Death on the Waterfront

by Robert Archer

  Burke grumbled but yielded to the steady pressure on his arm. As they approached the door it opened, and the man Jackson had seen playing with the brindle puppy came in.

  He was a little man, standing not more than five feet six in his built-up heels and weighing about a hundred and thirty-five, if you discounted the padding in the shoulders of the chesterfield. He stood very straight, as though trying to appear taller than he was, and would have been a ridiculous figure were it not for his eyes. The eyes were opaque and expressionless, as though there was nothing behind them—no emotion, no thoughts. They gave him the faintly horrible appearance of a walking automaton. He ignored the other men in the bar and came straight to Burke, stopping when they were very close but not touching. His hands were in the pockets of the chesterfield.

  “Hello, Tommy.” His voice was as expressionless as his eyes. Burke stared. “Bennie! What are you doing here?”

  “Just trying to collect a little bill. You want to talk to me about it?”

  “Why, yeah. Sure. Sure,” breathed Burke. He had difficulty speaking. He was very frightened.

  Gordon started to speak but stopped when Jackson put a hand on his sleeve. “Hello, Bennie,” Jackson said. “Remember me?”

  The pale eyes flicked to Jackson’s face, then held there for a long minute. Muscles tightened along the line of Bennie’s jaw. “You’re Jackson. You had me beaten once. I swore I’d blast you and I ought to do it right now.”

  Jackson’s arms hung loosely at his sides. He smiled. “Why don’t you?”

  “Hey, you mugs,” called the bartender. “No rough stuff here. I’ll call the cops.”

  Without shifting his gaze Bennie said, “Quiet, punk.”

  “You’ll keep,” he told Jackson. “Business is business, and blasting you would be a pleasure. I’ll see you later.” He looked at Burke. “Well?”

  Burke said, “Sure, sure,” again with a kind of hysterical urgency. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll see you later.”

  Bennie Augustino laughed, a shrill, mirthless sound like the scream of a sea gull. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said. “We’ll both see you later.”

  He followed Burke toward a booth at the rear of the room, his shoulders very straight, his hands still in the pockets of his chesterfield.

  Gordon expelled his breath in a long sigh. “For God’s sake.” They started again toward the door. The bartender leaned over the angle of the bar and whispered to Jackson, “Watch yourself, brother. That guy may be a rat, but he’s dynamite when your back’s turned and he sure hates your guts.”

  Jackson nodded: “He’s got a right to. He’s like the Chinese; he lost face with me once and he’ll never get over it.”

  The bartender looked blank. “I don’t get you, brother.”

  “Skip it, brother,” said Gordon ironically. They went out.

  They walked south and then east toward the hall. Wind blew against them as they turned the corner, bending their hat brims across their eyes and trailing sparks like a starry banner from the pipe Jackson had lit, so that he had to cup a hand over the bowl. Gordon pumped his short fat legs to keep up with the taller man’s rolling stride.

  “Whatdya s’pose that heel wanted with Tommy?” asked Gordon.

  Jackson mumbled unintelligibly around the stem of his pipe. It was something about bangtails.

  3. Stool Pigeon

  Light beat down on the scarred table top and on the faces of the men seated in the small, bare room. Smoke hung in a heavy pall, and the air was fetid and stale.

  Jackson circled the table and threw up one of the two windows. “Might as well have some air in here,” he said quietly. “We don’t want to be gassed before we get started.”

  Colletti grinned broadly. “Gassed,” he repeated. “Datsa good joke, huh, Jack?”

  Melius’ small, hard eyes glittered at Jackson. “If anyone’s gassed out it won’t be you,” he boomed. He pounded his fist on the table, setting up little eddies of dust. “Where the hell’s Burke? We’re all set to open the meeting except for him.”

  “Stop bellowing.” Painter’s chair was tipped back against the wall. His face, shadowed by his hat, looked dark and predatory. “With that window open they can hear you clear down on the docks. This is supposed to be a private meeting.”

