Without raising his voice Jerry said: “Get Duke, Cleo! Get him!”
Malleck said, “Shut her up, for God’s sake,” and Norton caught her wrists and pulled the bag from her hands. He said, “Now calm down, just calm down a bit,” in a tense, insistent voice, and threw the shoulder bag into a comer. The latch opened and the contents of the bag spilled onto the floor, a lipstick and compact, a notebook with a silver pencil fitted to it, and a half-dozen odd coins that rolled about in erratic circles under the bright light.
Norton put his hand over the girl’s mouth, his arm about her waist, and pulled her down with him onto the couch. She kicked and tried to bite him, and he said, “Cut it out, cut it out,” his lips close to her ear.
“A handful, eh?” Malleck said, grinning.
Norton’s forehead was damp with perspiration. “Damn you,” he said, forcing her head back and pulling her against him with all the strength in his arm. He trapped her flailing feet with his legs, pinioning them at last with a scissors grip just above her ankles.
Jerry rolled to his feet and charged at Farrell. “Let her alone, you bastards,” he yelled, and swung a roundhouse at Farrell’s head. The blow missed by six inches. Farrell swung at his head, but Jerry got inside the punch and Farrell’s arm curled around his thick neck. Jerry took a two-handed grip on his sweater and flung him against the wall. He hit Farrell twice then, once in the chest and again on the side of the head. Farrell fought back furiously; he was conscious of nothing but Jerry’s flushed and twisted face, the curses spilling from his lips. Once he fell, crashing drunkenly across a three-legged table and taking it to the floor under him, and again he stood alone in the naked light as Jerry crawled toward him on his knees, sobbing and shaking his head in pain, and finally — he didn’t know how much later — he stood swaying helplessly and watched Malleck step forward and hit Jerry with two vicious blows, once across the jaw and again — as the boy fell forward — across the back of his wide, corded neck, which was as exposed and vulnerable as that of an animal on a chopping block.
“No — don’t,” Farrell said thickly. “Let him alone. Don’t...”
Detweiller grabbed his arm. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.”
Malleck went out first and disappeared with Sam Ward up the stairs into the darkness.
“You okay?” Detweiller said anxiously.
“Sure. Get going.”
Detweiller’s feet clattered on the stairs. Farrell stood in the open door gulping in the cold damp air, the wind whipping his flushed face. He looked down at Jerry’s sprawled body, and rubbed a hand over his forehead.
Norton was still holding Cleo. She was no longer struggling.
“I’ve got my car,” Norton whispered to Farrell. “You go on. We can’t leave together. Go on, beat it.”
Farrell went slowly up the stairs, moving like an old man and tasting the salty bite of blood on his lips. At the top, with one hand on the iron railing, he almost stumbled and fell; the light below him had winked out, and in the sudden darkness he nearly lost his footing. For an instant he rested, breathing with care. The street was still empty, the wind battering noisily against garbage cans set out on the curbing. Farrell straightened himself with an effort and went slowly across the wet street to his car.
Chapter Ten
He received a call from Norton the following afternoon. “Is it okay to talk on this line?” Norton asked in a guarded voice. “You know what I mean?”
Farrell was in his office. “Yes, it’s okay,” he said and lit a cigarette. He had lived with a cold feeling of guilt since last night and he suspected he wouldn’t shake it for a long time. Norton’s cautious tone, conspiring and anonymous, sharpened the feeling.
“Are you okay?” Norton asked him.
“Sure, I’m fine,” Farrell said. There was a strip of adhesive tape over his left eye covering a lumpy discoloration; it was the only evidence of the fight. “What’s on your mind?”
“There wasn’t anything about it in the papers,” Norton said. “I went through all of them carefully. That means he didn’t go to the police, I guess. There would have been something in the papers if he’d reported it. Isn’t that right, John?”
“I suppose so.”
“It’s all over then, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Farrell said wearily.
“I mean, well, there won’t be any trouble about it — it’s over and done with.”
“I just don’t know.” Farrell looked out at a slate-gray sky. Was it all over? Something was finished and done with, but Farrell didn’t know what it was. He had talked to Barbara at the hospital this morning and it had been like talking to a stranger.
“John?” Norton recalled him to the present.
“Yes?” Farrell said.
“Look, here’s why I called,” Norton continued. “Janey’s mother is at our house and I told them to go ahead and have dinner without me. I told them not to wait. I said I had some work to catch up with.” He laughed nervously. “That’s true enough, but I don’t feel like working tonight. Do you have time for a drink? I... I’d like to talk to you.”
“Yes, I guess so,” Farrell said. In his brief talk with Barbara there had been no mention of dinner; Jimmy was staying with the Wards and Barbara would probably eat at the hospital with Angey. Farrell was sick of his own thoughts. He was glad to talk to anyone. “Around five-thirty, okay? Do you know Ragoni’s? It’s on Forty-fifth around the comer from Third.”
“I can find it. Thanks, John. I’ll see you at five-thirty.”
Ragoni’s was a current favorite of the TV and advertising crowd, celebrated for its Martinis and pastas; with a canopied entrance, black and silver décor, and comfortable red leather banquettes it was indistinguishable from fifty similar restaurants in the East Forties. Farrell gave his hat and coat to a smiling hat-check girl, said hello to Max Ragoni and took a stool at the end of the bar. He ordered Scotch on the rocks.
Norton came in a few minutes later and looked around the room, blinking his eyes. He removed his hat and coat with a certain reluctance, as if he weren’t sure of getting them back. Then he saw Farrell and smiled with quick relief. He took the stool beside him and said, “First time I’ve ever been here.” The smile was still on his lips, fixed and white. “The cab driver knew about it though. I started to tell him the address and he said, ‘Buddy, if I had a buck for every fare I delivered to Ragoni’s I could retire.’” He caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a Martini. “He was a character. The cab driver, I mean. He told me something pretty interesting. He said tips didn’t mean half as much as lots of people think. It’s getting people on short hauls, that’s where the money is. Because of the twenty-five cents that registers when he throws the flag down. That’s pretty much gravy if the fare is just going a few blocks.” Norton glanced around, and then took a long swallow from his Martini. “This is a nice place. Do you eat here all the time?”
“Once or twice a week as a rule. The ravioli is good, and Max makes bouillabaisse on Fridays.”
“That’s a fish stew, isn’t it? I’ll have to try it some time.”
“It’s very good.”
“How do you feel about last night?” Norton said abruptly. Without waiting for Farrell to answer he went on in a low, tense voice: “It’s nothing to be worried about, John. It’s over, of course. If he intended to report it to the police he would have done it by this time. They knew they had it coming. I was just wondering how you felt, that’s all.” He finished his drink and signaled the bartender. “How about you, John? Ready?”
Farrell pushed his empty glass across the bar. “Why not? And since you ask, I feel like hell about last night.”