The old man was lying dead in his seat, his neck broken neatly by a single blow. The night book was untouched, so his deadly visitor had only faked a signing. I tore the last page out, made sure I was unobserved and walked out the door. Someplace near Eighth Avenue I ripped up the page and fed the pieces into the gutter, the filthy trickle of rainwater swirling them into the sewer at the corner.
I waited until a cab came along showing its top light, whistled it over and told the driver where to take me. He hit the flag, pulled away from the curb and loafed his way down to the docks until he found the right place. He took his buck with another silent nod and left me there in front of Benny Joe Grissi's bar where you could get a program for all the trouble shows if you wanted one or a kill arranged or a broad made or anything at all you wanted just so long as you could get in the place.
But best of all, if there was anything you wanted to know about the stretch from the Battery to Grant's Tomb that constitutes New York's harbor facilities on either side of the river, or the associated unions from the NMU to the Teamsters, or wanted a name passed around the world, you could do it here. There was a place like it in London and Paris and Casablanca and Mexico City and Hong Kong and, if you looked hard enough, a smaller, more modified version would be in every city in the world. You just had to know where to look. And this was my town.
At the table near the door the two guys scrutinizing the customers made their polite sign which meant stay out. Then the little one got up rather tiredly and came over and said, "We're closing, buddy. No more customers."
When I didn't say anything he looked at my face and threw a finger toward his partner. The other guy was real big, his face suddenly ugly for having been disturbed. We got eye to eye and for a second he followed the plan and said, "No trouble, pal. We don't want trouble."
"Me either, kid."
"So blow."
I grinned at him, teeth all the way. "Scram."
My hand hit his chest as he swung and he went on his can swinging like an idiot. The little guy came in low, thinking he was pulling a good one, and I kicked his face all out of shape with one swipe and left him whimpering against the wall.
The whole bar had, turned around by then, all talk ended. You could see the excitement in their faces, the way they all thought it was funny because somebody had nearly jumped the moat--but not quite. They were waiting to see the rest, like when the big guy got up off the floor and earned his keep and the big guy was looking forward to it too.
Out of the sudden quiet somebody said, "Ten to one on Sugar Boy," and, just as quietly, another one said, "You're on for five."
Again it was slow motion, the bar looking down at the funny little man at the end, wizened and dirty, but liking the odds, regardless of the company. Somebody laughed and said, "Pepper knows something."
"That I do," the funny little man said.
But by then the guy had eased up to his feet, his face showing how much he liked the whole deal, and just for the hell of it he let me have the first swing.
I didn't hurt him. He let me know it and came in like I knew he would and I was back in that old world since seven years ago, tasting floor dirt and gagging on it, feeling my guts fly apart and the wild wrenching of bones sagging under even greater bones and while they laughed and yelled at the bar, the guy slowly killed me until the little bit of light was there like I knew that would be too and I gave him the foot in the crotch and, as if the world had collapsed on his shoulders, he crumpled into a vomiting heap, eyes bulging, hating, waiting for the moment of incredible belly pain to pass, and when it did, reached for his belt and pulled out a foot-long knife and it was all over, all over for everybody because I reached too and no blade argues with that great big bastard of a .45 that makes the big boom so many times, and when he took one look at my face his eyes bulged again, said he was sorry, Mac, and to deal him out, I was the wrong guy, he knew it and don't let the boom go off. He was close for a second and knew it, then I put the gun back without letting the hammer down, stepped on the blade and broke it and told him to get up.
The funny little guy at the bar said, "That's fifty I got coming."
The one who made the bet said, "I told you Pepper knew something."
The big guy got up and said, "No offense, Mac, it's my job."
The owner came over and said, "Like in the old days, hey Mike?"
I said, "You ought to clue your help, Benny Joe."
"They need training."
"Not from me."
"You did lousy tonight. I thought Sugar Boy had you."
"Not when I got a rod."
"So who knew? All this time you go clean? I hear even Gary Moss cleaned you one night. You, even. Old, Mike."
Around the bar the eyes were staring at me curiously, wondering. "They don't know me, Benny Joe."
The little fat man shrugged. "Who would? You got skinny. Now how about taking off."
"Not you, Benny Joe," I said, "Don't tell me you're pushing too."
"Sure. Tough guys I got all the time. Old tough guys I don't want. They always got to prove something. So with you I call the cops and you go down. So blow, okay?"
I hadn't even been looking at him while he talked, but now I took the time to turn around and see the little fat man, a guy I had known for fifteen years, a guy who should have known better, a guy who was on the make since he began breathing but a guy who had to learn the hard way.
So I looked at him, slow, easy, and in his face I could see my own face and I said, "How would you like to get deballed, Benny Joe? You got nobody to stop me. You want to sing tenor for that crib you have keeping house for you?"
Benny Joe almost did what he started out to do. The game was supposed to have ended in the Old West, the making of a reputation by one man taking down a big man. He almost took the .25 out, then he went back to being Benny Joe again and he was caught up in something too big for him. I picked the .25 out of his fingers, emptied it, handed it back and told him, "Don't die without cause, Benny Joe."
The funny little guy at the bar with the new fifty said, "You don't remember me, do you, Mike?"
I shook my head.
"Ten, fifteen years ago--the fire at Carrigan's?" Again, I shook my head.
"I was a, newspaperman then. Bayliss Henry of the Telegram. Pepper, they call me now. You had that gunfight with Cortez Johnson and his crazy bunch from Red Hook."
"That was long ago, feller."
"Papers said it was your first case. You had an assignment from Aliet Insurance."
"Yeah," I told him, "I remember the fire. Now I remember you too. I never did get to say thanks. I got through the whole damn war without a scratch and get hit in a lousy heist and almost burn to death. So thanks!"
"My pleasure, Mike. You, got me a scoop bonus."
"Now what's new?"
"Hell, after what guys like us saw, what else could be new?"
I drank my beer and didn't say anything.
Bayliss Henry grinned and asked, "What's with you?"
"What?" I tried to sound pretty bored.
It didn't take with him at all. "Come on, Big Mike. You've always been my favorite news story. Even when, I don't write, I follow the columns. Now you just don't come busting in this place anymore without a reason. How long were you a bum, Mike?"
"Seven years."
"Seven years ago you never would have put a gun on Sugar Boy."
"I didn't need it then."
"Now you need it?"
"Now I need it," I repeated.
Bayliss took a quick glance around. "You got no ticket for that rod, Mike."
I laughed, and my face froze him. "Neither had Capone. Was he worried?"