Savage Streets

by William P. McGivern

  “Did he recognize them?”

  “Certainly. Duke was there!”

  “Why didn’t he go to the police?”

  “We didn’t ask you that, did we? When you needed help you got it.”

  “Okay, listen to me, Det: I had a call from Jameson tonight. The kids who ran down Angey gave themselves up to the police. They’re sons of a doctor in Rosedale. So I made a mistake last night. Probably the biggest I ever made in my life. But I’m not making any more of the same kind.”

  Detweiller hesitated; then said coolly, “You won’t help Norton, is that it?”

  “Not this way.”

  “Malleck had you tagged, all right,” Detweiller said in a hard pleased voice and broke off the connection.

  Farrell pulled on his topcoat and went down to the sidewalk. He heard the sound of a motor starting, and saw the leaping flare of headlights as Detweiller’s long blue convertible swung out of the driveway and into the street. Farrell ran along the sidewalk, feeling the cold bitter wind on his cheeks and aware of the lonely sweep of leaves in the gutter. He went up the steps of Detweiller’s home and tried the door. The knob turned under his hand and he stepped into the foyer. Norton was sitting before the fireplace, his shoulders hunched as if against a bitter wind and his fingers locked tightly around a highball glass. There was a cut on his forehead, the dry blood gleaming in the soft light, and a red welt flamed across his face from temple to jawline. His lips were trembling and he was obviously close to a state of shock; but as he looked up at Farrell a faint and piteous accusation darkened his eyes.

  “You won’t help me,” he said. “You won’t lift a hand. Detweiller told me. I... I trusted you, John. I told you that just tonight, didn’t I? At that bar. What was it called? Ragoni’s?” He seemed ready to cry; his face was twisting helplessly and his voice shook like a frightened child’s. “Why won’t you help? Aren’t we friends?”

  “Finish that drink,” Farrell said. “Then tell me what happened tonight.”

  “They jumped me. You know that.”

  “Why should they pick on you? I’m the logical guy. Well, where did it happen?”

  “In Raynes Park.”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “I... I took Cinder for a walk. I thought I’d let her have a good run.”

  “But the park is three miles from here. Did you walk all the way?”

  “No, I drove. It sounds funny, I guess. You believe me, don’t you, John?”

  “What happened after you got to the park?”

  “I let Cinder loose. She ran around for a while and finally got interested in something in the bushes. I called her but she didn’t come back.” Norton’s face was pale and the tic at the corner of his mouth was very pronounced; it leaped in frantic rhythm as he talked, a tiny prisoner pounding for release. “Well, I went into the bushes to get her, and they were waiting there in the shadows. They started hitting me with their belts. I couldn’t do anything. I fell down and they kept hitting me. Finally I got up and ran out of the park.” Norton stood up abruptly and began pacing the floor, his movements jerky and erratic, his face twisting and tightening like a man in pain. “I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t let Janey see me.”

  “What happened to Cinder?”

  Norton looked at him blankly; then his expression became wary. “What do you mean?”

  “You say you ran out of the park. Did you leave Cinder there?”

  “Oh. I called her when I got to my car. She came running then. She’s well-trained, you know that.”

  “How many boys were there?”

  “Three or four anyway. We were in the shadows, so I’m guessing at the number.”

  “If it was that dark, how did you recognize Duke?”

  “I’m not likely to be mistaken about him.” Norton touched the welt on his cheeks. “He did that to me. But you think that’s okay. Fine and dandy, don’t you?” Norton’s voice broke. “What happens to me doesn’t matter. I’m in trouble but you browbeat me like a cop, picking at everything I tell you.”

  “Calm down,” Farrell said. “I’m trying to convince you not to go out and make a damn fool of yourself tonight. I don’t think you know who jumped you. But you — all of us — can’t think of anyone but the Chiefs. They’ve become an emotional bumping post for us. Like some handy minority group — anything goes wrong we turn around and knee them in the groin. Listen to me: did you ever see Duke before tonight?”

