“How about that winchman? The police don’t think he was responsible. Do you?”
“If the police are satisfied I am,” said Murdock. “Just an unavoidable accident, I’d say.”
As they turned to leave Colletti said something to Nellie Cosimo in rapid Italian. The woman’s face darkened, but she bit her lip and did not reply.
Outside the office Jackson grinned and asked the little Italian what he had said.
“I say I think maybe she’sa double-cross Italian working people.” Colletti’s brown eyes flashed angrily. “I say maybe I cut her heart out.”
Jackson put his hand on the little man’s shoulder. “That’s no talk for a union representative,” he said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.
Colletti shook his head. “I don’ta say it as union man. I speaka Italiano. She understand.”
Jackson patted his shoulder and gave up.
Melius said, “That old redheaded pug-ugly Murdock was pretty meek, considering the way we busted in on him.”
“He’sa maybe scared a little bit,” said Colletti proudly.
Jackson pursed his lips thoughtfully. “We kept him from firing the winchman anyway. As far as the rest of it goes it doesn’t mean a thing till it’s down on paper.”
“I guess you’re right.” Melius heaved his big bulk out through the street door into the sunlight. He was sweating and he took out a big blue handkerchief and mopped his face. “Think he’ll sign that contract?”
Jackson shook his head.
“What’ll we do if he don’t?”
“I don’t know,” said Jackson.
“I think we ought to strike.”
Jackson looked into the little hard eyes, and this time it was Melius who looked away. A ghost of a smile curled Jackson’s lips. “I know you do,” he said.
Melius left Jackson and Colletti in front of the Union Hall, walked west two blocks, and caught a bus. In the bus he sat wheezing and drumming nervously with his hairy fingers on the seat. The interview with Murdock had upset him. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. Fight, fight, fight all the time—he was tired of it. He looked wistfully out the bus window at the shop fronts. If Mollie had only lived maybe he would have gotten out of the union and bought a little business like she had wanted him to. Then he would have some peace and quiet. But Mollie was dead, and it was too late to get out now. He hadn’t saved any money and he didn’t know anything except trade-union work. His self-pity slopped over, and his eyes became a little moist. He sighed gustily and then looked around to see if anyone was watching him.
He climbed out of the bus after it had gone a dozen blocks, walked west again a half block, and grunted his way up the steep stoop of a frowzy four-story brick house that had a sign in the window that said, “Vacancy.”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Melius,” said the woman who opened the door. She was of indeterminate age with traces of former attractiveness that she made the most of. She was not the type of woman who runs to fat, and her figure, though a little angular, was still passably good. She had a sharp, thin face and a voice to match. “Uh-huh, it’s me,” puffed Melius. “Doc Painter in?”
“He’s asleep. He worked overtime last night.”
Melius pushed past her into the hall. “I’ll go up and rout him out. He’s got a meeting this afternoon.”
“Is he working for the union now? He didn’t tell me anything.” Melius gave the woman a sly look. “He’s workin’ for the union but he ain’t gettin’ paid for it. Them days is gone forever. Tough, ain’t it?”
“What do I care as long as he pays the rent?” The woman turned her back huffily and disappeared down the dingy, smelly hall. Melius was chuckling wheezily when he banged his fist on a door upstairs.
A key turned in the lock, and a face that was mostly nose peered out. “Oh, it’s you, Jim,” said the face. “Come in.”
Painter was wearing tight-fitting dungarees and a singlet. His bare arms were long and lean, with a black matting of hair on the forearms and wrists and hands. There were a lot of jokes about what a shame it was that Doc Painter couldn’t grow hair on his head the way he did on the rest of his anatomy. His high, narrow forehead continued straight up over a bare, bumpy scalp, and the bald dome, long-beaked nose and scrawny, corded neck made him look like a bird of prey. His rapacious appearance was offset, however, by a record that had won him the respect of his union brothers despite the fact that he had been a paid business agent under the old racketeering leadership. Even in the old days Doc Painter had earned the reputation of being a square shooter, never taking a kickback or selling a union card or pulling any of the other phony rackets that were expected of labor-faking union officials as a matter of course. As a result, when the racketeering Weller was finally exposed and thrown out of the union Doc had been elected as a member of the committee to negotiate a new contract with the Eastcoast Steamship Company.
