He turned away from Frank, hurried out of the room, and walked out of the house. He was trying very hard not to think about Frank. He wished he could reach with his fingers into his mind and drag Frank out of there.
On Vernon Street, walking toward Wharf, he saw the row of wooden shacks off Vernon between Third and Fourth, and he thought, Maybe it was Mooney, after all, or maybe it was Nick Andros. He walked faster, seeing more wooden shacks and the shabby fronts of tenements and he muttered without sound, There’s more than one creep lives in these dumps, more than one hophead and bay-rum drinker and all kinds of queers. It might have been any one of them and maybe you’ll never know for sure who it was. He pleaded with himself to let it rest there, to bury it and forget about it. But his face was gray and his breathing was heavy and he was still thinking about Frank.
And hours later, hauling crates along Pier 17, he didn’t feel the weight of heavy boxes tugging at his arms and pressing on his spine. The only pressure he felt was inside his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about Frank.
At four in the afternoon the sky began to darken and the river took on a metallic sheen. Black clouds moved in and shadowed the piers and warehouses and the street that bordered the docks. At a few minutes past five, as some of the dock workers started to leave the piers and head for home, the air was split with thunder. Pier bosses and foremen shouted feverish commands. Then all at once it was coming down, and it hit with terrific force. It was like a lake falling from the sky.
The docks were deserted. And soon the streets were empty. There was no human activity at all. There were only the darkness and the rumble of thunder and the relentless cascade of rain. The river was choppy with white caps, and angry waves came smashing at the piers.
Cursing, drenched to the skin, Kerrigan huddled under the stingy roof of a loading platform. He tried the big door that led into the warehouse. But the door was locked, and all he could do was press his back against it and try to keep from getting wetter than he was already.
He looked out across a few yards of wooden pier, the planks giving way to a newer driveway of concrete. Through the wall of falling rain he saw the raging foam of the river, and he could feel the vibration of the pier as the waves crashed against its pilings. Muttering an oath, he told himself it was a northeaster, and that meant it was due to last for hours and hours, and maybe days. He decided to take his chances with a run for home, and he braced himself, preparing to leap off the platform and make a beeline toward Vernon.
Just then he heard a clicking sound behind him. Someone had unlocked the big door. He told himself he’d been seen through one of the windows and some kind-hearted character was inviting him to come in and get dry.
He worked the door handle and pushed against the door, and the heavy bulk of it swung slowly inward. As he entered the warehouse, he saw there were no bulbs lit, and he frowned puzzledly as he groped his way forward. He shouted, “Anybody around?”
There was no answer. The only sound was the dull roar of the storm outside.
His frown deepened. He took a few more steps, bumped into a barrel, circled around it, and kept on going. Scarcely any light came through the partially opened door to the loading platform, and now he moved in almost total darkness.
He decided the door had been unlocked by some gin hound who’d come out of it just long enough to do him a favor, and then had returned to an alcoholic slumber.
His hand came in contact with the edge of a large box. He sat down on the box and wished he had a book of matches and a pack of cigarettes. For a few moments he played with the idea of getting the hell out of here. But the air in the warehouse was warm and somehow comfortable, and a lot drier than the weather outside. He figured he might as well sit here for a while.
But then, he thought, the storm would probably get worse and last for hours, and he was pretty hungry, getting hungrier all the time. And the problem of love had remained.
“The hell with this,” he muttered aloud, and turned his head, looking for the column of gray light that would reveal the exit.
All he saw was blackness, and the dim gray rectangles of the small windows. The windows were high off the floor, and that was one thing. Another thing was the fact that they were made of wired glass and he’d have one mess of a time smashing his way through.
And yet he wasn’t thinking much about that. He was concentrating on the door, telling himself he’d left the door open and now it was closed.
His mouth was set in a thin line as he thought, Whoever let me in here is making sure I don’t get out.
In that same moment, he heard footsteps.
The sounds came from behind him. He knew that if he turned his head, he would see who it was. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and the windows afforded just enough light for recognizing a face. But in the instant that he told himself to turn and look, his instinct contradicted the impulse and commanded him to duck, to dodge, to evade an unseen weapon.
He threw himself sideways, falling off the box. There was a whirring sound that sliced the air, and then the crash of a thick club or something, landing on the top of the box where he’d been seated. He was on his knees, crouched at the side of the box, listening intently for a sound that would give him his assailant’s position.
Again he heard footsteps, and the shuffling noises told him he was dealing with more than one attacker.
