“Drop the gun,” he said, holding him by the arm and throat. “Drop it!” Evans struggled against him, desperately trying to twist his pinioned hand and bring the gun to bear on Retnick.
“Tough guy,” Retnick said, and closed his fingers with all his strength on Evans’ wrist.
Evans screamed in pain, the sound of it high and incredulous in his throat, and the gun clattered from his distended fingers to the floor. Retnick hit him in the stomach then, and something brutal and guilty within him savored the impact of the blow and the explosive rush of air from Evans’ lungs.
Breathing heavily, he stepped back and let him slide to the floor. He picked up the gun, dropped it in his pocket and stared for a second or so without feeling or compassion at Evans’ red, straining face and jackknifed body. Finally he looked at the girl who sat on the floor supporting her weight with one outstretched hand. Her eyes were wide with terror as she stared at him.
“Get up,” he said.
“Don’t hurt me, please.”
“Get up. Keep quiet and you’ll be okay.”
Retnick walked to the phone and put in a call to the Thirty-First. Watching Evans, he told the clerk who answered to put him through to Lieutenant Neville. When Neville came on, Retnick said, “I got him. Evans. Can you pick him up right away?”
Neville whistled softly. “Is he marked up?”
“Nothing that will show.”
“Where are you?”
Retnick told him and Neville said, “Sit tight.”
Retnick put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he felt some of the tension dissolving in his body. But he felt no elation or triumph. Only a curious bitterness and distaste.
“You’re working with the cops?” Dixie asked him in a small, uneasy voice.
“That’s right.”
“You made him think I crossed him,” she said. Staring at Evans a little shudder went through her body. “What’ll happen to me when he gets loose?”
“Maybe he won’t get loose.”
“But if he does?”
“That’s your problem.”
“What have you got against me?”
“Nothing,” Retnick said shortly.
She was very pale and her lips were trembling. “Why did you put me in this spot?”
“You put yourself in it,” Retnick said, staring at her. “This guy is a killer. He killed a man he’d never seen before, slipped a knife between his ribs for a piece of change. And you knew about it. You thought he was a hero.” Retnick made an abrupt, angry gesture with his hand. “Behind every one of these vermin is a dummy like you, loving them, protecting them, treating them like glamour boys. Until you get in the middle. Then you get religion. You think that—” Retnick stopped and ground out his cigarette. He felt disgusted with himself. “You’ll be okay,” he said.
She was weeping now. Fear had stripped the cynical, wise-guy mask from her face. She looked suddenly childish and vulnerable. Even the cheaply sexy clothes seemed incongruous on her small thin body, like props borrowed from an older sister.
“You don’t know him,” she said. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s mad.”
“He’ll have enough problems without worrying about you.”
The buzzer sounded and he went to the speaking tube that was hooked to the wall. He made sure it was Neville, then pressed the button that unlocked the inner door of the foyer.
Neville and Kleyburg walked into the room a few seconds later. Kleyburg put a hand on Retnick’s arm, his eyes going worriedly to the blood on his face. “You okay, Steve?” he said.
“It’s nothing serious.”
Neville was staring down at Evans. “They never look worth the trouble they make,” he said. Then he nodded at Dixie, his pale face completely without expression. “Who’s this?”
“The girl friend,” Retnick said.
“You’ve got to protect me,” Dixie said, smiling nervously at Neville.
“Will you testify against him?” he said.
“There... there’s nothing I could tell you,” she said, as her eyes slipped away from his contempt. He turned to Retnick, dismissing her completely. “Did you get anything from him?”
“He’s your boy,” Retnick said. He was sure Evans was listening, so he said, “He knows Amato is trying to frame him and keep the kid in the clear.”
Neville picked up the cue. “Amato will get away with it too.”
Evans straightened himself painfully to a sitting position. “You guys are real comedians,” he said. “Comic book cops, that’s what you are.”
Kleyburg looked at him with a pleased smile. “On your feet, buddy. We’re going to take you some place where you can tell us your life story. I’ll bet it’s good.”
Neville touched Retnick’s arm and drew him aside. “You fade,” he said quietly. “We’ll pick up Mario Amato now and toss these two babies together. I’ll call you when there’s a break.”
14
Retnick waited in his room for Neville’s call. He sat on the edge of the bed smoking one cigarette after another and checking his watch every few minutes. It was after midnight now; five hours had passed since Evans and Mario had been arrested.
The lamp on the bureau cast a pale yellow light over the old furniture, the dusty, rose-patterned furniture, and drew dark lines across Retnick’s rock-hard face. Nothing could slip, he was thinking. Evans was in a savage, nervous mood, half-convinced he was being measured for a frame. Young Mario was a weakling and a fool. Slam them together and you’d get an explosion of squeals and denials. But it hadn’t happened yet.
He tried to picture what was going on at the Thirty-First, knowing the cat-and-mouse game Neville would play, knowing the mood of casual but ominous tension he would generate for the benefit of Evans and Mario Amato. He had been part of that scene himself dozens of times but tonight it was difficult to bring it into clear and vivid focus. Another idea slipped softly into his mind, threading itself like elusive music into his hard and bitter thoughts. Tonight would dissolve the swollen fury he had lived with for five years, and then he could see his wife again. Maybe he would understand her then.
The phone rang shrilly and before the echoes died away Retnick was through the door and into the wide dark hallway. He lifted the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Steve?” It was Neville’s voice, edged with weariness.
“Yes. Did they crack?”
Neville drew a deep breath. “It’s a bust, Steve. They aren’t talking.”
“They will, they’ve got to,” Retnick said, tightening his grip on the receiver.
“We used all the tricks, Steve. Nothing worked.”
“Evans practically admitted to me that he killed Ragoni,” Retnick said angrily. “And he practically admitted that young Mario Amato paid him to do it.”
“They won’t admit anything now,” Neville said. “Now listen: we picked up Mario at his uncle’s house four or five hours ago. Kleyburg made the pinch. Amato raised hell. He told his nephew he’d have him out by morning. Mario believed him, I guess. He won’t talk. And neither will Evans. I’ve had two calls from downtown. They’re getting hotter about this pinch all the time. So far they buy my story. But I can’t convince them much longer.”
“So you’ll turn them loose,” Retnick said bitterly.
“I’ll have to. I expect Amato here in an hour or so with a writ for Mario. After Mario walks out Evans will know damn well we were bluffing. I could hold him for a while but what’s the point? He isn’t going to talk.”
Retnick stared down the dark hallway. He could see the yellow gleam of a street lamp through the glass doorway. He said quietly, “Look, Lieutenant, is that creep Connors around? You know, the detective on Amato’s string.”