A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Owen was delighted. “Sure, Nick, we’ll do that. You’ll love it!” Nick was relieved when Owen seemed to forget about Rocco. He sat back and listened as Owen rambled on, marveling at how the big fellow seemed to lack any nerves whatsoever. If I was gonna climb in a ring with a guy who could scramble my brains, he thought, I’d be looney!

  It was the phone that interrupted Owen’s tale about how he’d bagged his first deer. Nick started at the suddenness of it, but Owen merely lifted the receiver and said, “Hello?”

  An instant change came over Owen, and Nick knew something awful was happening. Owen’s lips thinned. “I don’t believe you—” He paused and stared at Nick while he waited, covering the receiver to whisper, “It’s one of Rocco’s men. Says he’s got Allie, that he’ll kill her if I don’t—” he broke off, listened, and his face grew pale. “Allie…don’t worry! It’ll be all right—” He halted, listened hard, then said, “Look, I’ll do anything, but don’t hurt that girl!”

  Nick stood there, his mind reeling with shock. As Owen pleaded with the caller, all Nick could think was, But Rocco gave me his word! He knew the man was a thug at heart, of course, but there was a lot of talk in their world about honor—to the family first, and then to friends. You might cut an enemy down, but you never betrayed a friend. It was deeply ingrained in Nick, a code that went all the way back to the old country.

  And now Rocco had violated that trust. Rage flared up in Nick, his mind beginning to function again. “What did he say, Kid?” he asked quietly.

  Owen swallowed hard, then shook his head. “If anything goes wrong, he said, he’ll hurt Allie bad…then kill her.” Owen shut his eyes. “It was somebody named Sonny. He…liked telling me what he’d do to her. And she was sitting right there the whole time he was talking—” Owen suddenly opened his eyes and grabbed Nick by the arm, his fingers a vise, doubling his other fist. “You told me it was all right, Nick!”

  Nick made no move to defend himself, which would have been fruitless in any case. Looking up into Owen’s blazing eyes, he said evenly, “He crossed me up, Kid.”

  Owen loosed his grasp and made a dive for the telephone. “I’m going to call the cops!”

  “Wait a minute!” Nick grabbed at Owen. “That’s no good! In the first place, you don’t know where they’re holding her. And even if you did find out, the cops would be too late. Sonny is a killer…but he’s smart, too!”

  “We’ve got to do something, Nick!”

  “Yeah, we’re going to do something, all right.” The rage that had ignited in Nick had become a cold, icy determination. “Rocco gave me his word…his word! But he’s going to be sorry. I’m going to make him crawl, Owen!”

  Owen was alarmed at the raw hatred glowing in Nick’s dark eyes. “What can we do? Nick…if anything happens to Allie, I’ll—”

  Nick put on his coat, then came to stand in front of Owen. “Kid, we’ve got to work together. You’ve got to go into that ring. Throw the fight! The girl’s more important than any fight…right?”

  “Sure, Nick! I’ll do it!”

  “Make a good job of it, Kid,” Nick warned. “Don’t just fall down. Take a beating if you have to.”

  “Yeah, sure, Nick…but what about Allie?”

  “That’s my job.” Nick’s thin lips turned up in a humorless smile. “If things go right, I’ll have her at the Garden before the fight. But if you don’t see us, don’t worry. I’ll get her out, Kid, I swear it!” Nick stared at Owen. “Can you believe me…after I lied to you?”

  Owen nodded slowly. There was a deadly quality in his friend that he’d never seen before, though he realized suddenly it had been there all the time. “I know you’ll do your best, Nick.”

  Nick whirled and left, saying, “Tell Jack what’s happened, Kid. He’ll know how to do the job!”

  Nick went at once to his hotel room, where he opened the top drawer of his dresser and took out the heavy revolver he kept under his shirts. Whipping off his coat, he put on the shoulder holster, inserted the revolver and smiled grimly. Sonny will be looking for a gun, so I’ll give him one. He reached back into the drawer and came out with a thin stiletto with a six-inch blade. Carefully he tested it with his thumb, nodded thoughtfully, then strapped a paper-thin sheath to his left forearm. He slipped the knife into the sheath, handle facing toward his palm. Then he put on his coat and stood before the mirror.