  Jackson and Whitey Gordon sat down at the table on the side nearest the door. Unspoken, under-the-surface antagonisms made the room electric with tension.

  “I suggest we get started.” Jackson’s inquiring, speculative gaze shifted from face to face. “Burke’s down in Danny’s Bar. He’ll be along in a minute.”

  Sangster, the huge, calm-faced Negro, said in his soft organ voice, “Ah second that.”

  Jackson glanced at him, and their eyes met. The Negro’s big head was like a patient, firm rock in a swiftly moving stream. He wouldn’t say much but he wouldn’t be moved or submerged easily.

  “Why didn’t you bring him along?” Melius was asking. “You know damn well we ought to have a full committee for this meeting.”

  Doc Painter stirred impatiently. “For Godsake, let’s get on with it,” he said.

  Riorden, the small, middle-aged man with the bent shoulders, asked timidly, “Is Tommy drinking again?”

  Whitey laughed. “When did he stop?”

  “He promised...” Riorden’s voice trailed off in a sigh, and his watery blue eyes dropped.

  “I go bringa him.” Colletti popped out of his chair.

  “Is this a union or the W.C.T.U.?” Painter asked acidly.

  “Sit down.” Melius’ hairy fist pounded the table again. “We’ve got too much business to go chasing around after drunks. It’s been moved and seconded...Oh, what the hell, let’s get going.”

  He paused and glared challengingly. He had the explosive, dangerous force of an overheated boiler.

  “Okay,” he continued when no one accepted the challenge. “You all know what we’re here for. Murdock and Eastcoast have refused us a new contract. The old one’s full of holes, and they’ll scrap even that if we don’t do something soon. The point is, what are we going to do?”

  The front feet of Doc Painter’s chair came down on the floor with a bang. He pushed back his hat, and his face showed pale in the fierce light. “Three men have been killed and a dozen badly injured in the last six months,” he said. “The Coastwise docks have become deathtraps. Eastcoast pays less than any other union outfit on the water front, but they won’t spend the money they save on our wages in new equipment. And there’s another thing—these accidents are bad business. Last week a whole sling load went over the side into the drink, and we never did get any of it back—that don’t do Murdock or the company any good. If it keeps up shippers are going to take their cargo somewheres else, and Eastcoast is going to whistle. Now that looks like Murdock was cutting off his nose to spite his face, but he isn’t—he’s just being foxy. He’s willing to lose business to put the union on the rocks and bring back Sam Weller——”

  Jackson’s quiet, firm tones cut in. “Fink Weller and his goons are through on this water front. He won’t come back—now or ever. The men’ll see to that.”

  “That’s what you think.” Painter’s tone was bitter. “I’ve been in this union longer than you have. I know Sam Weller and his gang——”

  “Maybe datsa da trouble,” said Colletti softly. “Maybe somea bambino in dis union know Weller too good, huh?”

  Painter spoke with slow contempt. “Why, you damned little guinea——”

  “Here, here, cut that out.” Melius’ red face swung from side to side, and he hammered inevitably on the table. “We got enough trouble without you birds starting in on each other. I’m waiting to hear some suggestions that make sense.”

  “I’ll tell you something makes sense,” said Whitey Gordon suddenly. “Strike! That makes sense.”

  “Datsa what I say,” Colletti shouted excitedly. “No contract, no work. We fixa dat Murdock.”

  Jackson looked from Colletti to Riord
en and Sangster. The Negro’s jaw was set, his face serious. Riorden’s eyes showed apprehension, and his gnarled hands moved nervously. Strike was not a word these men took lightly. It was the ultimate action, the last desperate weapon to be used when all else failed, and these men knew from bitter experience that it could be a two-edged weapon. They were thinking now of the bitter struggle—of hunger and tightened belts and of possible defeat and disaster should the strike be broken and lost. Yet they would strike if he told them that was the correct way and the only way.

