casket and a third was wandering along the ranks of massed floral pieces inspecting the names of the donors.
Glencannon looked sad and stern in death, his big bold face incongruous against the quilted lining of the coffin. Beside him lay the scabbard and sword of the Knights of Columbus, and a worn Rosary was intertwined about his heavy hands. Instinctively Retnick crossed himself and said a prayer. The words came back effortlessly, which surprised him; it had been so long since he had prayed for anyone.
Leaving the chapel, he found a secluded chair in the adjoining room from where he could watch the foyer. There were half-a-dozen men sitting about in this room, talking in low voices and filling the air with smoke from pipes and cigars.
The crowd began to arrive an hour or so later. It was a solemn and important occasion, and it brought out top officials from the city, the unions and industry. The mayor stayed almost an hour and that word was passed with quiet pride to later arrivals. There was a steady stream of cops, firemen and longshoremen, friends of the old man’s for nearly half a century. And with these came shipping executives, railroad men, heads of the various firms that sprawled along the waterfront.
Retnick saw Nick Amato and Joe Lye when they came in around ten o’clock. Amato wore a bulky brown overcoat and smiled at people he knew like an eager-to-please fruit peddler. Only his eyes gave him away; they reflected his cynical contempt for this exhibition.
Lye stayed behind Amato, his eyes quick and alert in his tense face; he carried his body as if it were a ticking bomb, a thin black cylinder of potential destruction. It was this strange explosive quality about Lye that made him feared and hated along the waterfront. And it was no act. He didn’t play at being a toughie like Dave Cardinal. The dangerous pressures inside him were nakedly apparent in his pale eyes and queer straining lips.
The night wore on. The five Antuni brothers arrived, dignified, rather courtly men who ruled five thousand longshoremen in Jersey with hands of steel, and who feared nothing in the world except their youngest brother, a priest on Staten Island. The crowd kept coming, ex-fighters, cops, newspapermen, dockworkers, saloon keepers, union officials, hoodlums and politicians. But there was no sign of young Mario Amato.