Retnick hesitated an instant. “Did he ever mention Ventra to you?”
“Only to say you’d been framed for his murder. He said that over and over.”
“Did you see Ragoni often?”
“He asked me to come out for dinner every few months. And I had his family up to the apartment occasionally for breakfast after Mass.” She smiled bitterly. “We got along fine. He used to tell what a great fullback you were at Fordham. His wife liked me, too.”
Retnick turned abruptly to the door.
“Steve, wait!” she said, coming swiftly to her feet.
Without looking at her, he said, “I’ve waited five years. I’m through waiting. So long.”
It was ten o’clock when Retnick stepped into a telephone booth a block from the Gramercy. He dialed a number and a woman’s voice answered the phone. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Glencannon,” Retnick said.
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Retnick, Steve Retnick.”
“Is there any other message? This is his sister speaking.”
“I want to see him tonight, if that’s possible.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Retnick lit a cigarette and waited, staring out at the shining counters of the drugstore, at the couples sitting at the fountain.
“Hello? My brother would be glad to see you tonight. Do you have our address?”
“Yes. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
Retnick left the drugstore and picked up a cruising cab on Lexington Avenue. He gave the driver Glencannon’s address and settled back to think. Jack Glencannon was the president of Ragoni’s local, 202. And that local was heading for trouble. It adjoined Nick Amato’s area of operations, and Amato was preparing to expand in an obvious direction. Retnick had learned this the day before from Frank Ragoni’s wife. Amato and Glencannon were as dissimilar as two men could be; one was honest, the other was a thief. But Retnick wondered if Amato were big enough to take on Glencannon; if so it was a tribute of sorts to his nerve and cunning. Glencannon was a tough and powerful old man, a legend on the docks for more than thirty years. He was Union Jack to his boys, and they had always stuck to him with fierce loyalty. Glencannon’s hold on his men was simple; he ran an honest local. He didn’t believe in short-gangs, loan sharks, kickbacks or organized theft. It was a formidable set-up to oppose, Retnick knew; but he also knew that Amato never started a fight if there was a chance of losing it.
Glencannon lived on the fifth floor of an apartment building in the West Seventies. Retnick knocked and the door was opened by a gray-haired woman who smiled and said, “Come in, please. I’m Jack’s sister.”
“I’m sorry to be calling so late,” he said.
“Goodness, don’t let that bother you,” she said, with a little laugh. “People keep coming in at all hours. Friends, judges, politicians, the mayor himself sometimes, they just drop in when it suits them.” She took off her rimless glasses and smiled philosophically. “I’ve looked after Jack since my husband died eighteen years ago, and I tell you frankly I marvel to this day at his patience. Well, now, was it something in particular you wanted to talk to him about?”
“It’s about Frank Ragoni.”
“I’ll tell him you’re here. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Then she hesitated. “Jack hasn’t been well lately. I know you’ll understand.”
Retnick sensed something behind the literal meaning of her words. “I’ll make my visit brief,” he said.
Retnick lit another cigarette and glanced about the large, comfortably furnished room. He had known Glencannon pretty well in the past. The old man had followed his football career with interest, and had been one of his references for the police department. Which certainly hadn’t hurt.
The door opened and Glencannon’s sister came in. Retnick knew from her expression that something was wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said, making an awkward little gesture with her hands. “My brother just doesn’t think he’s up to seeing anyone tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” Retnick said slowly. “Is it anything serious?”
“No, thank heaven, it’s just one of those heavy colds that is working down to his chest.”
“He was all right when I called,” Retnick said. “That was ten minutes ago.”
“Ups and downs are fairly common at his age,” she said, in a cooler voice. “Some other night would be better, I think.”
“He didn’t go down until he heard Ragoni’s name,” Retnick said. “Was that what bothered him?”
“It isn’t my place to interpret his messages,” she said. “He doesn’t want to see anyone tonight. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Maybe the name Ragoni bothers you,” Retnick said.
“It means nothing to me.”
“You’ll be an impartial audience then,” Retnick said quietly. “Frank Ragoni was a member of your brother’s local. He’s been missing for more than a week. Could you guess why?”
“I don’t know anything about these matters.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” Retnick said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to your brother. Ragoni is missing, and he may be dead. Maybe he got killed for standing up to Nick Amato. That’s not his job, of course, that’s your brother’s.”
“You know all about killing, don’t you?” she said, in a rising voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re Steve Retnick, aren’t you?”
Retnick stared at her. “That’s right.”
She took a step backward, flushing at the look in his eyes. “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “But you have no right to be badgering me this way. My brother is a sick, overworked man.”
“Tell him I’m sorry for him,” Retnick said. “Nick Amato won’t be. Good night.”
Retnick’s room was on the first floor of a brownstone that had somehow preserved a remnant of dignity over the years. The wide, high-ceilinged hallway was clean and freshly painted and the beautiful old woodwork had been treated with care; it shone like satin in the light from the ornate brass chandelier. Kleyburg had rented this place in his name a month ago, after checking the landlady’s reputation, and making sure that none of the other tenants had police records; this was a parole board requirement and Kleyburg had satisfied it with scrupulous care.
Retnick was searching for his key when a faint scratching noise sounded behind him. He turned quickly, his instincts alerting him to danger, but it was a thin, gray-and-white cat that stared up at him from the shadowed comer of the hallway. Its eyes gleamed like blue-green marbles in the darkness. Retnick let out his breath slowly, and rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. Relief eased the tension in his arms and shoulders. He knew he was in a dangerous mood, ready to explode at the slightest pressure. But there was nothing he could do about it. He picked up the cat and felt its claws tighten nervously against the rough cloth of his overcoat.
As bad as I am, he thought, rubbing the little animal gently under the chin. But you’ll get over it. A cup of milk and a sweater to curl up on will fix you up fine. Shifting the cat to his left hand he opened the door of his room and snapped on the lights. He had nothing to feed her, he realized, and the delicatessens in the neighborhood were closed by now. Annoyed with himself, he turned back to the hallway. He didn’t want to be responsible for anything, even a kitten. But he couldn’t leave her now. After this promise of attention and company she’d keep the whole house awake scratching and crying at his door. Finally he walked down the hall and rapped gently on his landlady’s door. This was a fine way of getting thrown out of here, he thought, waking Mrs. Cara in the middle of the night over a stray cat. But he was wrong. Mrs. Cara opened the door, tightening the belt of her blue robe, and her fat brown face broke into a smile as she saw the cat in Retnick’s arm.