His sense of caution gave way to a grim curiosity. He raised his head above the edge of the box and saw the men. There were two of them. The dim gray light from the windows was barely sufficient for him to estimate their size and study their features. The initial glimpse told him he was facing serious trouble. This was a professional wrecking team, a couple of dock ruffians who charged a set fee for breaking a man’s jaw, a higher fee for removing an ear or an eye. And if the customer was willing to meet their price, they’d go all the way and use the river to hide the traces of what had been done. Their business reputation was excellent. There were never any disappointed customers.
Kerrigan could see their wide shoulders, the thickness of their arms and wrists. They carried wooden clubs, and they wore brass knuckles.
Now there was no sound from the other side of the box. They were taking their time about it, and it was as though they were sending him a silent message, telling him they had him where they wanted him, and they’d be willing to wait until he made a move.
He bit his lip, wondering what he could do. He glanced around at the floor, but it offered nothing, there was no sign of ammunition or weapon. He cursed without sound. Whatever these men were planning to do, whatever damage they had in mind, they’d sure as hell arranged it carefully. He knew they’d followed him from Pier 17, and the thunderstorm had aided them in their scheme to corner him. But storm or no storm, they’d have cornered him anyway. They’d have waited for a convenient moment and a convenient place. As matters stood, they had trailed him to the warehouse, had peered through a window to make sure it was deserted, and then they’d found an entrance. They’d watched him getting soaked out there in the rain, so from there on it was easy. They’d simply unlocked the door to let him know it was dry in here and he was welcome. It was a friendly favor and he ought to thank them. He ought to tell them how much he appreciated their kindness.
There were five feet of wooden box separating him from the big men and the thick clubs and the brass knuckles.
One of the men was grinning at him.
The other man, somewhat shorter and wider than his partner, leaned forward just a little and said, “You ready for it? You ready to take it?”
“He looks ready,” the taller man said.
They spoke quietly, yet their voices were distinct against the rumbling of the storm outside. In the shadows their eyes were little points of yellow and green light, and there was the bright gleam of the brass knuckles, the glow reflected on the thick clubs of rounded wood.
And then there was something else, another glow that caused Kerrigan to glance downward. He saw the glimmer on the metal handle attached under the lid of the box.
The short wide man was saying, “Let’s find out if he’s ready.”
“All right,” the other man said. “Let’s take him.”
Kerrigan grabbed the handle and got a tight two-handed hold on it and with all the power in his body he heaved upward and forward, doing it very fast so that the box was raised and pushed in almost the same moment. It was just as heavy as it was large, and he heard the loud thud as it collided with the men. There was another thud and he knew that one of the men had been knocked down. He was still pushing at the box and he went on pushing until the box toppled over onto the fallen man. There was the sound of something being crushed and the fallen man was screaming and trying to wriggle out from under the box and not being able to do it.
The short wide man had leaped backward and seemed to be debating whether to aid his partner or make a lunge at Kerrigan. Before he had a chance to arrive at a decision, Kerrigan rushed at him, coming in low, sending a shoulder against his knees and taking him to the floor.
As they hit the floor the short man used his club on Kerrigan’s ribs. Kerrigan let out a cry of animal pain, and the man hit him again in the same place. It sent white-hot fire through his middle, then more fire as he took another blow from the club. He rolled himself away and managed to evade a blow aimed at his skull. The man leaped at him, kicked him in the spot where he’d been clubbed, then tried to turn him over, sort of prodding him with a heavy foot to get him over on his back. In the next moment he was on his back and he looked up and saw that the club was raised once more. The short man wore a businesslike expression and was taking careful aim with his eyes focused on Kerrigan’s pelvis.
Then the club came down. Kerrigan raised both legs and took the blow on his thigh. In the same instant he snatched at the club, missed and snatched again and missed again, and the club slammed against his arm. But now he didn’t feel the pain and he was getting to his feet and not thinking about the club or the brass knuckles. He walked toward the short wide man and feinted with his left hand. As the club flashed downward, he pulled away from it, going sideways, then moving in very close and chopping his right hand to the man’s jaw. The man staggered backward and dropped the club. Kerrigan kept moving in, hooked a left to the side of the head, and then hauled off and threw a roundhouse right that lifted the man off the floor and sent him sailing to land flat on his back.
Kerrigan kept moving in. The man was scrambling to his feet. Kerrigan kicked him in the head and that sent him down again. The man was gasping as Kerrigan kicked him once more. Kerrigan reached down and pulled him to his knees and smashed him in the mouth.
The man screamed. He made a desperate attempt to flee. Headed for the door of the loading platform, he ran through the narrow path lined with crates and barrels. He found the door and opened it and leaped out upon the rain-swept platform.
