“When I finish the cigarette,” Retnick said. His eyes moved to the crucifix, and he stared defiantly at the suspended figure. “You believe in God, don’t you?” he said.
“I don’t know. Not enough, maybe. I don’t know.”
“What did you do in your spare time when you were working?”
“I used to go out to the track,” Nelson said. “I never bet, but I liked to watch horses. Thoroughbreds, I mean. I was born in Virginia and I got the look of them stamped in my head. I just like to watch them run.” He smiled nervously and turned to look at Retnick. “You ever do that?”
“No, I was born on the East Side. I thought horses came with milk wagons attached to them until I was about ten, I think.”
“Well, you missed something. They’re pretty to watch, I tell you.”
“Maybe you could show me what to look for some day. They’ll be running at Belmont in a few months.”
“Sure they will. I’d be glad to show you, too. A kid misses a lot growing up in the city.”
He was okay now, Retnick knew. Maybe he could even get to sleep. “How about a nightcap?” he said casually.
“You go ahead. I... I think I had enough.”
Retnick rinsed the toothbrush glass, and poured himself a small drink. Then he said good night. But Nelson didn’t answer him. His eyes were closed and his breathing had become regular.
When Retnick stepped into the dark hallway, Mrs. Cara put her head out of her door. “He’s all right?” she asked him quietly.
“I think so. His cousin died this morning, and it hit him hard. But he’ll be okay.”
“I’m glad. He’s a nice man. He’s lived here eighteen years.”
“Good night,” Retnick said, but Mrs. Cara put her hand on his arm. “You were good to him. Your voice was almost like a woman’s. You don’t mind my saying this, I hope, but it ain’t like the voice you used with your wife on the phone.”
Retnick stared at her. “My trouble didn’t come from a bottle. And it won’t go away with a hangover.”
“Things are never as bad as you think they are, Mr. Retnick. You remember that.”
“Sometimes they’re worse,” Retnick said. “Good night.”
He slept little that night and was up at six in the morning. He went to the corner restaurant for coffee and returned to his rooming house without bothering to eat breakfast. Today he had to look for Red Evans. This was Thursday, Dixie Davis’ day off, and if she followed her customary pattern she would go to Trenton to meet Evans. Retnick decided to pick her up there. That would be less risky than attempting to trail her from New York.
The day was clear and crisp with an occasional flurry of snow in the air. Two men stood talking together in front of his rooming house. They were staring at the place in the street where Hammy had died. Retnick heard one of them say, “The guy who shot him was a cop. It says that in the paper. Some luck, eh? Pull something and find a cop in the same block waiting for you.”
Retnick let himself into the room, trying not to think of anything at all, trying particularly not to think of his wife. That was over. She would go to Chicago and he would stay here with his dark heavy thoughts. The little cat, Silvy, blinked at him from an open drawer, stretching comfortably on his small stack of new shirts. He put her down on the floor and then took Joe Lye’s gun from his pocket and looked at it for a moment, unable to decide whether or not to take it with him. There were risks either way. But he finally decided against it. He would go right back to jail if he were picked up carrying a gun. He put the gun under his shirts, closed the drawer and left.
It was an hour’s ride to Trenton and by eight o’clock he had taken his post in the waiting room, sitting where he could watch the passengers who got off the New York trains. He spent the morning in the dusty, overheated room, using a newspaper to shield his face when people trickled in off the hourly trains. He wasted the morning and most of the afternoon before he became convinced that she wasn’t going to show. It would have been more reasonable to trail her from New York and take the risk of being seen, he thought. Evans had probably left Trenton when he heard that Retnick was looking for him.
It was five o’clock when he got back to New York. He ate a sandwich and drank a cup of coffee, and then tried to find a cab. But the evening rush had started by then and the increasingly heavy snow had created traffic snarls throughout the midtown section. Retnick joined an exasperated group of people under a hotel canopy. A red-faced doorman stood in the street whistling for a cab with pointless optimism, while the snow fell softly and silently into the black congested city.
Retnick didn’t get to Dixie Davis’ apartment until almost seven o’clock. In the foyer he brushed the snow from his hat and shoulders before pressing her buzzer. She answered almost immediately, “Who is it?”
“Retnick,” he said. “Remember?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to see you.”
“Look, Buster, there’s a thing called a telephone,” she said. “People use it to make dates with.”
“I didn’t have time to call,” he said. “This is important.”
There was a brief silence. Then she said, “Important to who? You or me?”
“It could be for both of us.”
“Okay, come on up.”
She was waiting for him in the doorway, a bored little smile twisting her freshly painted lips. Except for her eyes, which were cold little points under the red bangs, everything about her was designed as part of an obvious piece. The red silk dress straining tightly at the curves of her small body, the sheer nylons and wedge-soled ankle straps, the huge junk bracelet on her wrist, they all advertised an old, old product.
“Well, what’s the good news?” she said. “You strike gold in a back tooth or something?”
“It’s better than that,” he said, smiling slightly. He strolled past her into the scrupulously neat and impersonal room. “We’re all alone, eh?” he said, tossing his hat into a chair.
“Make yourself at home. You want a robe and slippers maybe?”
“It’s a tempting idea.”
“Okay, stop clowning,” she said, staring at him coldly. “What’s on your mind?”
“You don’t sound very friendly,” he said.
“I don’t like guys barging up here like it was a saloon with a free lunch,” she said. “I told you once, I’ll tell you twice, use the damn telephone if you want to see me.”
Retnick stared at her, his face and eyes hardening slowly. “I don’t want to see you,” he said. “Given a choice I’d prefer to play pinochle with somebody’s eighty-year-old aunt. But I don’t have a choice.”
“You know where the door is,” she said, putting her hands on her small, bony hips. “If you don’t like it here, blow.”
Retnick’s smile did something ugly to his eyes. “You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”
“I get by, Buster. I take care of me and mine.”
“But you’re sitting in a very rough game,” Retnick said. “You could get hurt. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“I sleep just fine,” she said.
“You’re still seeing Red Evans,” Retnick said slowly. “And he’s a murderer. I didn’t buy the cute story about the trusting little doll who lost her heart and bankroll to the con man. Life in Canada, a big fresh start, it was all corn, Dixie. Where is he? That’s what I’m going to find out.”