Читать книгу Glory Boys - Harry Bingham - Страница 34

One Friday afternoon, Willard had had business with the bank’s archive on the twentieth floor. He’d deposited one file, collected another and was just about to leave, when he happened to see Leo McVeigh and Charlie Hughes through the glass-paned door. McVeigh had Hughes pushed up against the wall. Hughes was white, obviously terrified. McVeigh was standing too close, speaking intently, his big hands half-curled into fists.

Willard stared for a second, then banged the door open. McVeigh stepped back. Charlie Hughes put his hand to his face, checked his tie, began muttering nervous hellos. Willard already loathed McVeigh and was angry enough to welcome a confrontation.

‘Hello, McVeigh,’ he said icily, before turning to Hughes. ‘You all right, old chap? You’re looking rather blue.’

‘I’m fine, honestly, Will, please don’t worry.’

‘I do worry. You’re not looking at all well.’

‘Spot of tummy trouble. Maybe something I ate. I’ll be OK.’

‘Have you drunk some water?’

‘Water?’ Hughes repeated the word as though unfamiliar with the substance.

‘Water. You ought to drink something. Maybe go home and lie down.’

Hughes caught McVeigh with his eyes. He’s asking that bastard for permission, thought Willard angrily. McVeigh nodded slightly and stepped away.

‘Yes, good idea,’ said Hughes. ‘I’ll drink something. That should help.’

He made no move to come with Willard, as though still spellbound by McVeigh’s presence. The big one-time football player stood a pace or two back, kneading his hands and breathing silently through his mouth.

‘Good. I’ll walk you to the bathroom,’ said Willard firmly. He put a hand on Hughes’ shoulder and steered him away. In a deliberately loud voice – loud enough that McVeigh would be sure to hear it – he said, ‘You always feel free to come to me if you need help, anything at all.’

‘Yes, of course, thanks, Will-o.’

Feeling distaste for the man he’d just rescued, Willard turned and stared McVeigh straight in the face. For a second or two, their gazes locked. Hostility flickered in the air. Then Willard, pulling some of his Hollywood moves, curled his lip, turned on his heel, and stalked off.

Speaking about it later with Larry Ronson, Willard said, ‘I’d swear he was threatening Hughes. The poor chap looked white as a sheet.’

Ronson was sympathetic. ‘He’s an ugly sort, McVeigh. He’s never even attempted to join in with things. I mean, at least Hughes tries.’

‘Yes… Look, you probably think I’m being absurd, but you don’t think … Look, I don’t even know what I think, but have you ever wondered if there’s anything strange going on at times? You remember that business with the Orthodox Synagogues?’

‘Irish rabbis. That’d be something.’

‘McVeigh threatened me in the elevator. Told me not to ask questions.’

‘He did? He did that? Jesus! Have you told anyone else?’

‘No. I’m not quite sure who I would tell.’

‘There’s Grainger, I suppose. Or Barker.’

‘Yes, but what if they’re in on it too?’

‘In on what?’

‘I’ve no idea. None at all.’

‘Look, you know Powell a little, don’t you? Or at least your pa does?’

‘Father and Powell are Yacht Club buddies, that sort of thing. Trouble is, I don’t really know the man and, in any event, I wouldn’t know what to say.’

Ronson looked at his watch. It was four thirty-five. ‘I trust you’re intending to keep New York’s bootlegging community in proper employment tonight?’

‘Love to, but I’m bursting to get out of the city, to tell the truth. Take a weekend in the country.’

‘The delights of Martha’s Vineyard, eh? Lucky dog.’

Willard smiled. His father owned a thumping big estate facing south over the ocean. What was more, Willard’s four sisters were all going to be there this weekend, with girlfriends in tow. Willard had enjoyed happy hunting with his sisters’ friends in the past, and could think of nothing more welcome in the present. Willard stared at his desk and its cargo of detested manila files.

‘To hell with it,’ he said, feelingly. ‘To hell with everything. If Messrs Grainger, Barker, McVeigh or Powell want me, please tell them to go to hell too.’

Grabbing coat, hat and briefcase, Willard strode for the door.