  The revolver made a slight bulge, but the stiletto was invisible. He shot out his left arm suddenly, at the same time reaching over with his right, and the knife appeared in his hand, as if by magic. He did this three times, then slipped the weapon into place, saying aloud, “All right, Sonny, let’s see how good you really are!”

  The minutes dragged by on leaden feet for Owen as he waited in his room. He paced the floor, forcing himself to remain there, but he’d never known anything like the panic and fear that clawed at him. Once he cried out in helpless rage and struck the wall with his fist, not feeling the pain. If it was just me I could stand it…but not Allie!

  The hands of the clock seemed to be frozen, fixed in place. Up and down he paced, and when he’d thought at least thirty minutes had passed, he was shocked to see that only five minutes had dragged by.

  After two hours, he finally slumped down on the chair and placed his face in his hands, pushing against his eyeballs. His hands were shaking and nausea rose in him so that he had to swallow the bile that came burning to his throat. Without meaning to, he began to moan and, before he knew it, tears scalded his eyes. He had not wept for years, but now he was not even aware of the tears. A sense of loneliness overwhelmed him as he tried to fight off the thoughts of a world without Allie…and he knew he could never survive it. If they kill her…I’ll kill them all…and then myself! Wild thoughts clawed at his mind as he sat there in dumb agony.

  And then he knew what Amos and Rose had been trying to tell him. Amos had said, No man is tough enough to make it on his own, Owen. Sooner or later he winds up with something he can’t handle…and the man who doesn’t have Jesus Christ to call on won’t make it!

  As he sat there, pondering, he seemed to hear his mother’s voice, and a wave of shock ran down his spine. He knew it was not an audible sound, but the memory of it was so vivid he froze. He remembered how she’d held his hand as she lay dying, and he seemed to hear her whisper as she had that night, Owen…don’t try to live in your own strength…it’ll fail you. Let Jesus be your strength…trust Him when everything around you is falling down.

  Owen Stuart had always been alone, so he knew well what that was like. Many times he had longed for someone to be close to him. He had found this with Allie, but he realized now that no human being can fully fill the heart of man.

  Suddenly he was aware that he was not alone in the room! He knew if he opened his eyes and looked around, he wouldn’t see anyone…but the blind fear that had come to destroy him was fading. And he knew it was his time to find God.

  Slowly he slipped to his knees and fell on his face. His tears dripped off his chin onto the carpet, and he cried out, “Oh, God…I can’t make it by myself! Help me! I need you!”

  Owen never knew how long he lay there, crying out for God. But when he finally got to his feet, every trace of the fear was gone, along with all the guilt that had been lurking in his heart for years. He stood there marveling at the peace that had come and said, with wonder in his voice, “You were right, Ma! Jesus does make the difference!”

  He looked at the clock, then dressed carefully and left the apartment. All the way to the arena, he felt the fear trying to come back. But it was as if he had been placed in a large globe of light, and the darkness and fear and guilt were on the outside. Inside, Owen knew, was that Presence that had come as he lay on the floor, crying for mercy. And as he entered the door of the arena, he whispered, “Lord Jesus…it’s all in your hands—”, and he moved confidently toward the dressing room.

  Allie did not flinch when the tall, thin mobster came toward her. He had amus
ed himself by tormenting her, kissing her, and yanking her face back cruelly when she tried to avoid him. She had soon discovered that he actually wanted her to resist, that it gave him pleasure to hear her cry out with pain. So now she waited passively and, when he put his arms around her, she fought back the revulsion she felt and offered no resistance. He had a feral look, and the strong sickening-sweet lotion he used only made the stench of his unwashed body even more offensive.

  Costello, angered at her passivity, shoved her back, cursing. When she struck the wall, the jolt caused her to blink, but she made no sound.

  “I hope that pug don’t throw the fight,” the gangster grated. “You know what’s gonna happen to you if he wins?” He began to tell her horrible things that reflected his sick mind. He paused in the telling only when a knock came on the door.

