“Now listen to me,” Malleck said. “Everybody listen. We’re all getting excited. There’s no point acting crazy.” His voice was rising nervously. “Look, I work my trucks down in the garment district. My customers are Hungarians, Polacks, Jews, people like that. You know what I mean? They’re immigrants. They’re always talking up tolerance and treating people equally and stuff like that. They had it bad in the old country and this place looks like paradise to them. What they don’t understand...” He took Detweiller by the arm and said, “Look, don’t go with him, he’s crazy. I butter up these old guys because it’s my work, my living. I yes ’em to death. Don’t go off and jam everything up. They’d think I was lying if I got mixed up in something like this. I couldn’t kid ’em out of it, you know what I mean?”
Ward was sitting heavily beside his wife. She was crying. She said, “They want to ruin us out of spite. That’s all it is, spite.”
“She doesn’t mean that,” Ward said. “We didn’t mean...” He gave Farrell a thin smile. “I was simply making a point, you know, showing you how the story might appear to the police. I didn’t for a moment believe that you...”
“Let’s go, Det,” Farrell said.
“Please!” Malleck cried. “Look, we can pile all of it on Norton. It can’t hurt him now. We can fix it up. If you’ll sit down and talk it over we can fix it up.”
Farrell opened the door and Detweiller pulled his arm away from Malleck’s grip. They went down to the sidewalk together and crossed the street.
The homes of Faircrest were closed snugly against the night, and the occasional warm lights along the block were like little beacons of security and peace. Tomorrow it would be different, Farrell thought; the quiet little street was set for an explosion. And then they could start the laborious and possibly therapeutic job of picking up the pieces. Everyone reshaping his life according to his own values and conscience. And those with foundations still intact should make it all right...
Detweiller said, “I meant it about taking my car. It’s faster.”
“You want to get this over with in a hurry?”
“Not exactly.” They turned into Detweiller s driveway and climbed into his convertible. “That’s not it exactly,” Detweiller said, hunching his big shoulders forward as he swung the car into the street. “I’m in a hurry because of what I’ll feel like when it’s over. Damn, I can’t explain it. But I know what it will be like. And I’m in a hurry to get there.”
“I know what you mean,” Farrell said. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” Detweiller said. He smiled nervously but hopefully and pushed down hard on the gas.