“Fair enough,” Retnick said.
“I suppose you don’t have any plans yet,” Neville said.
“Oh, yes,” Retnick said, staring at him. “I’m going to find out about Ragoni.”
A small silence settled in the room. Kleyburg shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Neville ran a hand slowly over his thinning brown hair. “That was rough,” he said. “I know you were friends.” He picked up a report from his desk, frowned at it for a second, and then offered it to Retnick. “That’s all we have so far,” he said.
Retnick skimmed through the detective’s report, picking out the important information quickly. Body of deceased had been observed by a barge captain, floating just under the surface of the river at Eighty-seventh Street. Identification had been made by wife of the deceased. Cause of death was listed as knife wounds.
“That’s all you’ve got, eh?” Retnick said, dropping the report on Neville’s desk.
“We just found his body last night.”
“You haven’t questioned Nick Amato, of course,” Retnick said gently.
“Why the ‘of course’? We’ll pick him up if there’s a reason to, Steve.”
“He’s moving in on Glencannon’s local,” Retnick said. “Ragoni was warned to stop lobbying against Amato and his hoodlums. Now Ragoni’s dead. I’d say this is a good time to pick up Nick Amato.”
“You don’t pick up Nick Amato with a case like that,” Neville said. “Now listen to me, Steve. I’m a cop, not a tea-leaf reader. And I’ve got to talk to you like a cop. You get in trouble with Amato and I won’t be able to help you out of it. Do you understand?”
“I’m not asking for help,” Retnick said.
Neville’s face was troubled. He came around the desk and put a hand on Retnick’s arm. “Don’t be so touchy,” he said. “Off the record, I’ll do what I can. And I think that goes for Kleyburg here and lots of other cops. But officially you’re an ex-cop and an ex-con. Those are two strikes against you, Steve. Keep that in mind.”
Retnick smiled coldly. “There’s not much chance of forgetting it. Take it easy, Lieutenant.”
“Now don’t barge off this way,” Neville said, tightening his grip on Retnick’s arm. “Calm down and listen to me. Will you do that?”
“I’ll listen,” Retnick said.
Neville sat on the edge of his desk and took out his pipe. “You’re thirty-three now, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve got a long life ahead of you. Don’t throw it away, Steve.”
“A long life,” Retnick said. “And what do I do with that nice long life?”
“You can start over, Steve.”
“The big bright dream,” Retnick said, staring at him with a bitter smile on his lips. “Work hard, make good. I did that once, remember? I worked my way through school, and earned eight major letters while I was doing it. I took the police exams when I was twenty-two, and was a third-grade detective eighteen months later. Working hard, making good. I’ve had enough of it. Let somebody else work hard and make good. I’ve got other plans.”
Neville was silent a moment, staring at his unlighted pipe. Then he said: “Do those plans include your wife?”
“No,” Retnick said. “They concern the guy who killed Joe Ventra.”
“Steve, you’re heading for trouble.”
Retnick started to say something, but changed his mind. He made a short, chopping gesture with his hand, and said, “Why waste each other’s time? Take it easy, Lieutenant.”
Kleyburg followed him down the stairs and caught up with him on the sidewalk. He blinked into the bright sunlight and said, “Steve, if you need anything, just yell. Remember that. Anything.”
Retnick said, “Is Ben McCabe still the super over at the North Star Lines?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That’s where Ragoni worked,” Retnick said. “It’s the last place he was seen alive. It’s a good place to ask a question or two.”
Kleyburg’s eyes were worried. “Watch yourself, boy.”
The North Star Lines terminal boomed with noise and commotion; two ships were loading that morning, and winches, trucks and men were straining against the inflexible pressure of time and tides. Retnick stopped before the checker’s office and here, at the mouth of the cavernous warehouse, the noise beat against him in waves.
A guard in a leather jacket stepped out of the office and looked at Retnick with close, sharp eyes.
“Is Ben McCabe around?” Retnick said.
“Yeah, but they got two ships working. He’s pretty busy. What’d you want to see him about?”
“Tell him Steve Retnick is looking for him.”
“Will that be enough?”
“Let’s try it,” Retnick said.
The guard shrugged and said, “You wait here.” He walked onto the pier and turned out of sight around a wall of cargo. In a minute or so he reappeared and said, “It’s okay, Retnick. You know the way?”
“I can find him,” Retnick said. The terminal was cold and drafty; above the whine of winches and rumble of trucks the wind sang through the superstructure of the ships, and swept refuse in frantic eddies along the thick planking of the floor. The air smelled of coffee and oil and the river. Retnick turned into an aisle formed by crates of cargo and went up a flight of steps to McCabe’s office, which overlooked the length of the pier. McCabe’s chief clerk, a thin, balding man with a shy smile said, “Well, Steve, it’s nice to see you again.”
His name was Sam Enright, Retnick remembered. They shook hands and Enright said, “Go right on in. The boss is expecting you.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
McCabe stood up when Retnick entered his office, a short, stockily built man in his fifties, with thick, gray hair and a bold, good-humored face. “I didn’t expect to see you for a couple of months,” he said, as they shook hands. “I thought you’d go off on a long fishing trip or something. You look fine though, like you’d been fishing instead—” He smiled apologetically and didn’t finish the sentence.
“Well, I was up the river anyway,” Retnick said.
McCabe smiled. “Sit down. What’s on your mind?”
“I want to find out about Ragoni.”
McCabe said slowly, “You know he’s dead, I guess.”
“I heard about it last night. That’s why I’m here.”
McCabe wasn’t smiling now; his manner was cautious. “You probably know as much as I do, Steve. Ragoni was last seen in the hold of the Santa Domingo, nine days ago around midnight. He went on deck and didn’t come back. The crew thought he’d gone home.” He hesitated and shrugged. “The next day we learned that he hadn’t gone home. Last night we learned that he’d been murdered. It’s a police matter from now on.”
“How about the accident a couple of weeks ago?” Retnick said, casually. “Was someone trying to get Ragoni then?”
McCabe’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who told about an accident?”
“I spent my first afternoon out of jail at Ragoni’s home,” Retnick said. “His wife told me about the accident.”
“Well, there was an accident, as you obviously know,” McCabe said. “We investigated it thoroughly. It was a mix-up in orders. The winchman lowered a draft while Ragoni was on the loading platform. Fortunately, he saw it coming and got clear.”
“Did you notify the police?”
“That isn’t customary, as you know.” McCabe’s manner was cold and sharp. There were spots of color in his cheeks.
“You know Amato’s moving onto your pier, don’t you?” Retnick said.
McCabe stood up abruptly and said, “That’s a matter I won’t discuss.”
“Which means the answer is yes,” Retnick said.
“Neither yes or no,” McCabe said, coming around his desk. “We’re shippers. We’re not philosophers of labor, and we aren’t police officers. We work with what the unions give us. I wish the public understood that. Union squabbles aren’t our concern.”