Having swung the door wide to admit Melius, Painter closed it again and stood rubbing the back of a thumbnail across his stubby chin and looking at the union president.
“What induced you to cart your fat carcass all the way up here?” he asked.
Melius did not answer immediately. He lowered himself into an overstuffed chair with a long sigh and looked around the large, well-furnished room.
“You’ve got a nice place here, Doc,” he said. “What’s it set you back?”
“Eight bucks a week.”
“And I pay seven for that joint of mine.” Melius sighed again. “You’ve got a pretty nice-looking landlady, too, and I’ve got an old hag. Say, Doc, you wouldn’t be puttin’ out anything besides cash for this joint, would you?”
Painter said without rancor: “Why, you fat, evil-minded old son of a bitch, Kate’s a respectable woman. She’s an old friend of mine.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at Melius. “You didn’t come up here to insult my landlady. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much. Just wanted to talk to you about that meeting this afternoon.”
“What about it?” Painter started the hot water running in the washbasin in one corner of the room and took a shaving mug, brush, and straight razor from the medicine cabinet above the bowl. While they talked he lathered his face and shaved, drawing the keen edge of the razor over his leathery skin in long, sure strokes.
“Crane cable broke on Pier 40 this morning,” said Melius. “Old man Kelly was killed and another fellow had his legs broke.”
“It’s happened before,” said Painter bitterly. “We got to do something about these accidents.”
“The boys are getting pretty impatient. They’re talking strike.” Melius looked at Painter out of the corner of his eye.
Painter apparently didn’t see the look. “I’m for it myself,” he said, speaking out of the side of his mouth opposite the razor. “That is, if old Murdock doesn’t sign the new contract.”
“He won’t,” said Melius.
“I know it.”
Melius didn’t say anything, and Painter turned and looked at him. “Well?”
“Jackson’s against it. He says we’re not ready.”
“You’re president of the union, ain’t you?”
“Yeah. But Jackson’s the one the men’ll listen to. They think he’s a regular tin Jesus since he led the fight against Weller.”
“Too bad you didn’t have a little more guts yourself,” said Painter dryly.
“It wasn’t guts—I was dumb. What’s that the Reds always say? No confidence in the masses.”
“Crap,” said Painter. He put down the razor and wiped his face on a towel. “How mariy of the committee’ll vote strike? There’s you and me and that hotheaded little wop, Colletti. And young Burke, too, probably. How about Jackson’s buddy?”
“Whitey Gordon? He’s for strike. He told me so a couple days ago.”
“So that’s five out of eight. That leaves Riorden, Sangster, and Jackson. You talk to Riorden, and he’ll probably see it our way. So we call a meeti
ng tonight and outvote Jackson. That’s all.”
“It’s got to be ratified by the membership,” objected Melius. “The membership’ll back up the committee. They’re hot for strike anyway.”
“How’ll we handle it so the committee members don’t change their minds when Jackson gets to work on them?”
Painter kicked a chair around and sat down in front of Melius.
“Here’s how we handle it,” he said. “You and me don’t start the strike talk, see? We let young Gordon handle it. Then it’ll develop into a battle between Jackson and his side-kick, and when we side with Gordon that’ll settle it.”
“Okay,” said Melius. “I think we gotta strike. It’s a chance, but we gotta take it.”
“So do I,” said Painter. “Jackson’s wrong, that’s all.”
“You think he’s okay?” asked Melius.
Painter’s face showed surprise. “Don’t you?”
Melius stood up. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It stands to reason Murdock’s got a stool pigeon in the outfit somewhere,” said Painter quietly, “but I don’t think it’s Jackson. You better not let him or the boys hear you.”
Melius nodded. “No, I guess it ain’t Jackson,” he said. He moved toward the door. “I gotta get on back to the hall. When’ll I see you?”
“Soon as I get some breakfast,” said Painter. He winked. “My landlady makes it for me.”
