Читать книгу Dig My Grave Deep - Peter Rabe - Страница 6

WHEN he left the building it was getting dark and the same overcast lay everywhere. Port gave himself time to rest and to look at the street. Then he saw the girl again. She was coming the other way, on his side of the street, and she was wearing a different outfit of white nylon, buttoned down the front and very antiseptic-looking, like a nurse’s uniform. But he was sure she wasn’t a nurse. Her legs were bare and over one breast she wore a red carnation. Her skin was dark and her thick hair shiny black, making the red flower more vivid and the nylon more white. As she came closer she looked at him standing by the steps, but without special interest. She still didn’t look away when she came past.

Port said, “Pardon me. You got the time?”

She said, “Close to six,” and walked by without breaking her pace.

“Wait.”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“I— You know, I saw you before, across the street.”

“I know,” she said. “I saw you go in here.”

He walked up to her, smiling, but didn’t know of anything else to say. He looked at her. He looked at her feet, then up, and stopped at her face. He didn’t care what she thought. He smiled again and she must have misunderstood.

“No,” she said, turned around and walked down the street without looking back.

After a moment Port turned the other way and walked steadily for a while, careful not to jar the aches in his body. By the time he had left the slums he was going faster. His mouth looked thinner, and hardly moved when he started to whistle.

The Lee building was closed when Port got there, but he rapped on the glass door and waited for the night man to show up. He came across the wide lobby, squinting to see the entrance. When he saw it was Port he got out his keys and unlocked the door.

“Evening, Mr. Port.” He held the door open. “You lose your key, Mr. Port?”

“Is Stoker still in?”

“He’s there. He said he wouldn’t be leaving till nine or so, he and Mr. Fries. I think they . . .”

“Take me up, will you?”

“Sure, Mr. Port.”

All the way up the night man wanted to say more but Port didn’t encourage him. Port left the elevator on the tenth floor.

Stoker’s door said Civic Services, Inc. The frosted glass showed a light. Port walked into the reception room, then through the big one with the desks and typewriters, and down the corridor with the doors to the private offices. One of them opened and Fries came out. He stopped short and stared.

“Where’s Stoker?” said Port.

Fries didn’t answer, but the frown came back to his face, and he turned and ran down the length of the corridor. He opened a door and before Port could get there he heard Fries talking to Stoker.

Port walked in. Stoker got up from behind his desk and Fries stood by, one hand working the back of a chair.

“What’s the matter?” Port looked from one to the other.

For a moment nobody answered. The only change was the flushing color in Stoker’s face. He leaned over his desk, looking straight at Port, and his breath was noisy.

“You son of a bitch!” he said.

Port stood for a moment and then took a step toward the desk.

“Sit down,” said Fries. He hit the back legs of the chair on the floor and stood by, waiting for Port. “I said, sit.”

Port saw Fries’s hand come out of the pocket, holding a blackjack, and he walked up to the chair. He kicked it hard, making it fly into Fries’s shins. Fries doubled over, sweating, and Port went up to the desk.

“Everybody nuts in this place? Since when does that creep go around telling me things?” he demanded.

Stoker sat down without answering. He looked over at Fries, who was straightening up painfully, and when Fries started for the desk Stoker said, “Go outside. Call Abe and his sidekick up here. They’re down in the garage. And then wait outside.”

“But if Port . . .” Fries started.

“He won’t,” said Stoker.

Fries left and Stoker waved at the chair.

“Go ahead, Port. Sit down.”

Port sat down.

“I’m really interested,” said Stoker. “So help me, I don’t know why you came here.”

“How could you. That’s why I . . .”

“Shut up.”

Port frowned but didn’t say anything.

“Now, I admit I’ve been wrong before, like thinking you were a friend when you’re nothing but a son of a bitch—”

“Stop calling me that,” said Port.

“Wait till I’m through, Port. Just wait till I’m through.”

Port let it go and sat back to listen. He knew that Stoker had to run himself out. He didn’t get this way very often. He was long-winded only when he was too excited and wanted to calm down before finishing up.

“Come to think of it, now, I do know why you’re back. What you did was just the beginning, and of course you and I know you got plenty more. So here you’re back to let your old pal know . . .”

“Stoker, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stoker stared across the desk. He frowned and rubbed the loose skin under his face. “So help me,” he said. “So help me if you don’t sound like you meant it.” Stoker put his right hand on top of the desk and put down his gun. Then he reached into a drawer, drew out a paper, and threw it on top of the desk. It came open, front up.

“Read it,” said Stoker. “Unless you already know all about it.”

Port picked it up.

