“Well, go on,” Farrell said.
“I’ve talked this over with Grace, of course, and she feels...” Ward paused and rolled his empty glass between the palms of his hands. He seemed nervous again. He smiled suddenly at Farrell, a man-to-man sort of smile that was pathetically incongruous against the tight lines of anxiety about his mouth and eyes. “Well, you know how women are, John. She feels I’m not involved in this thing at all, except for the sheer bad luck of being near the scene, you might say. She’d like you guys to forget that I was there — you know, leave me out of the whole deal.”
“I’ll bet she would,” Farrell said.
“There’s no point in being sarcastic.” Ward’s eyes were narrowing. “I’m simply giving you the whole picture. That’s Grace’s idea. It’s not mine. I’m not trying to duck out of this and leave you holding the bag. But I say we’re damn fools if we don’t agree on a story that puts us in a little more acceptable light as far as the police and the newspapers are concerned.”
“Have you thought of one?”
“Yes, I have, one that’s simple and convincing. First, we went over to the Chiefs’ clubhouse to talk to them. Our idea was to see if we could help them. Since we’re a responsible group of men, home owners, involved in community work and so forth, that will sound believable. The blond boy jumped you, you fought back in self-defense. That’s all there is to it.” He pointed a big blunt finger at Farrell. “Just remember two things: one, we went there to help those kids; two, the boy took a swing at you, and you had to protect yourself. That may not square things completely, but it will help some, I think.”
“Help us, you mean?”
Ward stared at him. “Do you think for one goddamned minute I’m interested in helping that hoodlum who killed Wayne? Now listen to me, John. Get it through your head that we’re in trouble. The tilings we’ve worked and fought for all our lives, jobs, reputations, the futures we’ve planned — they’re all under fire. I’m not exaggerating, and I’m not being melodramatic. I’m laying out the brutal facts. Either we protect ourselves or we’re going to pay till it hurts. Take me: my company stands behind its men like the Rock of Gibraltar. In certain kinds of trouble. If a man is sick, or if his wife or kids are sick, or if he’s in a financial jam, or is unhappy about his job — then the company steps up like a big brother and there’s no limit to what it will do to help out. But they wouldn’t stand for this trouble we’re in — not for a second.” Ward lit a cigarette with an irritable flurry of gestures. “I’ve been tapped for that job in London. I knew it was in the works but the decision came down even sooner than I’d hoped for. I got the news yesterday. Nice timing, eh? Big tilings in the works. I’m slated for a half-dozen indoctrination sessions, and interviews with some of the top men in our foreign department. I’ll be briefed on British unions, British politics, currency, everything. You know, our company has a book we call the ‘Voice of God’ book. It’s a set of questions and answers on just about any topic its foreign representatives might be asked about. The Negro problem in America, our oil deposits in Iran, what the Sixth Fleet’s doing in the Mediterranean, the differences in British and American educational systems — there’s an answer for everything. The answer, I should say. The company position. They don’t send men abroad until they’re damn sure they won’t be caught with their mouths open and their pants down by some competitor or newspaperman or just plain smart aleck. Grace will go through a similar course. Advice on protocol and entertaining, how to address people with titles, advice on being tactful about clothes and servants, and about the fact that we’ll be making a lot more money than most of the people we meet over there.” Ward tilted his head slightly, and his eyes went suddenly hard and cold. “Does all this strike you as silly?” he said quietly. “Am I losing your interest?”
Farrell had been looking at the plate set out for Norton in the dining alcove. “No, I’m listening,” he said.
“The point is then, my company is making a big investment in me because they believe I’ve got brains and discretion. And I’m not going to let anything happen to change their opinion of me. Get that into your head. And if I were you I’d do some thinking about your own neck. Would your company be amused about this thing? If it gets splashed like a handful of dirt over the newspapers?”
“Hardly,” Farrell said. He remembered what Colby had said after offering him the job as his assistant on Atlas. Something about balance. “We need a guy with balance to look over Shipley and Weinberg’s shoulders.” That was steady John Farrell. Balanced as a spinning top, disciplined and good-humored except for a whimsical tendency to go berserk every now and then. Say good-by to that job, he thought. But it didn’t seem to be a significant farewell. He had already said good-by to a number of things considerably more significant. A certain tranquillity, a certain self-respect, a certain kind of innocence...
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got this straightened out,” Ward said. The inference he drew from Farrell’s expression obviously satisfied him. “Just remember those two things: we went to the Chiefs in a friendly spirit. They started the trouble.”
“You think that will be enough?” Farrell almost felt sorry for Ward.
“It will be enough for me,” Ward said in a hard, expressionless voice. “That’s what I’m concerned about. You either survive or you don’t in a deal like this.”
The front doorbell rang and they heard someone — Grace or Chicky — moving swiftly to answer it. Farrell recognized Detweiller’s voice, then Malleck’s.
“Let’s go,” Ward said. “I want to fill them in now. And stop looking so worried. We haven’t done anything wrong, for God’s sake.”
“For whose sake then?” Farrell said, but Ward had already pushed open the kitchen door and was striding back into the living room.
Chapter Fourteen
As Farrell entered the living room Malleck was saying to Ward: “I’m glad you’re on hand, Sam. It seems to me we need a little conference.”
“You’re damn right we do,” Ward said, and the warmth in his voice informed the exchange with the tone of frank and healthy conspiracy. They were like a pair of businessmen planning a successful merger, Farrell thought; interests coinciding neatly, eyes fixed on the same goal.
Malleck sat down in a straight-backed chair without removing his leather jacket, and the Wards and the Detweillers ranged themselves about in a semicircle. “I came back here for one reason,” he said, his bright, confident eyes moving over the group. “Because you all need to know what went on tonight.” He bulked large in the room, his big body thickened by a sweater and muffler, and his powerful hands gripping his knees with a pressure that whitened the tops of his raw knobby knuckles. He said flatly, deliberately: “You need to know what Det and I told the cops tonight.”
Detweiller was sitting beside Chicky and despite her closeness to him he seemed withdrawn and isolated from the group; he was frowning faintly and except for the points of wind-sharpened color in his cheeks his face was gray with a combination of what seemed to be fatigue and worry.
Malleck looked up then and saw Farrell standing in the arched entrance to the living room. The smile that was like the flare from an explosion glinted on his face, and he said quietly, “Now I don’t know if we need or want you here, Mr. Farrell.”