2. Rat
There was a shiny black car with sporty trimmings parked in front of Danny’s Bar when Jackson turned the corner into East Street. He slowed to examine it. A car like that on East Street, on a night when there were no sailings, spelled racket with a capital R, and so did the man in the black chesterfield and pearl-gray snap-brim hat who sat in the open front door.
The man was playing with a half-grown brindle puppy, cuffing and tumbling it, his white hand darting in and out like the head of a striking snake, but always avoiding the small, sharp, snapping teeth. He did not speak or laugh as the average man does under similar circumstances but was serious and intent, as though it were of prime importance to him to be able to worry and annoy the dog without being bitten. Jackson knew the type and felt sorry for the little dog if it should succeed in catching the deftly moving hand.
Jackson paused in the doorway; the man looked up, his eyes like red glass in the reflected light of Danny’s neon signs. There was something familiar about the face, and Jackson wondered where he had seen it before.
Inside Danny’s the tables in the front room were empty, but a dozen customers lined the long bar, and a lone hooker sat in the rear room, drinking beer and peering out through the archway in the latticed partition with predatory eyes. Jackson walked past a drunken longshoreman and a water-front bum trying to wheedle a drink and squeezed himself in beside two seamen from the pier of the Holland American Line who were jabbering Dutch at each other.
“Beer,” he grunted at the white-coated bartender.
He passed a long-fingered hand over his face and looked at his reflection in the bar mirror. The blue eyes of the reflection peered back at him quizzically from a leathery, tanned face.
“Has Whitey Gordon been in?” he asked as the bartender slid his beer over the wet bar.
“Haven’t seen him. He’ll be along though. He always comes in for a beer before a union meeting.”
Jackson nodded. He drank half of the beer and then set the glass down and stared thoughtfully at the amber contents. Had it really been Whitey whose trouser leg he had seen going out the private door of Murdock’s office? What would Whitey be doing hobnobbing with the boss?
Jackson thought of the tight spots he and Whitey had been in together. They had organized the first rank-and-file group in the union two years ago when they had to meet in cellars and back rooms to keep Weller from finding out who the leaders were and blackballing them. All through those tough days youthful, stubby, pug-nosed Whitey had fought with him shoulder to shoulder against the union’s racketeering leadership, never once faltering or crying quits. Now that the fight was practically won it was ridiculous to think of Gordon turning yellow. It was worse than ridiculous—it was a breach of faith. And yet, why was Whitey in Murdock’s office?
Jackson frowned and shook his head at his reflection. If you don’t trust Gordon whom will you trust? he asked himself. You’ve got to trust someone, you suspicious idiot.
A voice at his elbow said, “Hi, Jack,” and he looked down to see Gordon’s round face, topped by its pale yellow thatch, grinning up at him.
“What were you doing in Murdock’s office this morning?” he asked without preamble.
Gordon acted as though he had been half expecting the question. “I guess I was kinda out on a limb, Jack,” he said. “I blew my top because the boss Stevie on Consolidated Fruit threw me off the pier for collecting dues during working hours. So I went to Murdock and told him he couldn’t get away with that stuff. Hell, when Weller was running things his goons would have dumped you off the pier if you were a month behind—and the boss Stevie, too, if he got tough. Then while I was there in Murdock’s office the news of the accident came in and——”
“Wait a minute,” Jackson interrupted. His tone was quiet and conversational, but his eyes were hard. “Since when do you handle grievances all by yourself?”
Gordon did not look up. He ran his finger along the edge of the bar, following a long scar in the wood. “I was sore,” he said. “I didn’t stop to think.”
“You thought pretty fast when you heard Melius and me outside the door.”
Gordon started. “Melius didn’t see me, did he?”
“I came in first,” said Jackson. “Lucky I did. If Melius had got a squint of your tail going through that door he’d sure paint a pretty picture for the union membership. One union leader sneaking out of the boss’s office when another one comes in. Anybody but you, and I’d say it looked like the old double cross.”
Whitey looked up and met Jackson’s eyes for the first time.
