Farrell saw that he had missed her point; she wasn’t trying to talk him out of it.
“So?” he said, looking up into her eyes.
“I respected that honesty,” she said. “There’s no reason not to go on respecting it.”
“No matter who gets hurt by it?”
“No matter what,” she said.
Farrell kissed the palm of her hand. “You’re great,” he said. “You’re not scared. I don’t believe you’re thinking about yourself at all.”
“No, that’s not accurate. I told you a long time ago I’m not heroic.”
“And I told you the hell you’re not.”
“I’d better go back upstairs.” She kissed his forehead and tiptoed swiftly across the room. Farrell watched her as she went up the stairs, noticing the light grace of her body and the serious strength in her face, and seeing the whole of their life together in that instant; she would stick, of course, and for that loyalty he felt something very close to pity.
Sam and Grace Ward arrived with Chicky Detweiller a few moments later. They sat in the living room and spoke in the quiet and careful tones of people at a wake.
“Do you think I should go to see Janey?” Chicky asked Farrell. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She had evidently dressed in a hurry; she wore a tweed coat, a sweater and skirt and glossy, brown leather loafers. Her legs were bare and her short yellow hair was tousled from sleep.
“She’s quiet now,” Farrell said.
“Nobody can do anything for her,” Grace Ward said. “Only time will help.” She wore black and was severely groomed, but the façade of appropriate solemnity did not conceal a tension that seemed to be running like an electric current through her spare strong body. “In any case, there are other things to consider just now.” She looked steadily at her husband and her eyes were pale and cold as lights above a winter sea. “You wanted to talk to John, didn’t you, Sam?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did,” Ward said. He seemed somewhat embarrassed by her insistent tone, and it was apparent he felt the amenities should be observed with more grace. “This business is a rotten shame,” he said. “Pointless and terrible.” He sighed and shook his head. “Hell of a thing.”
Farrell got the impression that he was timing his display of concern to the second, holding it like a note of music, up to a proper point but not one beat longer. Farrell looked at Chicky. “Any word from Bill?”
“He called half an hour ago.” In the soft light her face was small and pale. “They’re coming here as soon as they’re free.”
“He and Malleck.”
“That’s what he said. They have to make out statements or something and they’re going to come here.” She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. “What did happen, John?”
Grace Ward said firmly, “There’s no point going into that just now. Let’s do the first things first. Sam, I think you’d better have your talk with John.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Ward said, and rubbed both hands over his high pink forehead. “Let’s step into the kitchen, eh, John? I don’t want...” He avoided Chicky’s eyes and the effort brought a tide of color into his cheeks. “I don’t want to risk waking Janey,” he said with a pointless little smile.
Chicky sat with her feet tucked under her and running one hand slowly along her bare ankle. There was the faintest edge to her voice as she glanced sideways at Grace and said: “Maybe Sam had better postpone his little talk until Bill gets here. If anything is to be arranged...” She paused and let the last word hang significantly in the silence.
“Now hold on, Chicky,” Ward said quietly and patiently, with only the thinnest thread of anger in his voice. “I’m not saying anything to John that I don’t want you or Bill to hear. Get that straight. I’ll talk to Bill when he gets here — and I’ll tell him exactly what I’m going to tell John.”
“I’m sorry,” Chicky said. “I’m so damned nervous.” In spite of the bulky coat she looked cold and miserable. “I’m scared. I don’t know why, but I can’t help it.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Grace said, with an air of definite but obscure meaning. “We’re going to protect ourselves, don’t you worry. That means all of us. No one else is going to be hurt.”
“Come on, John,” Ward said. “Let’s get this over with.”
They went into the kitchen and Ward snapped on the lights and closed the door. In the bright fluorescent illumination Farrell noticed the place that had been laid for Norton, the precisely arranged silverware, the black plastic mat, the salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen. Ward was looking through the cupboards above the sink. “I guess Norton kept that bottle somewhere out here,” he said. “I need a drink. How about you, John?”
“No thanks.”
“Funny the way he never kept liquor in the living room. Remember, every time he made a drink he’d collect the glasses, and bring them out here for refills. But you never saw the bottle. I think it was Janey’s idea.” Ward had poured himself a stiff whiskey with water, and now, holding a fresh cigarette, he was pacing the floor slowly, looking flushed and incongruous against the trimly fitted closets and antiseptically white rows of appliances. “Well, here it is,” he said, staring steadily at Farrell. “This may not have occurred to you in all the excitement. But the cops are probably going to connect Norton’s death with what happened the other night — when you beat up that kid, I mean.”
“Yes, that has occurred to me,” Farrell said.
“Well, I wasn’t sure. They’ll see a cause and effect relationship in these two incidents. You’re probably way ahead of me, but let me spell everything out so we’ll be exactly sure of what we’re up against.” Ward’s nervousness seemed to have abated; there was a hard, pleased look about his eyes, and his manner was that of a salesman preparing to hammer home a point. This was a job to him, a problem to solve, Farrell thought, the kind of thing he threshed out at his desk and over conference tables, and he seemed stimulated by the challenge to his professional skills.
“Okay, I said cause and effect,” Ward went on, after taking a long swallow from his drink. “Do you get what I mean? You beat up a punk who belonged to a gang called the Chiefs. By way of reprisal the Chiefs beat up Norton. So he goes after them and gets killed. Bang, bang, bang! One thing leads right to the next. Cause and effect.” Ward looked around for a place to put out his cigarette and finally threw it into the sink. “The cops may figure, since we started it, that were responsible in some way for what eventually happened to Norton. And goddammit, can’t you see the fun the newspapers will have with that idea? Legally, it’s pure crap, but they’ll sell a lot of newspapers in the meantime, and they’ll drag every one of us through the dirt before they’re through. The spectacle of a group of responsible citizens in this sort of mess is a damned juicy one, and you don’t have to be a newspaper editor to know that. Are you following me so far?” Ward was watching Farrell carefully. “We’re in trouble. Is that clear?”
“I know,” Farrell said. “I know we’re in trouble. But I don’t know if we’d agree on what kind of trouble it is.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not through. I think I see this thing a little more clearly than you do. And I believe you’ll see it in the same light when I finish. Now let’s go on.” Ward took another sip from his drink. “About tonight. Norton’s death and so forth. I’m not involved in that. I wasn’t involved in any way at all. You see that, don’t you?”
“Well, you see it,” Farrell said. “I guess that’s the important thing.”
Ward hesitated, apparently reluctant to accept Farrell’s answer. But then he shrugged and said, “Yes, that’s right, of course. Now the next point concerns what happened the other night at the Chiefs’ clubhouse. I offered to go along with you, I’ll admit that. But I told you it was your show, that I just wanted to make sure that you got a fair crack at that boy. And I wasn’t present during the fight. Malleck told me to wait outside. You remember that, don’t you, John?”