“Take your hand off that gun.” Duke’s voice was an angry, insistent whisper. “It’s probably a friend of my brother’s. I’ll handle this.”
Grant swallowed the dry constriction in his throat. The yellow, old-parchment color had faded from his face; in the morning light his skin was a dirty gray. “See who it is,” he said hoarsely.
There was a second knock on the door as Duke limped across the room. “Coming,” he called.
He pulled open the door and the smile stiffened on his face as he stared at the slender sandy-haired young man who stood on the porch. For a few seconds the two men stared at each other in a tense, unnatural silence; they were both smiling, but there was no humor in their watchful, appraising eyes. Then Duke laughed suddenly and boisterously and slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Talk about surprises. Come on in, kid.”
Turning his head he looked at Grant, who was moving slowly across the floor, one hand deep in the pocket of his suit coat. “Eddie, how about this!” he said. Duke’s voice was big and hearty, but his eyes were alive with dark and unmistakable warning. Laughing, he said, “Eddie, meet my kid brother!”
Four
Hank Farrel glanced past his brother, and nodded to the powerfully built man who was moving slowly toward them with a hand buried deep in his pocket, and no expression at all on his broad, pale face. This would be Eddie Grant, he thought. Duke had written that he wanted to bring Grant and his family up for a week or so. Grant and Duke were going into business together, and they needed to thrash out all the details in peace and quiet. Fine, Hank thought. Grant looked as if he could stand a little peace and quiet.
And then, as his brother closed the door behind him, Hank became aware of the tension in the room. It hit him so abruptly that he felt the smile tighten awkwardly on his lips. Gram and his brother were staring at each other like fighters waiting for the gong to sound.
“You told me he was going fishing,” Grant said in a hard, bitter voice.
Duke smiled carelessly. “Maybe I got it mixed up,” he said. “No harm done, eh, Eddie?”
Hank felt the edge of warning in his brother’s voice. And then he saw that Grant was holding a gun in his pocket; the muzzle made a round, unmistakable bulge against the cloth of the jacket.
Hank’s arms moved out from his body, an instinctive preparation for trouble. Grant glanced at him, and Hank realized he was behaving foolishly; this trouble didn’t concern him. It was between Duke and Grant. Maybe he’d walked in on an argument.
Hank took out his cigarettes and moved between the two men, trying to ignore the tension in the room. But this wasn’t easy; the gun in Grant’s hand was now pointed squarely at his own stomach. “The plane we chartered developed engine trouble,” he said. “We had to postpone our trip, so I thought I’d drive over and say hello.”
“Postponed your trip?” Grant’s eyes were hard and cold. “For how long?”
“Just a few hours,” Hank said. He offered his cigarettes to Grant, making an effort to reduce the curious strain with this commonplace gesture. But Grant shook his head, and continued to study him suspiciously. What are they afraid of? Hank thought. And with that came a fear he hadn’t felt for a long, long time: what was his brother mixed up in now? “You found the rum, I hope,” he said, glancing at Duke.
“Sure, we found it,” Duke said heartily; his manner was suddenly effusive and cordial. “Eddie and I started working on it, too, don’t worry.” Laughing he put his hands on Hank’s shoulders, and looked him up and down, grinning in what seemed to be pleased and genuine astonishment. “Kid, this is great. It calls for a drink all around. How the hell long has it been? Five years, eh?”
“Almost eight,” Hank said.
“Ye gods! That long! Eddie, I haven’t seen this kid brother of mine for eight years.”
The tension in the room had eased, Hank saw; Grant’s hand had come out of his pocket, and Duke had switched over to a favorite role, the boisterous, high-spirited, life-of-the-party.
Grant put out his big square hand, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Hank.” He was smiling, but the effort did nothing but tighten the network of wrinkles around his curiously pale eyes. “It was nice of you to let us use your place for our confab.”
Duke put an arm around Hank’s shoulder and hugged him roughly. “Did you think he’d tell me to get lost when I needed a favor?” He grinned at Grant. “We Farrels stick together. Right, kid?”
“Sure,” Hank said shortly. He didn’t like the feel of his brother’s arm on his shoulders. And he didn’t like the unctuous good humor they were exuding now; in its way this was more ominous than the fear and tension of a moment ago. What were they covering up?
Duke let his hands drop to his sides, and Hank saw the change in his smile, the hardening around his eyes and mouth. Duke had sensed his coldness, he knew. This was a gift of his brother’s, a shrewd, intuitive awareness of what people were feeling and thinking. Particularly if they were trying to hide anything; he had an instinctive flair for fear and guilt. Smiling at Grant, Duke said, “Hank and I had our troubles, but we kept them in the family. Sometimes I had to teach him a little respect for his big brother.” He rapped his knuckles lightly against Hank’s stomach. “You remember those little lessons, eh, kid?”
“I learned a lot from you,” Hank said slowly.
“And now you’re all grown up,” Duke said. Studying his brother, Duke’s smile was tentative, faintly challenging. “Let’s see, you’re twenty-eight, eh? And you’ve been off to the wars. I read that you got some kind of a decoration. It was in the home-town paper, right on the front page with a picture of you and everything. That was something, having you turn out to be a hero.”
He sighed and slapped his bad leg. “The doctors just told me to go home and buy war bonds.”
Hank realized with relief that Duke’s self-pity didn’t touch him at all; in fact it struck him as slightly comical. “How many did you buy?” he said casually.
For an instant Duke looked startled. Then he recovered and punched Hank on the arm. “Hey, they turned you into a humorist.”
Hank smiled at him, savoring the awareness of his own freedom. The old slavery was over and done with. He knew that now. He could face Duke without fear or shame, without the guilty sense of responsibility that had oppressed him all his life. The eight years on his own had cut the bonds that held him to his brother. He had been sure it would be this way: he had felt free of Duke. But he’d been compelled to put it to the test. That was why he had driven back here tonight...
Duke was a stranger to him now, he thought, studying the bold, heavy features, the cold eyes recessed under a jutting ridge of forehead. A guy who’d thrown away his chances, who had drank or fought his way out of every job he’d had, and who blamed the world for all his troubles. He doesn’t mean a thing to me any more. Even the bad leg meant nothing. I ruined that leg, and it doesn’t bother me at all, he thought. Hank realized that he had never seen Duke clearly until this instant. The image of his brother had always been distorted by fear and guilt. But now the picture was sharply and vividly in focus. A bully, a liar... Was this what I feared? he thought, with a touch of bitterness.
He was surprised at his lack of feeling. There was no pity left in him, no mercy, nothing. It was all gone, paid out in blackmail to Duke over the years. In hourly installments...
“Well, let’s have that drink,” Grant said, directing the impatience in his voice at Duke. “Your brother’s got to be on his way, I guess.”
Hank glanced at his watch as Duke limped into the kitchen. “Yes, I don’t have much time,” he said, moving toward the fireplace. Why were they so anxious to get rid of him? “This feels pretty good,” he said, stripping off his jacket and holding out his hands to the welcome heat. And why was Grant carrying a gun?