  “No...” Norton turned away and rubbed a hand over his lips quickly and harshly, as if trying to push the word back into his mouth.

  Farrell looked at him and said nothing. The silence grew deep and heavy, stretching and spreading until the faintest noises in the room — Norton’s dry swallow, the creak of a floorboard-sounded as clearly as pistol shots.

  “You can’t talk me out of it,” Norton said, breathing heavily. “You can’t trick me. A girl was there tonight and she kept shouting Duke’s name. She was yelling, ‘Hit him, Duke! Hit him, Duke!’ over and over again.”

  “Who was the girl?”

  “I didn’t see her. I just heard her shouting.”

  “Then how do you know which boy she meant?”

  “That’s none of your business. You won’t help me — you’re gutless, that’s what Detweiller said.”

  “For God’s sake, listen to me: you don’t know who did this job. Maybe it was the Chiefs — and maybe it wasn’t. Can’t you get that into your head?”

  “I’m going to pay them back,” Norton said. He stood with his back to Farrell, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  “How can I?” Farrell said wearily. “If you want to be a fool, the kind of righteous arrogant fool I was, I can’t stop you.”

  “They deserve what they’re going to get. They tried to smash my life, destroy everything I’ve worked for. Duke and that little bitch.” Norton was breathing rapidly, the sound harsh in the silent room. “While he was hitting me she loved it, laughed about it — she kept grinning and yelling, ‘Hit him, Duke, it’s him, hit him.’ ”

  “What did she mean, it’s him?”

  “Oh, she’s a wise little bitch all right,” Norton said in a ragged voice. Then he laughed softly. “She’s just a scheming little whore. Do you think I was taken in? I can spot that kind a mile away. I married a girl who taught me the difference between filth and goodness in women.”

  “You told me before you didn’t see her,” Farrell said slowly. “But you did. It was Cleo, wasn’t it?”

  “Cleo?” Norton stared at him with glazed eyes. “Why are you hounding me like this, John?” he said in an empty voice. “I need help. More than you know. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Good God,” Farrell said. He turned and walked slowly to the windows, rubbing one hand back and forth across his forehead. Outside the yellow street lamps cast thick circles of light on the street and sidewalks. In between them lay shadows and darkness. Light and darkness. Farrell put a hand against the wall to steady himself; the shock of understanding weakened him; it was as if the floor had shifted abruptly under his feet. He saw another pattern of light and darkness in his mind: the lights in the Chiefs’ clubhouse winking out, and he almost stumbling in the sudden darkness on the iron steps. A cold thread of fear twisted through him as he turned and stared at Norton.

  “What did you do to her?” he said.

  “Nothing, I swear it to God.”

  “Don’t lie. I left you alone with her. What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing, I swear it, I swear it.”

  Farrell walked across the room and took Norton by the shoulders. “You’re lying, goddamn you. This is what you want to be forgiven for. This is what you were trying to kill with Martinis.”

  “No, John — it’s not what you think.”

  Farrell shook him roughly. “You made a date with her tonight, didn’t you? You went to the park to meet her. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “I wanted to
explain — to apologize.” Norton’s voice sank to a ghastly whisper. “I respect you, John. Help me, for the love of God.”

  “You raped her,” Farrell said. “She told Duke and they waited for you in the park. Is that it?”

  “I couldn’t help myself. It was seeing you hit that boy, hearing the sound of the blows, and holding her while she struggled against me. Something happened to me. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I couldn’t stop.”

  Farrell let his arms fall to his sides and Norton sat down and began to weep, silently and terribly, the tears flowing through the vivid welts on his cheeks. “I wanted to fix it up, to make amends. That’s why I went to the park. Then Duke came out of the shadows and began hitting me. They wouldn’t listen. I begged them but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Now you want to go out and rough up Duke,” Farrell said. “Do you think that will solve things?”

  “I thought we could scare him or offer him money. Anything to keep him quiet. He’s the only one who knows about it.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “It would be my word against hers.”

