Retnick saw the flash of the gun’s muzzle two car lengths ahead of him, on the curb side of the cars.
He held Lye’s gun in his hand. The silence was complete now and he knew that Neville’s car had stopped somewhere up the block. That meant the lieutenant had heard the shots.
The man who had fired at him was only two car lengths away, and Retnick heard the scuff of his shoes on the sidewalk as he moved closer through the darkness. There was no place for Retnick to hide. The cars were parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb and he couldn’t slip between them to the street. He could only wait for Neville.
Somewhere down the block a window went up with a protesting shriek and a woman shouted into the silence. And the wind rattled the can near Retnick’s hand.
He knew Neville would probably come back along the line of cars on the opposite side of the street. Crouching low he felt around for the tin can in the gutter. Then he tossed it over the cars into the street, and flattened himself on his stomach.
A big figure loomed in the darkness a dozen feet from him. Swearing hoarsely, the man clambered over the fenders of a car, and leaped into the street. He fired again, still cursing, and then Retnick heard Neville yell sharply, “This is the police. Drop that gun.”
Retnick scrambled to his feet. A lamp on the opposite sidewalk threw a pale yellow light into the street, and Retnick saw a big man in a camel’s hair coat, and saw the fear and rage working in his face as he wheeled and raised his gun in the direction of Neville’s voice. A shot sounded off to the right and he heard the man cry out hoarsely. Turning in a frantic circle the man dropped his gun and hugged his stomach tightly with both hands. Finally he went down to his knees and began to sob. And when he fell forward his voice broke and he cried, “No!” in a high, incredulous voice.
Retnick put his gun away and climbed over the bumpers of a car to the street. Hammy lay sprawled on the pavement staring with wide frightened eyes at the dark sky, his big chest heaving for air. Noises sounded up and down the block as people shouted at each other from open windows. Several men were hurrying to the scene, their running footsteps loud and clear in the night.
Neville stepped from behind a car and crossed the street to Retnick’s side. He was pale, and there was a sharp glint of excitement in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he said, watching Retnick closely.
“Yes. He missed twice.”
Neville knelt beside Hammy. It was obvious the big man was dying. He looked lonely and scared and his face was very white.
“Did Amato tell you to get Retnick?” Neville said, speaking sharply and distinctly. “Come on, Hammy, get squared away before you die.”
Hammy shook his head slowly. “I can’t die,” he said, wetting his lips. “It’s not time. I’m young—” His voice broke and he began to cough.
“Who killed Ragoni?” Retnick said quietly.
Several men had crowded around them and Neville raised his head and glared at them. “Get back home where you belong,” he said. “I’m a police officer.”
The men backed off to the sidewalk and stared in fascination at Hammy.
“I don’t know who killed anybody,” Hammy said. He looked as if he were trying to cry. “You didn’t have to shoot me, I had a lot ahead of me.”
“Help us,” Retnick said. Neville folded Hammy’s fedora and slipped it under his head. “You don’t owe Amato anything,” Retnick said. “Who killed Joe Ventra? Do you know, Hammy?”
“Amato threw me out,” Hammy said weakly. His eyes closed and he drew a deep breath. “Everybody said he killed Ventra. I don’t know. Don’t let me die.”
“We’ll do what we can, Hammy,” Neville said. “Who says Amato killed Ventra? Tell us that.” A police siren wailed in the distance. Neville shook Hammy’s arm gently. “Tell us that,” he said.
Hammy opened his eyes and reached for Neville’s arm. “Wait,” he said in a high clear voice. “It ain’t over so soon. I just—” He tried to sit up then, staring in sudden fear and understanding at Retnick. When he began to cough the strength left his body and he slumped back to the pavement. Tears glistened in his staring eyes.
A squad car pulled up and a big patrolman came toward them with a hand resting on the butt of his gun.
Neville got slowly to his feet and looked at Retnick. “You come on to the station with me,” Neville said. “We’ll need your statement. Then we’ll have a talk.”
Retnick gave his statement to a young detective named Myers, mentioning his fight with Hammy as a possible reason for the ambush. Neville typed out a report without bothering to take off his hat or coat. Then he tossed it in his basket and came into the file room and nodded at Retnick. “I’ll wait for you on the sidewalk,” he said.
When Retnick came out of the station Neville turned to him, his face sharp and white in the darkness. “Amato didn’t wait long to take a crack at you,” he said.
“He believes in direct action,” Retnick said. “He doesn’t wait for an airtight case. You could learn a lot from him.”
“Let’s stop yapping at each other,” Neville said. “Do you know where Red Evans is now?”
“I think he’s in Trenton.”
“You said earlier that you could get him to New York. Does that still stand?”
“I don’t need Red Evans,” Retnick said coldly. “Didn’t you hear Hammy say Amato killed Joe Ventra? That’s all I’ve been trying to find out.”
“A hoodlum’s word isn’t enough to convict Amato.”
“It’s enough for me,” Retnick said.
“Now listen,” Neville said sharply. “We can get Amato my way. But you’ll get nothing by acting like a one-man jury and firing squad. We need Red Evans, but we can’t extradite him. If you get him, I’ll pick up Mario Amato. Then we’ll get the truth. And the truth will point at Amato.”
Retnick hesitated a second, staring at Neville. “Do I have your word on that?”
“You have my word,” Neville said. “But be careful, Steve. Red Evans is a very tough boy.”
“Sure,” Retnick said. “So was Hammy.”
12
From the Thirty-First Retnick walked to the Tenth Avenue and picked up a cruising cab. What he had to do was simple and clear; find Red Evans and drag him to New York. How he would do this was neither simple nor clear, but he wasn’t worrying about it. What worried him now was Davey Cardinal, and the thought of that hoodlum’s interest in his wife. Retnick’s concern was illogical, but he couldn’t shake it. Why should he care what happened to her? The logical answer was that he didn’t, but the logical answer wasn’t accurate. He did care what happened to her and he didn’t understand why. The driver looked around at him inquiringly, and Retnick gave him an address in the East Eighties, a half block from where he had lived with Marcia. Lighting a cigarette he tried to analyze his feelings on the ride uptown through the dark city. But he got nowhere. It was tied up with Amato, he decided at last. If Amato thought of hitting at him through Marcia, then that put her on his side, even though the involvement was needless and pointless. That must be it, he thought...
He paid off the driver and walked along the dark sidewalk, on the opposite side of the street from her apartment.
This was a neighborhood he knew well, although he had lived there only a few months. But in that time he had memorized the street; it was clearer in his mind than the streets of the lower East Side where he had been born and raised.
Retnick stopped in the shadow of a tree and looked up at his wife’s apartment. One light shed a faint golden glow through the curtains. She wouldn’t be home yet, he knew. For a moment or so he stood completely motionless, staring at the windows of the apartment. It was difficult to realize that he had once lived there, and more difficult still to imagine what sort of man he had been then. The image of himself at peace, living normally and casually, was too strange and incongruous to believe in. He knew in an objective way he had once been happy, that he had laughed easily, that there had been friends in his life, and the warmth and sustenance of love, but when he tried to examine these memories they became distorted and blurred, twisting out of shape under the corrosive action of his anger.