  Costello leapt to his feet, a gun appearing in his hand. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Sonny…Larry. Open the door!” When the door opened, the thick-bodied man pushed through. “It’s Castellano, Sonny. Says he’s got to see you.”

  “What for?”

  Larry shrugged. “He won’t tell me. Says it’s private…somethin’ about the fight. You want me to run him off?”

  “No, send him up…but shake him down first.”

  “Already did that, Sonny.” Larry grinned, holding up a revolver. “He was wearing this under his arm.”

  Costello took the weapon. “Send him up…but keep your eyes open, Larry. He may have brought some friends along.”

  “Sure, Sonny.” The thick-set gangster moved down the stairs and, when he faced Nick, motioned with a jerk of his chin. “Go on up…but no funny business, Castellano.”

  “Hey, no problem, Larry!” Nick slapped the man on the shoulder, got a cold look for his trouble, then with a laugh moved up the stairs. He touched the knife with his right hand, then took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  At Costello’s invitation, Nick opened the door and stepped inside. The first person he saw was Allie, standing with her back against the wall. “Hey, doll, take it easy,” he soothed. “Everything’s goin’ great! Couple of hours and you’re outta here.”

  “What do you want, Nick?”

  Nick turned to face Costello with a smile on his face. The tall man was holding the gun Larry had confiscated earlier, and his steely eyes were guarded. There was no hope as long as Sonny held that gun, so Nick went to a chair and slumped down. “Gotta drink, Sonny?”

  “This ain’t no saloon.” Suspicion was part of Costello’s makeup—a well-honed trait to which he owed his longevity in the violent world he moved in. He kept the gun in his hand, not pointing it at Nick, but ever a threat. Costello, Nick well knew, had the speed of a striking serpent and was fully as ruthless. “Get out, Nick,” he said suddenly, sensing that something was not quite right.

  Nick stared at him, allowing his face to register surprise. “Didn’t Mr. Rocco tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Why, he wants me to stay here until the fight’s over. Then…if it goes right…I’m supposed to take the girl home.”

  Costello’s eyes narrowed. “He never said nothin’ to me about that.”

  Nick snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered. “Hey, I know what happened, Sonny. As soon as he decided to send me over, he started for the phone…to spill it to you. But you know how it is…the phone rang and, when I left, he was talking to the big boy in Chicago. You know how Mr. Rocco’s been workin’ on that little deal!”

  Costello hesitated, and Nick yawned. “He’ll call pretty soon. Now how about that drink?”

  For one moment Costello paused, then nodded. “We’ll wait for the call.” He turned and moved to a table, putting down Nick’s gun so he could pick up the bottle of whiskey and a glass. As he turned and moved toward Nick, he asked, “What if the Kid don’t come through?” he asked. “The girl gets it?”

  “That’s what he said, Sonny.” Nick sat, willing himself to remain calm, and began sipping the drink. He was very much aware that even if he got Costello, Larry was still waiting…a dangerous man. Got to get closer, he thought, and for ten minutes he slouched in his seat, speaking languidly and listening to Costello’s measured replies. Finally he got up, crossed to the window, and looked out. “Gonna snow pretty soon. I hate cold weather!”

  Costello was leaning against the wall, and Nick walked past him to get a refill from the whiskey bottle. Then he sauntered back, taking a careless position not five feet from Costello. Time was running out. Nick was afraid that Rocco might call—and then he’d have no chance at all. He was aware that Costello himself had a gun and that he’d been watching carefully to see if Nick would try to retrieve the weapon he’d left on the table.

  He left my gun there just to see if I’d go for it, Nick suddenly realized, and a shock rippled through him as he realized that, if he’d made a grab for the gun, he’d have been shot down at once!

  But now he saw that Costello had relaxed. He took out a cigarette, placed it between his lips—and just as he struck a match, Nick saw his chance and snatched the knife out of the sheath. Even as he drew it back over his head to throw it, Nick saw Costello’s unbelievable reflex action. A gun leapt into his hand. He was too quick for me!

  Almost in one motion, Nick threw the knife and rolled to one side, but the gun exploded, and it felt as if a fist had struck him in the face. There was no pain, but the left side of his face went numb. Nick hit the floor and rolled over, frantically kicking a chair out of the way. He’ll get me with the next shot!

