Dig My Grave Deep. Peter Rabe
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1956 by Peter Rabe.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
Chapter One
AT SEVEN in the morning he turned over in bed and woke up. There was a cup of cold coffee on the night-stand next to his bed. He swung his legs to the floor, drank the coffee, and looked across the room with no show of interest. He could have lived there a week or a year—the room didn’t tell—or maybe he didn’t spend time there. He put the empty cup down and went to take a shower, after which he got dressed. At seven-thirty, when he opened the door to go out, the phone started ringing. It rang three times while he looked at it and moved his mouth to whistle. He walked out of the room and closed the door. The phone was still ringing when he went downstairs.
After a two-block walk he stopped at the glass and tile front with the big sign that said United and went in. There was a well-groomed girl behind the counter who smiled at him happily, because that’s how she’d been trained.
“Daniel Port,” he said to the girl. “Reservation on your noon flight to New York.”
She got it ready and said, “Are you paying for it now?” and then she took his two large bills and gave him a little bit of change. When he walked out, the girl smiled at him the way she had been trained, but Port wasn’t paying attention. He wondered what he should do between now and noon, and whether it wouldn’t have been better to leave town some other way. It was eight in the morning and he felt hungry. When he found that there wasn’t enough change in his pocket he decided to go back to his room for some money.
His door wasn’t locked, but that wasn’t unusual.
He closed the door and said, “Why don’t you give up, Stoker?”
Stoker was short, and big around the middle. There was much loose skin in his face, like when a fat man goes on a sudden diet. The skin had the flush that comes from a bad heart. Stoker was sitting, and the other man stood next to his chair. He was the same size as Daniel Port, but very stringy, with no show of muscle. He kept his face in a tight scowl, except when it broke because of the tic under one eye.
“If it were up to Fries,” said Stoker, and he gave the man next to him a look that was tired, “I wouldn’t have come.”
“Why did you?” said Port.
“You didn’t answer,” and Stoker looked at the phone.
“You got my answer. The last time you got my answer was yesterday.”
“I remember.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Daniel Port went to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. The rest of the closet was empty. He put the suitcase on the bed, opened it up, and took out some money. He closed the suitcase and looked back at Stoker, who had been watching without a word.
“You want to hear it again?” said Port.
“Better I didn’t hear you the first time, Danny.”
Daniel Port sat down on the bed and pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He couldn’t say anything new because he had told Stoker all there was to be said several times before.
“Nobody walks out,” said Fries. “Not even the fair-haired boy of the old man himself.”
“Don’t say that,” said Stoker.
Fries reacted as if he had been insulted. It was a habit with him. He controlled himself and said, “Look at the closet, empty, and the suitcase there—”
“Don’t call me old man,” said Stoker. Then he turned to Daniel Port and looked him straight in the face. “About the rest, he’s right, Danny. You don’t walk out.”
“I’m not walking out. I’m leaving.”
“Nobody leaves,” said Fries. “Did you ever hear of somebody leaving?”
“No—not before me.” The way Port said it, without trying for any effect, Stoker and Fries both knew that he meant it. Stoker made his face go tired because he had to stay calm all the time. Only the flush in his skin started to waver.
Fries said, “You’re so special? You any different from me? Don’t forget it, Port, you’re just a hood!”
“Was,” said Port. “I was a hood.”
Fries leaned forward a little, stretching his mouth to show how disgusted he was. “If I had my way, you sure as hell would be.”
Daniel Port blew out smoke. He kept his mouth that way to give a tuneless whistle. He mashed out the cigarette in the tray next to the bed and when he was through and got up he was still whistling. The sound was mostly a hiss and he wasn’t looking at anybody.
“I don’t want it this way,” said Stoker. “Don’t listen to Fries right now. Danny, listen to me.”
Port stopped the whistling noise and looked at Stoker, who looked pink in the face, but exhausted. Then he smiled at Port. “We still friends, Danny?”
“Sure,” said Port. “You know that, Max.”
“So listen to a friend, Danny. I don’t want it the way Fries was saying.”
“I know. But there it is. Either your way, or Fries’s way. Right?”
“Right.”
“How about my way?”
Then Stoker got up and went to the door. Fries opened it for him, but Stoker didn’t go out yet.
“Don’t leave, Daniel.” He stepped out into the hall, then turned back. “I’m at the office all day. I’ll be waiting. Come visit, like a friend.” He walked down the hall, not wanting to talk any more.
Daniel Port closed the door behind them and went to the window. Stoker’s car was in front. It was long and specially built, with a back door that was cut partway into the roof so that a man didn’t have to stoop when he got in or out of the car. Stoker got into the back and Fries sat next to the driver. After they drove off, the street was empty. There wouldn’t be-anyone waiting for Port because Stoker didn’t want it that way. He had said so. They had been friends and Stoker would wait for him, because that’s the way Stoker wanted to run it. Fries was something else, but Fries wouldn’t go against the old man.
Port remembered that he hadn’t eaten. He left his room without bothering to lock it and went to the diner at the end of the street, where he ordered breakfast. He ordered the coffee first and let it get almost cold before he drank it. Then he walked back to his apartment. There were a few cars on the street, and a cruising taxi came toward Port, who could see the hackie’s face, smiling and expectant. Port shook his head when the taxi stopped, but the hackie had the rear door open already. Then somebody stepped out of a doorway close by and came up fast. Port had never seen the man before, but when he was close Port hit the man under the heart. He could just see the man gag when Port suddenly felt that his head was coming off.
Chapter Two
THE SORE SPOT was on the back of his head and because he was lying against the car seat the movement gave him a lot of pain. He must have made a sound, because they were all looking at him when he opened his eyes.
They were all suntanned; the one who had played the cabby, the wiry man next to the cabby, and the tall one in gray who sat with Port. The cabby turned around again to watch his driving, but the wiry one kept looking at Port over the back of the seat. He was chewing his lip, and there was a glimmery light in his eyes, hard and mean. Port remembered the man from the street.
The tall one next to Port said, “Sit still, Daniel.” He didn’t hold a gun in his hand, but Port sat back anyway and tried to relax. There was no point trying anything else.
The