  “It’s no good,” Farrell said. “No good at all.”

  “I can’t let Janey find out. I’ll kill him first. Janey couldn’t stand it.”

  “Maybe the girl won’t make a complaint.”

  “I can’t take that chance.”

  “You’ve got to,” Farrell said quietly, and something in his tone made Norton raise his head. “You’re not the only one involved in this deal. Hasn’t that occurred to you?”

  “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

  Farrell sighed. “That’s nice to know. But I intend to see that you don’t get us into more trouble.”

  “Will you help me, John? Later on, I mean. If this thing blows up in my face, will you stand by me? Maybe she won’t make a complaint. But we can’t be sure, can we?”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Will you stand by me? It’s feeling all alone that’s so terrible.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’ll stand by you. I’ll help you any way I can. But get this straight: we’re responsible for what we’ve done.” Farrell shook his head wearily. “I spent some time tonight playing around with that word. I decided what I’d done wasn’t so bad. Beat up the wrong guy, that’s all. It was an emotional mistake, not an intellectual one. I’d understand it in the next guy, so why not give myself a break? Human beings aren’t containers of cool orderly chemicals. They’re grab bags of impulses, animal need, racial memories, with a little bit of reasoning power sprinkled over the top.” Farrell smiled sadly. “It was a nice try. Nobody is completely responsible for what he does. Just partially or indirectly. I fished up a lot of cute adjectives. Tangential responsibility, peripheral responsibility, unpremeditated responsibility. I had the semantic scalpel honed to a fine edge. When I got through the word responsibility was nothing but a pile of shavings.” Farrell was no longer smiling; his face and eyes were bitter. “Then I realized I was just lying to myself.”

  “Am I solely responsible for what I’ve done?” Norton said slowly; he was frowning at Farrell, a puzzled and anxious child facing a man’s problems. “Isn’t anyone else to blame? Even indirectly?”

  “I don’t know,” Farrell said. “I don’t think so.”

  “I couldn’t live with that feeling.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around. You couldn’t live with yourself unless you do face it.”

  A horn sounded in front of the house and Farrell recognized the blast of Detweiller’s convertible.

  “I’m not going with them,” Norton said quickly, and rubbed the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I’ll tell them I changed my mind. I’ll tell them I’m not sure. But you’ve got to help me. Will you promise me that, John?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  The horn sounded again and Norton hurried across the room. “Thanks, John. I know what I’ve got to do.” He opened the door and disappeared into the darkness. Farrell heard his heels ringing on the sidewalk. And then, as he was about to light a cigarette, Farrell heard the slam of a car door and the smooth accelerating roar of a motor. He paused with the match flaring an inch or two from his cigarette. The silence descended slowly with a sense of finality.

  Farrell swore and ran to the door. The street was empty and dark, but in the next block the four distinctive tail lights of Detweiller’s car were drawing away from him, to swing in glowing arcs at the intersection and then disappear abruptly into the night.

  “Goddamn him,” Farrell said, the wind whipping the words away from his lips. “Goddamn him for a fool.”

  Farrell ran down the sidewalk to his own home. He would have liked to do nothing at all; except lock the door behind him and let Norton and Detweiller and Malleck rush on to their own separate disasters. And for an instant — hesitating with the phone in his hand — he was tempted to stand aside and let matters take their course. But he knew in his heart it was too late for that.

  He dialed the Hayrack police and asked for Lieutenant Jameson. When the lieutenant answered Farrell said: “This is John Farrell, Lieutenant. I’ll give you this fast. Three of my neighbors just left here to settle a score personally with the Chiefs.”

  “Just left, you say? When, exactly?”

  “Two or three minutes ago.”

  “Hang on a second.”

  Jameson returned in the time it took Farrell to light a cigarette. “Okay, the signal is out to our patrol. What was this all about, Mr. Farrell?”

  “I’m not sure,” Farrell said.

  “Anything else to tell me?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Thanks for the tip. You’ve done your friends a favor.”