“You big lug,” he said, “are you hinting——?”
“Keep your shirt on. I said anybody but you. You’re just about the one guy I trust in this yellow-bellied outfit.” He downed the drink setting in front of him and turned his hard blue eyes on the smaller man. “But don’t think I’m excusing you for acting like a damn fool. Hotheads may have the best intentions in the world, but sometimes they can hurt a union damn near as much as stool pigeons.”
Gordon winced and opened his mouth to reply angrily.
“Shut up,” Jackson snapped. “You got it coming and you’re going to listen and like it. You didn’t hurt the union this morning but the next time you might damn near wreck it, and if anything like that happened I’d be the first one to crucify you. Don’t think I wouldn’t. Remember that next time you lose your head.”
“All right.” Gordon choked down his anger. His voice took on an injured tone. “You’re right but you don’t have to be so damn righteous about it. Some guys are human, not cold-blooded fish like you.”
Jackson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Never mind that,” he said. “You going to behave yourself from now on?”
The two men looked at each other, and both began to grin. “Okay, Papa, you old pain in the neck,” said Gordon. “I’ll stay in line.”
He ordered a beer.
“Who’s the punk parked out front, Max?” he asked the bartender.
Max craned his neck over the half curtains. “Bennie Augustino.”
“Bennie Augustino?” Jackson arched his brows and cocked his head quizzically toward the front curtains. “You don’t say.”
“You look like a bird dog,” grinned Whitey. “You know him?”
“Sure. He was with Swede Jensen when we ran the Swede off the Frisco water front. I thought there was something familiar about him.”
“You think Weller’s got him down here cooking something up?”
Jackson shrugged. “Could be. Weller’ll make a final play before he�
��s through.”
Gordon leaned his elbows on the bar. “Once we get a new contract signed——”
“Contract!” Jackson interrupted explosively. “With that gang of yellowbellies we got on the union committee! Look!” He turned to Gordon and held up a large, calloused hand. “Who’ve we got? Melius and Doc Painter? They were on the committee when Fink Weller was running things. The boys elected them because they’re old heads, but I’m wise to them. They missed the gravy train and they’re sore: too much work and no rake-off. They’d sell the union down the river tomorrow for a chance to get back to the good old days and the good old graft. Riorden? He’s old and needs his job too much to risk it fighting rats. And who else have we got to represent the union? Colletti? He’s a nice little guy but he doesn’t know what it’s all about and that big windbag Melius has him buffaloed.”
He pushed back his hat and ordered another beer. “You ask me,” he finished disgustedly, “the committee stinks.”
“Don’t be like that,” Gordon said. “They’re the committee the boys elected, and we gotta work with them.”
“Okay, I’ll work with them but I won’t trust them—Sangster and you and maybe pretty-boy Burke, but not the rest of them.”
A voice behind them said, “Whatdya mean, maybe?”
Jackson and Gordon swung around. A tall, hatless youngster with black curly hair was standing there looking at them. He was a little drunk and swayed slightly. In his blue dungarees with the bright steel hook shoved through the belt and his khaki shirt open at the throat, he looked like a college boy playing longshoreman.
“Whatdya mean, maybe?” he repeated, “and where do you get that ‘pretty-boy’?”
“Hey, Tommy, pipe down,” said Gordon, “you’re drunk.” Tommy Burke laughed. “Yeah, I’m drunk. I’m just drunk enough to tell this big lug off. I’m sick of his guff. Look, sour puss”—he tossed his head at Jackson—“you’ve been trying to run things ever since we got rid of Weller. Who the hell do you think you are, his successor?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then flicked sidewise at the customers lining the bar. He downed his beer and set the glass on the bar. “Serves me right for shooting my face off in a joint,” he said. “Come on, you guys. We’re due at the Union Hall right now.” He turned to the bar and paid for his drinks while Burke hesitated uncertainly. Gordon took Burke’s arm and urged him gently toward the door. He spoke in a low voice. “Shut up, kid, and let’s get out of here. How’d it look for two of the union’s new leaders to be scrapping in a saloon?”
Death on the Waterfront Page 2