He said, “Better stay in here a while. Jack is coming along with company.”
“Why didn’t he beat it home?” Lew demanded angrily.
“He was waiting for a chance. They outwaited him. Here they come.”
Lew stood still for a moment, then stepped slowly out into the corridor. The scuff of shoes on concrete was a hollow sound in the corridor. Another fifty feet and they would be out in the dark night.
Jack Terrance walked reluctantly. Clyde Sheniver held one arm. The two strange young men were hulking, soft, sullen. One walked on the other side of Jack, and one directly behind him. Jack’s face was pasty gray and he tried to smile at Lew, but his lips trembled and the smile died out quickly.
Lew said easily, “Come on in here a minute, Jack. Want to have a word with you.”
Sheniver said, in his jovial, big-toothed way, “Jack’s got a date with me, Lew. And then maybe later you and me, we could have a little talk. What do you say?”
Lew moved over in front of them. The corridor was narrow. He saw Jud Brock swallow hard, then move gallantly out to stand near him.
“I’d like to talk to you now, Jack,” Lew said.
“You better get out of the way,” Clyde Sheniver said. “We got a little talk about money coming up.”
“Let him keep the money and you take the kid,” Lew said, trying to sound reasonable.
“Thirty big bills for a kid you spoiled? He won’t fight again.”
“You’ve got to give me a little time,” Jack said in a low earnest confidential tone, smiling into Clyde’s face.
Lew saw that the big, sullen kid behind Jack stood very close to him — a bit too close. In the cold glare of the corridor lights, Lew could see the pin-point pupils, the granular look of the skin of the soft face. He managed to move a bit closer. As Sheniver started to speak, Lew reached out fast, grabbed the front of Jack’s suit, yanked him, spinning, away from the trio, to trip and fall somewhere behind him. The naked blade of the switchknife was exposed, the blade that had been held against the small of Jack’s thick back. The soft white face contorted and as the blade flickered up, Lew kicked him as hard and as quickly as he could, spun and smashed his swollen right hand into the face of the other one.
Jack was on his feet again, and making a thin whining sound. Sheniver had put his back against the corridor wall. His mouth worked. Lew looked down into his face and said, “No — not this time. You had the word: I told you I’d put up a fight. I—”
But Sheniver’s eyes had switched to a point down the corridor, and Lew heard Jud’s hoarse yell of alarm, Clyde’s shrill yell of protest, the hard slap of shoe leather against concrete. Then Jack’s shoulder hit him and spun him away and he heard an odd sound. He turned. The creature he had kicked was on one knee, empty hand extended in a follow-through after having thrown something. The face was as empty as the hand, and it was a nightmare emptiness, more vicious than any expression could be. Jack stood in the harsh lights, feet planted, the haft of the knife protruding incongruously from the white fabric of his shirt just above the waistline, between the unbuttoned suit jacket.
He had an odd, proud, laughing look. Clyde Sheniver cursed the knifethrower in a shrill panicky voice. Then Jack said, and his voice was like a voice from long ago, “How many times do I have to save your neck, you stupid box-fighter?” And the echoing clamor of police whistles drowned the rest of his words.
Just after three a.m. Ivy came down the hospital corridor to the waiting-room and Lew got up stiffly. She looked at him almost without recognition, then came over and stood in front of him.
“They... they said it shouldn’t have been enough to... cause death, but it was his heart. Too much weight, too many cigars, late nights, drinking. And they said nobody should have let him walk to the ambulance.”
“There was no stopping him. He was like a kid proud of a black eye.”
“Oh, Lew, I—”
“Easy, now. I’ll get you home.”
She looked up at him, a child’s solemnity in her level eyes. “I can’t cry.” She touched her throat. “All knots, Lew. Right here.”
She leaned forward and, like a tired child, pressed her forehead against his chin, eyes downcast. He put his big arm around her shoulders with great gentleness. He turned her slowly: then, shortening his stride to match hers, he walked her slowly out of the hospital to the car. The rainstorm had come at one o’clock. The stars were out again. The air had a washed smell, incredibly new and clean. He knew she had been wrong. Sometimes there was a second chance. Somebody had to buy your second chance for you. The price was dear, and only a fool would waste it.