  Jackson let out his breath in a long sigh. He had never quite been able to accustom himself to this responsibility over the very lives of other working men. He was never able to take leadership complacently.

  Gordon was on his feet now, his youthful face flushed, his words tripping over each other in his eagerness. “We gotta strike,” he shouted, “we gotta, that’s all. It’s the only way to make the docks safe. It’s the only way to get decent wages and working conditions. It’s the only way to save the union and keep rank-and-file control. It’s the only way to keep out Weller and his goons.”

  Painter took the floor after Gordon. There was a gleam in his eye, but his face was sober, and his voice temporized. What did the men think? he asked. What was the sentiment on the dock? The men would strike if the committee voted it, but they had to be ready. Some of the committee knew more about that than he, Painter, did. He’d like to hear from them.

  “We don’t want to get swept off our feet and rush this thing,” he said, sitting down.

  All eyes turned on Jackson. Everyone was through now, waiting for him. He got slowly to his feet.

  “It’s no secret what the men think,” he said. “They don’t like these accidents and they don’t like low pay and stinking working conditions. Of course, they’re dissatisfied. But this strike talk is something else again. That doesn’t come from the rank and file of the union membership. The rank and file knows it’s barely a month since we finally got rid of Weller and his gang and set up a real democratic union. They know it takes longer than that to establish unity and put the new organization on a firm basis. They know that has to be done before we engage in a successful strike. They know our treasury is empty and that it takes money to carry on a strike. They know that Weller still has his stooges in the union under cover and that Murdock has his stool pigeons. They know that these rats are only waiting for a chance to come out in the open and try to oust the present leadership and sell the local down the river to Weller and Murdock.

  “And that brings me to the source of all this strike talk. I think Murdock and Weller are counting on a strike. I think this agitation comes from them and I think we have to be very careful we don’t strike before we’re ready and play right into their hands.”

  Whitey turned his flushed face toward Jackson, opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it when he saw the hard light in Jackson’s blue eyes.

  It was Doc Painter who spoke. “You wouldn’t be calling anyone a stool pigeon, would you, Jack?” he asked softly.

  The room was very quiet. Jackson hesitated a moment before he answered, and when he did he spoke slowly, choosing his words with care.

  “If I had definite evidence of a stool pigeon in this outfit I wouldn’t hint about him. I’d name him and tell what I knew about him and then I’d try to be the first one to get my hands on the rat’s throat. The trouble is I don’t know anything—I only know Murdock and Weller and how they work and I think that if we have a stool pigeon in the union he’s agitating strike.”

  “That’s a fine thing to say,” Melius blustered. “What you’re doing is casting suspicion on anyone who believes we ought to strike. You got no right to do that, Jack.”

  “I’m not casting suspicion on anyone,” said Jackson soberly. “I’m simply saying what the boss wants and that if we strike now we’ll be playing right into his hands.”

  “You don’t scare me,” said Painter. “I’m no stool pigeon and I still agree with Gordon. I say we have to strike and I’m calling for a vote.”

  “I second that,” shouted Gordon. “I don’t care who it is—nobody’s going to call me a stool pigeon.”

  Jackson looked at him, smiling a little. “Sit down, you crazy jumping jack,” he said. “No one called you anything, and you know it.” He spread his hands on the table and made one final appeal. “I’m not against a strike, boys—when we’re ready for it. When we’re prepared and organized—when we’ve built up a strike fund and run out the phonies. When that time comes we’ll strike and strike fast and then we won’t telegraph our punch——”

  Riorden laughed suddenly. It was a raucous, grating laugh that made Jackson pause in surprise. He looked at the little man and saw that although he was laughing there was terror in his eyes. Riorden was laughing because he was afraid.

  Gordon saw it too. “What the devil’s the matter with you?” he asked. “What are you laughing at?”

  Riorden’s laughter died as quickly as it had begun. He gripped the table and half rose from his chair, speaking with a kind of despairing intensity like the barking of a small dog.