STOKER MOB BLOCK SLUM CLEARANCE

The slum clearance project, long on the docket of our City Planning Board without receiving the urgent attention which it deserves, has long been stalled by machinations of the Stoker machine. Stoker controls Ward Nine, comprising the major area of substandard housing, and slum clearance and relocation of the Stoker machine vote victims would wipe out Ward Nine as a political tool. Is it therefore any wonder—and we give you proof positive, with names, dates, and reasons—why Boss Hoodlum Stoker and his Grand Vizier Port have tried at any price, and to the detriment of the unfortunates forced to dwell in the slums, and to the total detriment of our city, have threatened and bribed slum clearance into an all but dead stall. Planning Board members Erzberg, Cummins, Utescu, threatened by Daniel Port. Members Toms, and Vancoon, bribed with one hundred dollars in cash plus personal gifts and one hundred and fifteen dollars in cash and personal gifts. The bribes were arranged by Daniel Port and executed at his direction. And all this in our city! Now it has long been the aim of your Reform Party, etc., etc.

Port tossed the paper back on the desk and lit himself a cigarette. When he looked up again Stoker sat waiting. Port exhaled.

“This is news?”

“News! Now it’s the truth, you jackass. It’s been printed!”

“Don’t yell, Stoker. You can’t afford . . .”

“If I drop dead I’m going to lay this thing out for you. You walk out, you walk off with three guys we don’t know, you get lost all afternoon, next this mess of an Extra with names, dates, and prices, and on top of that—and on top of that you got the gall to come in here and . . .”

“Who saw me? Fries?”

“Somebody he sent.”

“Did your bird dog . . .”

“Fries had the idea. Until now I didn’t think it was necessary to have a friend of mine shadowed.”

“Did the bird dog also report that I got slugged?”

“That you made a good show of it.”

“I could show you my wound,” said Port. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray, which kept him from seeing how Stoker meant to react. When Port looked up again Stoker was leaning back in his chair, rigid with pain. He tried to breathe carefully, and his face was suffused with blood. Port jumped up, got the pills out of Stoker’s vest pocket, and dropped them on the man’s tongue. They were still lying there when Port put the glass of water up to the mouth and poured.

After a while Stoker came around. He didn’t look at Port, but wiped the cold sweat off his face.

“That was a bad one,” said Port.

“Closer.” Stoker’s voice was strained. “Each time closer and closer.”

Port frowned, then turned away. He went to the window and lit himself another cigarette. “Danny,” said Stoker. Port turned.

“Danny,” said Stoker.

Port turned.

“Danny. What can I believe?”

“You could believe me,” said Port.

“You were walking out.”

“I told you that months ago. I don’t lie.”

Stoker just nodded.

“And I’m still leaving.”

“Then why did you come here?”

Port shrugged, getting impatient.

“I thought I had news for you.”

“What was it?”

“It isn’t news any more.” He flipped one finger at the paper on top of the desk. “I got picked up and they told me they were going to spring something like this.”

“Bellamy?”

“Not himself. He’s too reformed for that.”

“What did he want?”

“Me.”

Stoker sat without talking, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he said, “You know why, don’t you, Danny?”

“Because I was leaving.”

“And you know why he sprang this dirt in the papers.”

“There’s nothing in that sheet that Bellamy didn’t know months ago.”

“True,” said Stoker. He put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “He timed it, Danny. He sprang it when it would hurt most—when you were leaving.”

Port didn’t answer. Instead he started to whistle. He sat down in the chair and got up again, and then Stoker went on.

“You still think you can walk out and nothing will happen?” Stoker sounded really tired now, and he kept plopping his hands together in a listless manner. “If I say, Danny, go ahead and pack up, you think that’s enough? You know that isn’t enough. You’re taking too much with you. Sit down, Danny.”

Port sat down. He wished he had left earlier, some other way, maybe, and he wished he had never told anyone about it. But it was too late now. And Stoker being his friend couldn’t make any difference.

“Listen, Danny, how long we been together?”

“What do you want, Max?”

“Didn’t I treat you right, Danny? You weren’t so much, you know, when I picked you up after the war.”

“I know. Lots of stuff but no application.”

“But you learned. And now what are you doing? You’re throwing it all down the drain. You don’t make enough, maybe? Or you think this setup is too local or something?”

“I make enough, Max.”

“So what is it?”

Port held his breath and looked out the window. It was dark outside. He thought that if Stoker didn’t know by now, there was no use going into it again.

“Tell me again, Danny.”

“I want out, that’s all.” Port tried to hold his temper, but it didn’t work. “I want out because I learned all there was: there’s a deal, and a deal to match that one, and the next day the same thing and the same faces and you spit at one guy and tip your hat to another, because one belongs here and the other one over there, and, hell, don’t upset the organization whatever you do, because we all got to stick together so we don’t get the shaft from some unexpected source. Right, Max? Hang together because it’s too scary to hang alone. Well? Did I say something new? Something I didn’t tell you before?”

“Nothing new.” Stoker ran one hand over his face. “I knew this before you came along.” He looked at the window and said, “That’s why I’m here till I kick off.”

