“Connors talked to him,” Lye said. He felt the tension easing in his straining lips. “Retnick’s in no mood to play ball. Connors couldn’t get anything definite from him.”
“That Connors never has anything definite,” Amato said. “It’s getting bad when you can’t buy anything better than a dummy like Connors.”
“Retnick’s got a one-track mind. He’s still thinking about who killed Ventra.”
Amato frowned slightly at the top of his desk. “That’s a Polack for you,” he said. “Stubborn.”
A step sounded on the stairs and Amato raised a hand quickly for silence. But it was Hammy who opened the door and sauntered into the room, a drunken grin on his big red face. “Sorry I’m late,” he said to Amato, and slumped into a chair that creaked under his great weight.
“Where’ve you been?” Amato said, in a deceptively pleasant voice.
“Around. Here and there.” Hammy laughed and massaged his bumpy forehead with the back of his hand. “Celebrating.”
“I didn’t say twelve o’clock just to be talking.”
The look in Amato’s eyes sobered Hammy. “Sure thing, boss, it won’t happen again. I—”
“Okay, okay,” Amato said, cutting him off irritably. “Joe, you figure something for Retnick.”
“All right,” Lye said.
Hammy was smiling. “Retnick? That guy couldn’t lick his upper lip. I can take him, boss.”
“Where? To a movie, maybe?”
“I deliver, you know that.” Amato’s sarcasm didn’t diminish Hammy’s childish confidence in his own ability. There were many things his small brain didn’t understand; but he understood perfectly well that he could kill most men in a matter of seconds with his hands. Not in a ring maybe, but an alley or barroom was different.
A bell jangled from below, and Amato said, “Well, here’s the old man. Go bring him up, Hammy.”
“Sure, Boss.”
Amato smiled faintly at Lye as they heard the slow, heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. “We should have had an oxygen tent handy,” he muttered.
The door opened and Jack Glencannon came into the room, blinking at the harsh overhead light.
“Take a seat,” Amato said, staring at the old man’s flushed face. “You don’t look so chipper.”
“The stairs get my wind these days,” Glencannon said, taking a deep breath. He sat down slowly and patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief.
“Relax a second,” Amato said, smiling coldly. “You’re no spring chicken any more. You should be soaking up the sun in Florida on a nice pension. Maybe it’s time to let somebody else run your local.”
The old man straightened his shoulders then and tried to put a suggestion of defiance into the thrust of his big jaw. But it was a futile effort. Everything about Glencannon was old and weary and beaten; the clothes hung loosely on his once-powerful frame, and there was a good inch of space between his collar and the withered skin of his throat. Networks of tiny blue veins had ruptured in his cheeks; he had been drinking heavily that night, and for many nights in the past, but he hadn’t numbed himself sufficiently for this showdown. There was a core of fear in him that the liquor hadn’t been able to dissolve.
“We need a frank talk, Amato,” he said, trying for a hearty tone. “We’ve needed it for a long time.” He hesitated then, conscious of Lye’s bright stare, and Amato’s supercilious smile. “I guess you know what I mean,” he said.
“You’re talking,” Amato said. “Keep going.”
“We don’t have to fight each other,” Glencannon said, smiling with obvious effort. “Some of your boys are pressuring the men in my local— I guess we both know that, Nick. And it’s got to stop.”
Amato didn’t answer him for a moment. Then he said gently, “You say it’s got to stop. Okay. You stop it, then.”
“It’s your men that need the stopping,” Glencannon said, standing and putting his hands on Amato’s desk for support. “I don’t hire the likes of your bums and hoodlums. You tell ’em to keep away from my local. It’s a clean place. The men are satisfied. They don’t want killers with guns telling ’em how to vote.”
“Killers?” Amato said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty strong word, old man.”
Glencannon stared at Amato, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence. “Frank Ragoni didn’t stab himself in the back and jump into the river,” he said.
“You’re talking real stupid,” Joe Lye said.
“Shut up,” Amato said casually. “You think we killed Ragoni?”
“He was told to get off the docks by your men,” Glencannon said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “He was told to stop talking about the elections. He got a last warning. Shut up or get killed. He didn’t shut up, and he got a knife in his back.”
Amato leaned forward, and his face settled into cold ugly lines. “Now listen to me, you washed-up old slob,” he said, softly and quietly. “You want your local, you fight for it. Elections are next month. The boys will make their choice. That’s all there is to it. I got nothing else to say to you.”
“Wait a minute, Nick. I didn’t come here to start a fight. This thing can be worked out peacefully.” Glencannon’s smile was a travesty; his lips were pulled back against his teeth but his eyes were bright with fear. “We’re on the same side, after all. We’re union men, Nick. How will it look for us to be squabbling? I—”
“I told you I had nothing more to say.” Amato stood up and stared with distaste at the old man’s trembling lips. “You’re a drunk and a slob and I’m tired of looking at you. Now beat it.”
Glencannon fought to say something, anything, but there were no words in his sick, tired old mind. Thirty years ago, he thought, remembering what he had once been, seeing again the man who could shout down a hall full of workers, and if necessary enforce his orders with rock-hard fists. He put a hand to his forehead and took an involuntary step backward, wanting nothing now but to get away from the contempt and anger in Amato’s eyes. “You didn’t understand me, Nick,” he said weakly.
“Take him home, Hammy,” Amato said.
“No. I’ll look after myself.”
“You need a nurse. Take him home, Hammy.”
When they had gone Amato shook his head and sat down at his desk. “He’d do himself a favor if he laid down and died,” he said.
“You handled him right,” Joe Lye said.
“Hell, a two-year-old baby could handle him,” Amato said. “But he used to be quite a boy. Years ago, that was. Well, turn out the lights. You can drive me home.”
“Look, Kay is waiting for me,” Lye said, and wet his lips. “I mean, she’s right downstairs.”
Amato was getting into his heavy black overcoat. He stopped, one arm in a sleeve, and looked blankly at Lye. “How come she’s here?” he said at last.
“She drove me down and I told her to wait,” Lye said. Anger ate at him like a corrosive acid. Amato was playing the puzzled peasant now, one of his most maddening roles. Everything would have to be spelled out for him in capitals. “You said to hurry,” he explained. “I thought I’d make better time if she drove me.”
“And she waited for you?”
“Well, I didn’t think we’d be long.”
“I see.” Amato nodded and finished putting on his coat. “You don’t want to drive me, is that it?”
“No. I’ll tell her to go on home.”
“It’s no trouble?” Amato was smiling slightly.
“Of course not.”
“Where does she live?”
“On the East Side. Near Park.” He knew damn well where she lived, Lye thought bitterly.
“Pretty fancy neighborhood,” Amato said shaking his head. “You’re flying high, Joe.”