  “What am I laughing at?” he snarled. “What am I laughing at? You, you dumb apes—all of you. Sitting here talking and thinking you can outsmart men like Murdock and Weller.”

  He swung on Jackson. “So we have to be careful and not telegraph our punches, do we? That’s a real laugh. Have you ever noticed how Murdock takes the play away from us every time we meet with him? Have you ever noticed how he seems to know just what we’re going to say and do? And how each time he takes the wind out of our sails before we have a chance to speak our piece? I’m askin’ you, all of you, have you ever noticed that?” Spittle formed at the corners of Riorden’s mouth, and he paused to wipe it away. Some inkling of his meaning was beginning to dawn on his listeners, and the room was tense and very still.

  “So what?” asked Jackson softly. “What are you trying to say, Pop?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” answered Riorden. His voice lost some of its intensity and became old and bitter. “I wasn’t going to say nothing until I’d found out for sure. But I can’t stand it—I can’t stand it, see. Some of you’ve been saying I’m a chiseler and a petty crook, when there’s no more loyal union man in this room than me, and one, at least, that’s a lot worse.”

  Melius said: “What——?” and stopped as Riorden drew a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and threw it on the table in front of Jackson.

  “I’m not sayin’ that’s yours,” said Riorden. “I’m only sayin’ where I found it—under the blotter of your desk.”

  Jackson picked the paper up and unfolded it carefully. It was the thin, flimsy type known as onionskin, and the close single-space typing on it looked as though it had been made with a carbon paper. It bore no date and was headed only by the cryptic salutation: “A to B: Personal.”

  While the other men, with the exception of Riorden, leaned over his shoulders Jackson read aloud:

  “This is to supplement the detailed report received from me yesterday. Strike sentiment is growing fast among the men on Piers 1 and 2, and I’ve helped it along all I could without having it traced to me. There is also considerable talk on Pier 3, but the workers there, being mostly colored, are not so free about their feelings.

  I think we can be pretty safe now in offering the union the old contract, since there is not one chance in a thousand that they will accept and the offer would make good publicity in a strike situation.

  The Negotiating Committee of the union meets tomorrow night and will probably vote strike, but the decision will have to be referred to the membership, and that will not take place until Friday night. We should be prepared for action by Saturday or Monday, at the latest.

  In line with your suggestion I have sounded out a number of men and found a few that we can count on, but most of them are fed up on the old line, and you’ll have to really take your hand off your heart if you expect to get anywhere. Let me know by re
turn mail how much you will lay on the line, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  Jackson finished reading and looked up, straight into the red, scowling face and hostile eyes of Jim Melius. Their gaze locked, and for a long moment no one in the room spoke.

  At last Gordon broke the silence. “I’m damned if I believe it,” he blurted. “It’s a frame—that’s what it is—a lousy, stinking frame!”

  “Frame, hell!” gritted Melius from between his teeth. “The thing’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  He shook a hairy fist at Jackson. “Why, you——”

  “Wait!” Jackson slammed the fist aside. He stood up, his eyes blazing.

  “Don’t say it, Jim!” He took a deep breath, his eyes moving slowly around the circle. “Don’t one of you say it. I’ve never been called a stool pigeon and I’ll break the man in two who calls me one now. This”—he rapped his knuckles sharply and contemptuously on the paper—“this is just what Whitey says it is—a frame—planted by someone so dumb that I’m surprised the rat couldn’t think of a better stunt.”

  He placed his clenched fists on the table and leaned forward, his hot eyes searching the other men’s faces.

  “You know me,” he continued. “You may not trust my honesty but you know I’m not dumb. Would I have written out a spy report and then left a copy of it right here in the Union Hall on my own desk? Look at the setup. Anybody could have put that thing there—that is, anybody who knows this office well enough to know that that old roll-top desk don’t lock and that all you have to do to open it is to give it a jerk and spring the catch. Every man on this committee knew that! Riorden knew it! That’s how he got into the desk to find this thing—if he did find it.”