  Nick came to his feet, his left eye blinded with blood, but he saw that Costello was not going to shoot anyone…not ever again.

  The stiletto had penetrated his throat and, from the gush of blood, Nick knew that the razor-sharp edge had sliced through the big artery. A scarlet flower blossomed on the man’s white shirt front.

  Costello dropped the gun, reached up and grasped the handle of the knife, and pulled it free. There was a look of horror on his face, and he tried to cry out, but only a gurgling sound came from his throat. Frantically he clawed at his throat, trying to staunch the gushing stream of crimson, but he could not, for his heart was pumping the life’s blood through the fingers of a dying man.

  At that moment, Nick heard the sound of footsteps and whirled, making a dive for his gun. He picked it up just as the door burst open, and through the bloody veil that clouded his eyes, he saw Larry yank his gun from the holster. Without thought, Nick lifted his own weapon and pulled the trigger. A small black hole appeared in Larry’s forehead, and he fell backwards, dead before he struck the floor.

  Nick turned to Allie, gasping, “Let’s get out of here!”

  “You’ve been shot!” Allie cried out.

  But Nick shook his head. “Never mind that—” The left side of his face was beginning to come alive with pain, and he could not see out of his left eye. Snatching a handkerchief from his pocket, he pressed it to his face. For one brief moment he stared at Costello, who was on the floor, his legs twitching as his life drained out. Nick took out a handkerchief, wiped off his gun, then stooping down, placed it in Costello’s left hand. There was no strength in the limp fingers, and the gun dropped to the carpet.

  Nick stood up and moved across to the body of the dead man. He picked up Larry’s gun and stuck it in his pocket. By now Nick was sick at his stomach, and he held the handkerchief over his wounded face.

  “Come on, doll, let’s get out of here,” he said, and the two of them stumbled down the stairs. They walked down the street, ignoring the curious glance of a couple on the other side.

  “Nick, you’ve got to get to a hospital.”

  “Not right now, sweetheart,” Nick said. He managed a grin. “First, we get you to the arena…and then I got one more call to make—”

  When Tony Rocco woke up, he discovered that the nightmare he was having was real!

  Rocco was not afraid of guns, but he had a deathly fear of knives. In his dream, he
had felt the cold edge of steel on his throat. Now he came out of sleep instantly, and a voice that was as cold as the blade on his throat spoke. “Hello, Tony.”

  Rocco tried to move, but at once the blade bit into his flesh. He felt the blood running down his neck, over his chest…and a scream bubbled up in his throat. “Noooo! Don’t cut!”

  “Let’s have some light.” The gaslight blossomed, and the blade left his throat.

  Rocco shaded his eyes, peering at the four men who surrounded his bed. Terror shot through him, and he began to beg, “Now, let’s talk, boys! You know me! We can make a deal!”

  “We’re going to make a deal, Tony.” Rocco sat up in bed and saw Nick Castellano standing beside him.

  The left side of Nick’s face was bandaged, and he held a slender knife in his hand.

  “Marko…Pete!” Rocco called out in fear.

  “Why, they’re right here, Tony,” Nick said, motioning to the two men on his left. And here’s Alphonse.

  Tony stared at his hirelings, and the glitter in their eyes told him he was no longer their boss. “You sold me out!” he whispered. It was a moment he’d feared, as did all his kind. Obviously Nick Castellano had gotten to his men. “Look, you guys,” he babbled, “Whatever Nick promised you, I’ll give you more—”

  “You’re a little late, Tony. The boys and I have decided to…restructure the organization. You’ll still be up front, but I’ll be with you all the time.” He leaned forward and touched the tip of the blade to Rocco’s cheek. “All the time, Tony, baby…and if something happens to me, one of my partners here will see that you get sliced up.” Nick paused and then asked in a soft voice, “You wanna live, Tony?”

  “Yes—yes, Nick! I’ll do just what you say.”

  Nick Castellano’s one eye glittered. He knew that he would probably never see out of his left eye, but one was good enough. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Sonny and Larry got into a fight and knocked each other off. We’ll have to send lots of flowers to their funeral, won’t we, Tony?”