Retnick was putting out a tasteless cigarette when Lieutenant Neville drifted over to him and said, “Who’re you waiting for, Steve?”
Retnick hadn’t seen him come in. He said, “No one. Why?”
“Don’t kid me. You haven’t taken your eyes off the front door. Who’re you expecting?”
“Mario Amato.”
“What’s your interest in him?”
Retnick shrugged. “Let’s say it’s personal.”
Lieutenant Neville lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip. There was a puzzled expression on his lean intelligent face. “What’s the point of being cozy with me, Steve?” he said. “We’re after the same thing, but your way is wrong. I told you yesterday to keep out of trouble.”
“Am I in trouble?” Retnick said, looking at him evenly.
“That fight with Hammy was a pretty stupid business.”
“He wanted it, I didn’t.”
“It gave Amato a chance to gripe,” Neville said. “Not to me, but downtown. I get the repercussions. He doesn’t want a labor-hating ex-con roaming around the docks beating up his boys.”
“Labor hating,” Retnick said. “That’s good.”
“So I have an official order to keep an eye on you.”
“That must make you feel fine,” Retnick said. “Getting orders relayed to you from that hoodlum.”
“I don’t want to argue about it,” Neville said.
“Thanks a lot,” Retnick said. “Now we can move to important considerations. Such as who killed old man Glencannon. And Frank Ragoni.”
Neville ignored the bitterness in Retnick’s voice. “The lab isn’t sure about Glencannon,” he said. “It could be a homicide, or it could be a natural death. He went to Amato’s office around midnight, and Amato says he was in good shape when he left. He was found a dozen blocks from there yesterday, behind a string of gondolas on a storage siding.”
Retnick grinned coldly. “You want some advice? Arrest Nick Amato for the murder.”
“We aren’t calling it a murder yet,” Neville said. Spots of color had come up in his pale cheeks. “Glencannon was an old man. His heart could have quit on him. The bruise on his head could have resulted from the fall. He could have crawled to where he was found.”
“That’s very logical,” Retnick said dryly. “Or he might have been hit by lightning, or died laughing at old jokes. Investigate those angles, too. But don’t bother Nick Amato. He’s too busy planning his next murder.”
Neville said coldly, “I’m getting fed up with you, Steve. You think you’re a lonely tragic figure who’s been wronged by everybody in the whole world. That may fatten up your ego but it’s lousy logic.”
“You don’t get logical in jail,” Retnick said. He was starting to say something else when he noticed Mario Amato moving through the thinning crowd with two young men about his own age. He was slim and dark, with soft brown eyes, and he walked with a little swagger, as if he were certain that everyone in the room knew who he was, and was staring at him with interest and respect. He wore a beautifully fitted topcoat and carried a white fedora. Smiling broadly, he seemed in high spirits, obviously delighted to be leaving this place of gloom and death.
When he had passed through the doors Retnick said, “I’ve got to go, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, I guess you do,” Neville said wearily. He had seen Mario, too, and his eyes were troubled as he watched Retnick crossing the floor, moving with the deliberate stride of a hunter.
9
Mario Amato stopped at the avenue with his two companions and tried to decide how to spend the rest of the evening. It was cold and windy on the corner and he pulled the collar of his fancy overcoat up tight about his throat. The traffic was light and the sidewalks were empty. Ahead of them the neon signs of bars winked invitingly into the black tunnel of the street. But he didn’t feel like drinking; liquor had never had much appeal to him. A girl would be more like it. He wanted to forget the look of Glencannon’s face, and the heavy depressing scent of the flowers. A girl would do that.
Retnick came silently from the darkness behind him and put a big hand on his arm. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
Mario started nervously. “What the hell’s the idea?” he said in a high, angry voice. One of his companions surged forward, but Retnick struck him across the chest with a forearm that was like a bar of iron, and the young man backed off quickly, gasping for breath. “Keep out of this,” Retnick said. The two young men stared at him, breathing hard, checked by the look in his face.
Mario tried to pull free but Retnick’s hand was like an iron collar about his arm. “What’s the idea?” he said again, but plaintively now. “I don’t know you, Mac.”
“Tell me you don’t know my sister.”
Mario smiled weakly. What he saw in Retnick’s eyes made him very nervous. “I don’t think I know your sister,” he said. “Maybe I met her somewhere. What’s her name?”
“Nancy Riordan. And you aren’t running out on her, get that straight.”
“Look, mister, I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“I want to hear you tell her that,” Retnick said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Now wait a minute,” Mario cried.
“That’s Nick Amato’s nephew,” one of his friends said. “You better be sure what you’re doing.”
Retnick stared at him. “You mean he’s too good for my sister?”
The young man shrugged and tried to smile. “No, I just thought I’d tell you.”
“Well, don’t bother telling me things,” Retnick said. “You guys aren’t involved in this. But you will be if you keep shooting off your mouths. I’ll deal you in for free.”
Both young men shook their heads quickly. “It’s between you and him,” one of them said.
“Fine. Beat it.”
“Sure, we were going.” They nodded jerkily to Mario. “See you around,” one of them said. Mario stared wistfully after them as they hurried off, their heads pulled down into the collars of their coats. There was no one else in sight. Not even a cop. The city was dark and empty.
“Mister, you got me wrong,” he said, smiling uncertainly at Retnick. “I never treated any girl wrong, I swear.”
“That’s what we’re going to make sure of,” Retnick said. “Maybe you’re not the guy. If so, there’s no harm done. Let’s walk. She’s waiting for us a few blocks from here...”
Retnick unlocked his room, ushered Mario in ahead of him and closed the door. When he snapped on the lights the little cat blinked at them from the bed. It yawned and stretched a paw tentatively into the air.
“What’s the gag?” Mario said, looking around with a worried smile.
Retnick tossed his coat on the bed and unloosened his tie. “Sit down, Mario,” he said. “You know Red Evans, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know him,” Mario said slowly.
“We’re going to talk about him,” Retnick said, walking toward young Amato. “Sit down, I told you.”
“Yeah, but your sister—”
“There’s no sister,” he said, and shoved Mario into a straight-backed chair. Standing over him, his eyes bright and hard, Retnick said, “There’s just you and me, sweetheart. We’re going to talk about how much you paid Evans to murder Frank Ragoni.”
Mario wet his lips and tried desperately to keep the fear inside him from showing in his face. He was no stranger to violence, but not at these odds. As Nick Amato’s nephew he lived in a cocoon of security and privilege. He had never faced trouble alone; his uncle’s men saw to that.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, putting what strength he could muster into his voice. “You got me all wrong, I tell you.”
“Where did you know Evans?”
“Well, around the docks. Just to say hello to. You know how it is?” He tried to meet Retnick’s eyes directly, but it was almost impossible; there was something in them that was like the frightening stillness in old Glencannon’s face. “I wasn’t a friend of his,” he went on anxiously. “We just nodded to each other, that’s all.”