But in the next instant the man was on his knees with Kerrigan on top of him. Kerrigan’s eyes were calmer now. He was thinking in purely practical terms, knowing there was only one way to deal with these professional manglers. He thought, knock him out, then make him talk.
He had one arm circling the man’s throat. His other arm was drawn back and then he let go with a kidney punch that caused the man to scream again. Then another kidney punch, and the force of it was enough to take the two of them off the loading platform and onto the planks of the pier. As they landed, the man made a frantic effort to break loose, pumping his elbow into Kerrigan’s stomach. Kerrigan groaned and fell back and saw the man running past the planks and onto the concrete driveway that bordered the edge of the pier.
But there was too much rain, it was coming down too hard, and the man could scarcely see where he was going. The concrete driveway was a foggy, slippery path, made treacherous by the foam coming up from the big waves crashing against the pier. The man had taken only a few steps when he lost his footing. Kerrigan was up very fast, lunging at him and trying to grab him before he went over the edge. There wasn’t enough time for that. The man went over and down and made a splash. The raging current caught him and carried him away and swallowed him.
Kerrigan walked back to the loading platform and went inside the warehouse. He moved very slowly, wearily, grimacing as he felt the hammering pain in his ribs and stomach. He went on leaden feet toward the spot where the other man was still trying to squirm out from under the heavy box.
“God in heaven,” the man groaned. “Get this thing off me.”
Kerrigan smiled dimly. “What’s the hurry?”
“It’s mashin’ my chest. I can’t hardly breathe.”
“You’re breathing all right. And you’re talking. That’s all we need for now.”
The man had one arm free and he raised his hand to his eyes and let out a moan.
Kerrigan knelt at the side of the man. He took a close look at the man’s face and saw there wasn’t much color. The man’s eyes were glazed and the lips were quivering with pain and supplication. He told himself that maybe the man’s chest was crushed, that maybe the man would die. He decided he didn’t give a damn.
He said, “Who hired you?”
The man’s reply was another moan.
“If you won’t talk,” Kerrigan said, “you’ll stay there under the box.”
He stood up. He turned away from the moans of the crushed man. Facing the opened doorway of the loading platform, he listened to the sound of the rainstorm. It seemed to merge with the noise of a cyclone that whirled through his brain.
Just then he heard the man saying, “It was a woman.”
And after that it seemed there was no sound at all. Just a frozen stillness. Again he turned very slowly, and he was looking down at the man.
“A woman,” the man said. He moaned once more, and coughed a few times. He wheezed, “She lives on Vernon Street. I think they call her Bella.”
“Bella.” He said it aloud to himself. Then he reached down and lifted the heavy box off the chest of the man. He heard the man’s sigh of relief, the dragging sound of air pulled into tortured lungs.
The man rolled over on his side. He tried to get to his feet. He made it to his knees, shook his head slowly, and muttered, “This ain’t no good. I’m in bad shape. You might as well call the Heat. At least they’ll take me to a hospital.”
“You don’t need a hospital,” Kerrigan said. He put his hands under the man’s armpits, then used his arms as a hook to raise him from the floor.
The man leaned heavily against him and said, “Where’s my partner?”
“In the river,” Kerrigan said.
The man forgot his own pain and weakness. He stepped away from Kerrigan, his eyes dulled with a kind of brute sorrow. Then he shook his head slowly and said, “It just don’t pay to take these jobs. They’re not worth the grief. I’m all banged up inside and he’s food for the fishes. All for a lousy twenty bucks.”
“Is that what she paid you?”
The man nodded.
Kerrigan’s eyes narrowed. “She pay in advance?”
“Yeah.” The man put his hand against his trousers pocket.
“Let’s have it,” Kerrigan said.
It was two fives and a ten. The man handed him the bills and he folded them carefully. He said, “You sure she didn’t give you more?”
The man tried to smile. “If she wanted you rubbed out complete, it would have cost her a hundred. For this kind of job, to put a man outta action, we never charge more than twenty.”
“Bargain rates,” Kerrigan muttered.
It was quiet for some moments. And then the man was saying, “Look, mister, I got a record. I’m out on parole. Wanna gimme a break?”
Kerrigan smiled dryly. “O.K.,” he said. He pointed to the doorway.
“Thanks,” the man said. “Thanks a lot, mister.”
Kerrigan watched him as he walked away, moving slowly and painfully, pausing in the doorway to offer a final gesture of gratitude, then limping out upon the loading platform and vanishing in the storm.
Kerrigan looked down at the money folded in his hand.