“Well, you found Silvy,” she said, in a fond, pleased voice.
“She was in the hallway. I thought she was probably hungry.”
“No, she’s been fed. The trouble is she just likes to wander around.” She looked up at him then, an appraising little smile on her lips. “Look, you like cats?”
“Well enough,” Retnick said. “Why?”
“You could help me out maybe,” Mrs. Cara said. “Silvy slips out of here whenever the door is open, and that’s practically all the time with the mail, the laundry, and people asking for messages or paying their rent. Then she roams all over the house keeping people awake.”
“Well, how can I help out?” Retnick said, as Mrs. Cara paused expectantly.
“Let me keep her in your room. Okay? She won’t be no bother, no mess or nothing. I’ll take care of her but she lives with you.” Smiling, she patted his arm. “How about it?”
Retnick shrugged and smiled faintly. “You made a deal, Mrs. Cara.”
“You’re a good man,” Mrs. Cara said. “Lots of people don’t care about cats. They think cats got some trick so they live without food or any attention at all. ‘Drive out in the country and throw ’em anywhere. They’ll get by.’ That’s what some people say. I’d like to throw them out in the woods and see how they like it. ‘Eat some bark,’ I’d tell ’em. ‘You’ll get along fine.’ ”
Retnick patted the cat. “We’ll see that she gets along okay. Don’t worry.”
When he returned to his room the cat leaped from his arms and made a tense trip along the walls, peering around as if she expected to find mastiffs in every corner.
Retnick watched her for a few seconds, and then took off his overcoat and dropped it on the bed. By the time he had stripped to the waist the cat was curled up on the coat, blinking drowsily. Smiling faintly he moved her aside and hung his overcoat in the closet. He stretched tiredly then, and the action brought a web of heavy muscles into play; he was built like a weight-lifter, with tremendous arms and shoulders, but there was nothing freakish or narcissistic about the development of his body. He was designed for function, not display.
He was tired but sleep was impossible, he knew; he would only lie staring into the darkness, thinking. And he had done enough of that in the last five years.
He was lighting a cigarette when a knock sounded on the door. Retnick hesitated, frowning. No one had this address but the Parole Board. The knock sounded again, imperatively this time. Retnick stepped to the door and opened it an inch.
“Retnick?” a voice said.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Connors, Thirty-First Detectives.” An open wallet appeared at the crack in the door and Retnick saw the gleaming face of a police shield. “I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, come in,” he said, opening the door.
Connors studied Retnick, taking his time about it, and then he smiled slightly and sauntered into the room. “Cozy little spot,” he said, glancing around casually. “Mind if I take off my coat?”
“Go ahead.”
Connors removed his handsomely cut tweed overcoat and folded it neatly over the foot of the bed. When he saw the cat he looked at Retnick with a quizzical little smile. “I didn’t figure you as a benefactor of stray kittens,” he said.
“How did you figure me?” Retnick said.
Connors shrugged lightly. “You had quite a reputation at the Thirty-First,” he said. “Very rugged, very tough.” There was just a trace of malice in his smile. “I believe I’ve heard Sergeant Kleyburg refer to you as quote, a cop’s cop, unquote.”
“How is Kleyburg?” Retnick said, ignoring Connors’ sarcasm.
“Fine, just fine,” Connors said. He sat down and crossed his legs carefully, shifting his trousers to protect their sharp crease. Then he ran a hand over his wavy blond hair and smiled at Retnick. “Is there a drink in the house?”
“Sorry.” Retnick found Connors’ manner annoying, but he didn’t let that show in his expression. He knew nothing about him, but the quality of his clothes was suspicious; the handsome gray flannel suit, the white-on-white shirt, the expensive neatly figured tie — you didn’t buy items like that on a detective’s salary.
“What are your plans?” Connors said, after lighting a cigarette with a mannered little flourish.
“Nothing definite yet,” Retnick said. “Why?”
“I thought I might help you get your bearings,” Connors said.
“That would be nice.”
Connors was looking about for an ashtray. Retnick picked up one from the bureau and Connors accepted it with a nod of thanks. Balancing it on one knee, he looked at Retnick, a small smile touching his smooth handsome face. “Think of this as a briefing,” he said. “Things have changed since you went to jail. Specifically, things have changed on the waterfront. It will save you time and possibly trouble to keep that in mind. Things are peaceful now. The unions and shippers are getting along, and the locals aren’t squabbling among themselves any more. There’s a rumble every now and then, but strictly on an intramural basis.”
“Intramural?”
“That means all in the family.”
“It didn’t when I went to college,” Retnick said. “But go on.”
Connors inclined his head and smiled slightly. “I forgot you weren’t an ordinary cop. You were a cop’s cop. But as I was saying: the docks are quiet. The man who starts trouble won’t have any friends. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Retnick said.
“Good. Another point. Do you have any plans for a job?”
“No.”
“Maybe I can help out there.” Connors took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke toward Retnick. “When you killed Joe Ventra you inadvertently did Nick Amato a favor. That probably hasn’t occurred to you, but Amato is grateful, even though your efforts in his behalf were completely accidental.”
“You’re sure I killed Ventra,” Retnick said.
“I couldn’t care less one way or the other,” Connors said, with an easy smile. “If you say you took a bum rap, I’ll buy that. But the fact is you hit Ventra in a bar, and he went outside and died.”
“I pushed him away from me,” Retnick said. “He went outside and got slugged to death with a blackjack.”
“I’ll buy all that,” Connors said, still smiling. “As I say, if that’s your story it’s okay with me. But the jury heard witnesses say you knocked him around brutally, and that he was half-dead when you kicked him into the street. And they found you guilty of murder in the second degree. But to come back to the point: Ventra and Amato were fighting for control of Local 200 at the time. With Ventra dead, Amato naturally took over. Whoever killed Ventra accidentally did Amato a favor.”
“Maybe Amato did himself a favor,” Retnick said.
Connors looked thoughtfully at him. “You’re forgetting what I told you already. No one wants trouble. But cracks like that can lead to trouble. For you, my friend.”
“Let’s get to the point,” Retnick said. “What’s your deal?”
“Amato’s got a job for you. Chauffeur, bodyguard, something like that. The dough is good.”
“You like it, I guess,” Retnick said.
A slow tide of color moved up in Connors’ cheeks. “Brother, you are stupid,” he said gently. “You’re an ex-cop, an ex-convict. You’re all washed up. If you start any trouble you’ll get your head knocked right off your shoulders.”
Retnick turned away slowly, grinding a big fist into the palm of his hand. “You punks all sound alike,” he said, in a low, savage voice. “Messenger boys, carrier pigeons, doing dirty little jobs for hoodlums so you can dress like dudes and sneak a few week ends off in Miami or Atlantic City. Who’s going—”