“Well, it’s her place, not mine.”
Amato smiled cynically. “What does she pay the bills with? She ain’t been in a show in ten years. How old is she anyway?”
Lye felt his mouth tightening. Turning away from Amato he said, “She’s thirty-five.”
Amato laughed and strolled to the door. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, let’s go.”
Lye went downstairs ahead of him, his footsteps clattering noisily through the silent building, and Amato smiled as he snapped off the lights. The smile lingered on his lips as he went slowly down to the first floor.
Moving with short jerky strides, Lye crossed the street to the gray convertible that was parked in the darkness opposite union headquarters. He rapped his knuckles against the window and the girl at the wheel rolled the glass down quickly.
“What is it, Joe?” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing the matter,” he said in a low tense voice. “Does there have to be something the matter? You always act like the world’s about to blow up in your face.”
“Joe,” she said pleadingly.
“I got to drive him home,” he said. “I’ll be up later.”
“Sure, Joe.” She was a pretty blonde woman, expensively cared for, but her eyes were miserable with fear. “Don’t get excited,” she said, and touched his hand gently. “Is he riding you again?”
“I got to take him home, that’s all,” he said, spacing the words deliberately and coldly. “Why do you make a Federal case out of everything?”
“I know what he does to you,” she said.
“Will you stop it?”
“All right, Joe. But hurry.”
“I’ll make it as soon as I can.”
Amato stood in the darkness across the street, listening to the murmur of their conversation. He saw the small pale blur of her face, and the pearls gleaming at her throat. Kay Johnson, he thought, turning the name slowly in his mind. He had seen her in a movie once, back in the late thirties.
She wasn’t a very good actress, but she was damn good-looking, one of those long-legged, pink-and-white college-kid types, full of healthy sex and bounce. Amato had met her a couple of times with Joe, but always briefly. She was thin and elegant now, with a shining blonde hair-do, and very classy clothes. Nice for Joe, he thought. Too nice for Joe.
The engine turned over, filling the dark silence with the sound of power, and Joe Lye crossed the street and joined Amato on the sidewalk. When the car was halfway down the block, Amato said abruptly, “I’ll take myself home.”
Lye turned and stared after the red tail lights of her car.
“You can’t catch her,” Amato said irritably. “Get a cab.”
“Sure,” Lye said. He was breathing hard, but his anger was dissolving in relief and anticipation. “You sure you’re okay?”
“For Christ’s sake, yes.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Amato put his hands in his pockets and watched Lye hurrying off into the darkness, his thin black figure moving in a jerky, puppet’s rhythm. In a sour and bitter mood, Amato finally turned and walked down the block to his sedan. With a conscious effort he tried not to think of the home he was going to, the cluttered, close-smelling apartment with its profusion of holy pictures and expensive, tasteless furniture. He shook his head quickly, as if trying to dislodge a disagreeable memory. Money meant nothing to his wife. If he gave her a hundred dollars she’d buy something for their nephew, or drop it in the poor box. Nothing for herself but a black dress that looked just like every other black dress she’d bought in the last twenty years. Amato slid behind the wheel of his car and made an attempt to change the direction of his thoughts. He didn’t want to be envious of Joe Lye. That could mean trouble.
4
At seven o’clock Retnick left his room and walked to a restaurant on the avenue for breakfast. The day was cold and beautiful; clean winter sunlight sparkled on the snow in the gutters and brightened the faces of the old brownstones. When he returned Mrs. Cara was waiting for him in the hall.
“There’s a telephone call for you,” she said. “The woman says she’s your wife.”
Retnick hesitated and Mrs. Cara watched his dark hard face with frank curiosity. “Okay,” he said at last.
“And how was the cat?” Mrs. Cara said, catching his arm. “No trouble, eh?”
“No, not a bit.”
“See? I told you,” she smiled.
Retnick said, “That’s right,” and walked down the hall to the telephone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Steve — I saw the story on Frank,” she said quietly. “I’m terribly sorry. I know what you meant to each other.”
“Sure,” he said. Then: “Where did you get this number?”
“From Lieutenant Neville. Steve, I want to go out to see Mrs. Ragoni this afternoon.” She hesitated, then said tentatively, “Would you come with me?”
“I’m going to be busy,” he said.
“Please, Steve, I want to talk to you. Last night was so terribly wrong.”
“What do you want to talk about?” he said.
“Steve, Steve,” she cried softly, and he knew that she was weeping. “Don’t throw everything away. Won’t you let me see you this morning?”
He hesitated, frowning at the phone. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll stop by Tim Moran’s saloon around ten. Can you make that?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Retnick put the phone down, irritated with himself. He didn’t want to see her, not for any reason.
Twenty minutes later Retnick walked into a sturdy, red-brick station house on the West Side of the city. Nothing important had been changed, he noticed, as he stopped at the high wooden information desk. A new painting of the flag hung above the switchboard where a sergeant worked in contact with the district’s squads and patrolmen. But everything else looked the same.
“Is Lieutenant Neville in?” he asked the lieutenant behind the desk.
“He’s upstairs in the Detective division. Take the stairs at the end of the hall.”
Sergeant Kleyburg was sitting alone in the long file room, frowning at a bulky report on his desk. When Retnick stopped at the counter that divided the office, Kleyburg glanced up and removed the horn-rimmed glasses from his broad, impassive face. Then he said, “I’ll be damned,” in a hoarse, surprised voice. He crossed the room, grinning, and pushed open the gate at the end of the counter. “Come in, boy,” he said.
They shook hands and Retnick glanced around at the familiar dusty furniture, the height chart, the bank of gray steel filing cabinets, the bulletin board with its cluster of yellowing flyers.
“It hasn’t changed much,” he said, looking at Kleyburg.
“You haven’t either,” Kleyburg said, punching him lightly on the arm. “You look great.”
“I feel great,” Retnick said.
Kleyburg nodded slowly, his eyes grave and hard. “I can imagine, Steve. You took a lousy rap.”
“You should have been on the jury,” Retnick said. “Is the lieutenant busy?”
“Hell, no. You want to see him alone?”
“It doesn’t matter. But one thing first. Do you have a detective here named Connors?”
“He’s on my shift.”
“Does he work for anyone else?”
Kleyburg shrugged. “I couldn’t prove it. That answer your question?”
“Yeah,” Retnick said. “He’s real smart, eh?”
Kleyburg shrugged again. “We get smart ones occasionally. You know that. They don’t last long. Let’s go see the boss.”
Lieutenant Neville, a slim man with an air of competence about him, looked up from his desk when they opened the door of the office. “Well, well,” he said, standing and grinning at Retnick. “You should have given us a little warning. We could have had drinks and dancing girls. How the devil are you, Steve?”