The only sound was Stoker’s careful breathing and Port’s careful shifting of his feet. Then Port said, “Not for me.”

It changed the mood in the room, as if Port didn’t want to talk any more and had said all there was. Only Stoker didn’t leave it that way.

“What else, Danny?”

“Nothing.”

“It happened too sudden, your losing interest.”

They both knew what Stoker was talking about, but Port didn’t want to go into it. He was suddenly angry. He didn’t say anything.

“When your kid brother got it is when you lost interest, isn’t it?”

Port got up and went to the window, then back to the desk. He tried to talk very quietly.

“Bób got killed working for you. You sent him out to fix up that policy trouble with Welman. For a talk—just to talk with Welman. Maybe that’s all you thought it was going to be, but you also knew that there might be trouble. You knew Welman for a nut with a gun, and that my brother had more temper than brains. And you sent him out there.”

“Blaming me—” Stoker started, but Port wasn’t listening.

“I didn’t want him to go! I didn’t even want that kid hanging around you!”

Port took a breath and stared at the dark window.

“Blame you?” he said. “I don’t know. I don’t know whom to blame.”

“Now you listen to me.” Stoker put his elbows on the desk and rubbed both hands over his face. When he looked up again he nodded at Port. “You don’t know whom to blame, but I know whom you’re blaming. I’m going to . . .”

Port made an impatient gesture but Stoker didn’t let him talk.

“I’m not done. I know you’re going to ask what this has to do with your staying or leaving, so I’m telling you. Listen. I picked you up broke in New York, broke because you were wet-nursing that brother you had. The kid gets out of the army and falls in with bad companions and you to the rescue. He loses his roll. He gambles himself red, white and blue in the face and you stake him to a comeback.” Stoker sat back and laughed. “All through the war, did you see him, did you nurse him along? No. He’s in the Pacific and you in the ETO. Does he get along without you all that time? Sure he does; never a scratch. But you meet up in New York, you take care of him, and you both end up in the gutter. Right? Answer me!”

“Yeah. So what?”

“So I make a long story short and tell you I pick you up, I take you in, and from then on you started sailing. You and me, Danny, we got along fine because you got respect for a man who shows you what you don’t know and you got it in you to learn.”

“What’s that got to do . . .”

“I said wait.” Stoker lowered his voice. “And all this time you keep wet-nursing the kid brother along. Maybe you thought he was too dumb or maybe you thought I’d take advantage of him, but it comes out the same way: Dan Port, his brother’s keeper.”

“You’re damn right I was my brother’s keeper!”

“You don’t have to yell, Dan. I know. Except for this.” Stoker paused to look up at Port’s face. “Now I’ll tell you why you’re quitting. Your kid brother’s dead and it’s your fault.”

Port didn’t say anything because he knew Stoker was right. He didn’t say anything because he thought Stoker was through.

“All through the war the kid gets along with no help from you. Then you take him in hand and he dies.”

“You said that!”

“To let you hear it. To let you hear that it sounds too good to be true. So now here is the real stinger, why you want to quit.”

They stared at each other and then Stoker didn’t let Port wait any longer.

“The work you’ve been doing for me went along fine and you never batted an eye. You could take it because you were your brother’s keeper. It made all the rest all right, just like having a built-in excuse. Then Bob got killed. You not only failed, Dan; you lost your excuse for sticking around!”

Port was at the window and at the last words he turned around fast, but when he saw Stoker he didn’t talk right away. After a while he talked very evenly.

“Now we both know. Now I leave,” and he got up without looking at Stoker.

“Dan.”

Port stopped, turned around.

“Your brother is dead and you walk out.” Stoker looked up. “But I’m not dead—yet.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you, Max,” Port said to the wall.

“You’re leaving when it’s going to hurt most.”

“You took care of your own before I came along.”

“I wasn’t this sick.” He said it before he could stop himself, and then he went on fast. “You’re walking out with that Reform thing riding the crest. After this dirt in the paper, how long do you think I’m going to hold on to Ward Nine? You know I need that ward, don’t you? You know if they tear down those slums, and spread the voters all over the precincts the way it’s been planned, you know what’ll happen to me, don’t you, Dan?”

“I know.”

“I lose the machine, I lose territory, I lose out with the setup from out of town. And you know what comes then?”

“You’re a sick man, Max. They wouldn’t drop you.”

“That’s why they would. Hard.”

Neither of them said anything for a while and when Stoker talked again he was mumbling.

“If I tell you I need you, Dan—”

“I’m leaving, Max. I’m going to fix up that ward for you, and then I’m leaving.”

Stoker looked down in his lap. “Better I didn’t hear you, Dan. Just fix up that ward and don’t talk.”

Port walked to the door. He nodded his head without looking at Stoker and said, “All right, Max,” and walked out.