“It better be okay,” Amato said. “If nothing goes wrong I’ll send you a bottle of Lacryma Christi from Naples.”
“We’ll appreciate that, Mr. Amato.”
Amato grunted and got out of the car. The driver nodded at him, his face a thin pale blur in the darkness, and then started up toward Ninth Street. Amato stood in the darkness watching the red tail light until it disappeared at the intersection. He was suddenly aware of the silence; it stretched out on all sides of him, spreading hungrily to those distant places where there was noise and laughter and life. He was alone on the little island of sound that was bounded by the rapid beat of his heart. Turning abruptly he walked to the warehouse. The small door used by the guard was open; a light from inside drew a thin bright line along the edge of the jamb. Amato pushed the door in cautiously. A single bulb gleamed in the checker’s office, spreading a circle of brightness around the entrance to the warehouse.
But beyond this small yellow pool the terminal was lost in a vast echoing darkness. The launch waited for him at the end of this black cavern, the first link in the chain that would pull him to safety.
Amato closed the little door behind him, breathing more easily. A hundred-yard walk and he was on his way. He shifted the heavy suitcase to his right hand, tugged unnecessarily at his hat brim and started into the shadows.
And one of them began to move.
A little cry of terror broke through Amato’s lips. He backed toward the door, feeling the sickening speed of his heartbeat, and tasting the strong bitter fear in his mouth. Something darker than the shadows was coming toward him silently.
He saw the gleam of black shoes as they stepped into the yellow light, and then a voice he knew said, “The trip is off, Nick. It ends here.” Joe Lye came out of the darkness, his face pale and tense above the narrow black cylinder of his body. One side of his mouth was pulled up in an unnatural, ghastly smile, and a gun glinted in his hand. “You should have taken me for a partner,” he said. “That way you wouldn’t have to die.”
“Joe, you gave me a scare,” Amato said, trying desperately to smile. “I... I been looking for you. We got to clear out, you and me. I waited as long as I could — but it’s all right now.” He heard the hysterical note in his voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “I got plenty of dough here. And the boat’s waiting. For you and me. We got to go, Joe.”
“You weren’t looking for me,” Lye said. “Connors was looking for me. You shouldn’t have used a punk like him on a tough job, Nick. That’s the biggest mistake you made.”
“Joe, we got no time for talking,” Amato said, trying to swallow the dry constriction in his throat. He dropped the grip and locked his hands together in a desperate appeal. “We’re making Cuba the first stop, Joe. I got everything set. Passports, dough, berths on a freighter. It’s all set for you and me. You’ll like it there. It’s hot but the breezes are cool. And they make drinks with rum and lots of lime. It’s great, Joe.” There was a high giddy tremble in Amato’s voice now, and his smile stretched the skin whitely across his cheek bones. “What d’ye say, Joe? I look after things good, eh? And when we get to Italy I show you a fine time. Up in Milan they got night clubs and restaurants just like here. But we got to get moving. You carry the dough.” He laughed shrilly. “That’s right, you carry the dough. Nick trusts you.”
“You’re not going to Cuba,” Lye said in a cold, empty voice. “You gave Connors that Donaldson rap. That finished me. Now I’m going to finish you. You forgot I knew about this pier, eh?”
“Joe, you’re crazy,” Amato shouted. “I always did the thinking, didn’t I? You do what I say and we’ll make it to Naples.”
“Just a few seconds, that’s all you got,” Lye said in the same empty voice. “You used to wonder why I prayed in the death cell. Now you can find out.”
“Joe, be smart! We got a whole life ahead of us. With dough and—”
A dry metallic click sounded as Lye cocked the gun. “You’re wasting time,” he said. “Here you go, Nick.”
“Joe!” Amato screamed. He fell on his knees and clasped his hands over his breast. “Don’t shoot me. Give me a break.”
“So long, Nick.”
“God—” Amato’s voice was an incredulous whisper. He knew then that he was going to die — here in this cold warehouse, with a satchel of money at his feet and the launch that could take him to safety moored only a hundred yards away. He stared at Lye, while a desolate, hopeless fear spread sluggishly through his body. “God I’m sorry—” His voice broke there; the words of the Act of Contrition spun in his head, eluding his desperate search. “I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to weep. “I didn’t do wrong. There was no other way — because I dread the loss of Heaven.” He groped frantically for the familiar words. “And the pain of Hell. With your help, I amend my life.” That was all. He stared through his tears at Lye and shook his head slowly.
“Who were you praying to?” Lye said bitterly, and shot him twice just below the heart.
The echoes of the report rang through the immense warehouse, racing each other in noisy confusion toward the river. And above this clamoring racket Lye heard the keening wail of police sirens.
For an instant he stood perfectly still, the gun hanging limply at his side. A small, perplexed frown touched his forehead as he looked down at Amato. “Nick,” he whispered, “can you hear it? It’s cops.”
But Amato didn’t answer him; he lay on his back staring in fear and wonder at the shadows closing slowly over his eyes. His breathing was shallow and rapid, a laboring painful sound in the silence.
Lye looked around uncertainly. Then, moving with jerky strides, he picked up the grip that lay beside Amato, and ran into the darkness of the terminal. Ahead of him was the river and the launch. This wasn’t part of his plan; he had no plan beyond killing Amato. But as the desperate illogical hope grew in him, he heard the launch’s motors turn over and kick throbbingly to life. “Wait!” he shouted, but the crescendoing roar of the motors smothered his shrill, pleading voice.
When he reached the end of the terminal the small launch was speeding out of the slip toward the river.
Neville braked his car to a skidding stop before Pier 17. Another police squad was approaching on Ninth Street, its siren whining ominously in the darkness. “Watch yourself!” Neville yelled to Retnick, as he ran toward the pier with a gun in his hand.
Retnick was at his side when Neville kicked the door inward and stepped into the warehouse. A single light from the checker’s office drew a bright circle on the thick heavy planking and here, in the middle of this brilliant pool, Nick Amato lay dying. Neville knelt beside him and pulled open his tie and collar. “Who did it, Nick?” he said.
“It was Joe. I could’ve saved him—” Amato’s voice dropped away into a dry whisper.
“You’re hurt badly,” Neville said. “Help us now, Nick.”
Retnick was staring down the length of the dark terminal. That’s where Lye was. He glanced at Neville, and saw that he had put his gun on the floor while he worked on Amato’s tie and collar.
“Is it like telling a priest?” Amato said, staring into Neville’s eyes with terrible intensity.
“Who killed Glencannon?” Neville asked him quietly.
Retnick picked up the lieutenant’s gun and walked into the terminal. In two strides he had merged with the darkness, and his big body became a shadow moving silently and deliberately toward the faint shifting lights on the river. The clouds had drifted in the high wind; the winter moon glinted on the water and coated the end of the wharf with a pale yellow glow.