  Farrell replaced the phone in its cradle, but almost immediately it rang shrilly in the silence. Farrell picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “John? This is Janey Norton. It’s a terrible hour to call. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. What is it, Janey?”

  “I hate to be a nuisance. How’s Angey? Still on the mend?”

  “Coming along fine, I think.”

  “I just don’t think I could bear it if anything happened to that lovely child.”

  Farrell hesitated, then said: “What’s up, Janey?”

  “This is silly, but I’m worried about Wayne. He took Cinder out for a walk ages ago and he’s not back yet.”

  “Maybe he stopped for a beer or something.”

  She laughed softly and said, “You don’t know him as well as I do, I guess. That’s the sort of thing he doesn’t care for. Sometimes I tease him about being tied to my apron strings — I tell him he should play poker and go bowling, but he just smiles and says if he liked that sort of tiling he wouldn’t have got married in the first place.”

  Farrell put a hand to his forehead. He felt trapped; he had the sensation of being enclosed and smothered by a ghastly kind of innocence. She knew all about her husband, of course. He wouldn’t stop for a beer. Not steady old Wayne. They knew all about each other, accepting the apparent for the truth and destroying one another with trust.

  “John?”

  “I was thinking, Janey, he might have gone over to the Boulevard for the papers. Supposing I drive over and pick him up?”

  “I don’t want you to go to all that trouble.”

  “I’m going out anyway, Janey. Why don’t you get back to bed now?”

  “Well, all right, John. And thanks loads. I know I’m a fusspot, but when I woke up the house seemed so funny and quiet without him.”

  “That’s right,” Farrell said pointlessly. “Get back to sleep now.”

  “I guess I will. Thanks so much, John.”

  Farrell put on his topcoat and went out to his car. He had no idea of how he would bring Wayne Norton home to his wife. But he felt he had to try.

  The night was mild and he drove toward Hayrack with the windows down, appreciating the cool air on his face. He drove carefully
, wary of the occasional cars that flashed out of the darkness and more than ordinarily alert for pedestrians and traffic signals. He felt curiously vulnerable, exposed to attack from all quarters; there was no tolerance left for errors tonight, he thought, no leeway for mistakes or miscalculations.

  Farrell reached Hayrack ten minutes after leaving his home. Somewhere off to his right he heard the rising cry of a police siren. The sound climbed high above him, then fell in a dying wail as he turned into Matt Street, a block north of the Chiefs’ clubhouse.

  Three police cars were parked at the curb in front of the warehouse, the lights above their windshields swinging in slow circles, crisscrossing the windows of shops and tenements with bars of brilliant red light. Farrell parked and climbed out of his car. A crowd was collecting, alerted by the scent of trouble; men were running down the sidewalk, turning occasionally to shout at one another, and there were excited human clusters in the dark doorways of the shops along the street. A brilliant white beam moved over the front of the warehouse, probing at cornices and windows like a mighty lance. The siren Farrell had heard was upon him now, the banshee wail exploding as the squad car swept around the corner and came to a swaying, expert stop at the entrance to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Windows were opening in rooming houses and apartments and the sound of TV music and laughter spilled eerily over the swelling noise of the crowd and sharp shouted orders from police officers.

  Farrell started across the street but a uniformed patrolman blocked his way. “Go on home, Jack,” he said. “Get the details in the morning papers.”

  “I’ve got to see Lieutenant Jameson.”

  “He’s busy, Jack. I told you, go on home.”

  Farrell saw Detweiller and Malleck then; they were enclosed in a knot of police at the entrance to the clubhouse. He shook himself free from the patrolman’s hand, shoving him aside with desperate strength, and ran past the police cars to where Malleck and Detweiller stood with Lieutenant Jameson and several uniformed patrolmen.

  In the sweeping red light of the squad cars Detweiller’s broad face was the color of putty. He looked as if he might be sick at any minute; his lips were trembling and each breath he drew sent a shudder through his body. Farrell caught his shoulder. “What happened, Det? What happened?”