Dig My Grave Deep. Peter Rabe
backward.
George caught him in his arms, because he was standing that way, and tossed the limp Kirby right back at Port. George would do something like that. Port had stepped clear and saw Kirby crash into the wall.
“About our talk,” said Port. He hadn’t moved again, watching George, and George didn’t come any closer. As long as Port didn’t make a wrong move, George wouldn’t. That’s where Kirby had been different, but now Kirby was out.
“Bellamy wants you to come over,” said George, “and I’m here to give you the message.”
“I left Stoker,” said Port, “because I want out. I’ve had mine and now I want out.”
“You can’t leave.”
“That’s what Stoker said.”
“Forget about Stoker. It’s Bellamy now.”
“I wouldn’t do him any good.”
“He wants you to come over. There’s all kinds of dirt on Stoker, and you’re the one who would know about it. Bellamy . . .”
“I told you, George, I’m through with the local dirt.”
“You selling elsewhere?”
“No.”
“You protecting Stoker?”
“You don’t listen, do you?”
George shrugged, gave a short look at Kirby out on the floor, then turned back to Port.
“Bellamy wants the dirt.”
“He can make his own.”
George gave a short grin, which surprised Port, and said, “He mentioned that. To start with, he can make his own.”
“Fine. That leaves me out.”
“But you’re in it.” George laughed again. Then he changed back and was sober. “Think it over, boy. And don’t try to leave town. Won’t work.”
George went over where Kirby was on the floor and picked him up. He carried him to the door and gave him to the cabby. Then he came back.
“And keep your hands off Kirby,” he said to Port. He hit under the heart and didn’t wait to see Port sink to the floor. Then the door opened, and when Port looked again the door was still open but the men were gone.
Chapter Three
WHEN he left the building it was getting dark and the same overcast lay everywhere. Port gave himself time to rest and to look at the street. Then he saw the girl again. She was coming the other way, on his side of the street, and she was wearing a different outfit of white nylon, buttoned down the front and very antiseptic-looking, like a nurse’s uniform. But he was sure she wasn’t a nurse. Her legs were bare and over one breast she wore a red carnation. Her skin was dark and her thick hair shiny black, making the red flower more vivid and the nylon more white. As she came closer she looked at him standing by the steps, but without special interest. She still didn’t look away when she came past.
Port said, “Pardon me. You got the time?”
She said, “Close to six,” and walked by without breaking her pace.
“Wait.”
She stopped and looked back at him.
“I— You know, I saw you before, across the street.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw you go in here.”
He walked up to her, smiling, but didn’t know of anything else to say. He looked at her. He looked at her feet, then up, and stopped at her face. He didn’t care what she thought. He smiled again and she must have misunderstood.
“No,” she said, turned around and walked down the street without looking back.
After a moment Port turned the other way and walked steadily for a while, careful not to jar the aches in his body. By the time he had left the slums he was going faster. His mouth looked thinner, and hardly moved when he started to whistle.
The Lee building was closed when Port got there, but he rapped on the glass door and waited for the night man to show up. He came across the wide lobby, squinting to see the entrance. When he saw it was Port he got out his keys and unlocked the door.
“Evening, Mr. Port.” He held the door open. “You lose your key, Mr. Port?”
“Is Stoker still in?”
“He’s there. He said he wouldn’t be leaving till nine or so, he and Mr. Fries. I think they . . .”
“Take me up, will you?”
“Sure, Mr. Port.”
All the way up the night man wanted to say more but Port didn’t encourage him. Port left the elevator on the tenth floor.
Stoker’s door said Civic Services, Inc. The frosted glass showed a light. Port walked into the reception room, then through the big one with the desks and typewriters, and down the corridor with the doors to the private offices. One of them opened and Fries came out. He stopped short and stared.
“Where’s Stoker?” said Port.
Fries didn’t answer, but the frown came back to his face, and he turned and ran down the length of the corridor. He opened a door and before Port could get there he heard Fries talking to Stoker.
Port walked in. Stoker got up from behind his desk and Fries stood by, one hand working the back of a chair.
“What’s the matter?” Port looked from one to the other.
For a moment nobody answered. The only change was the flushing color in Stoker’s face. He leaned over his desk, looking straight at Port, and his breath was noisy.
“You son of a bitch!” he said.
Port stood for a moment and then took a step toward the desk.
“Sit down,” said Fries. He hit the back legs of the chair on the floor and stood by, waiting for Port. “I said, sit.”
Port saw Fries’s hand come out of the pocket, holding a blackjack, and he walked up to the chair. He kicked it hard, making it fly into Fries’s shins. Fries doubled over, sweating, and Port went up to the desk.
“Everybody nuts in this place? Since when does that creep go around telling me things?” he demanded.
Stoker sat down without answering. He looked over at Fries, who was straightening up painfully, and when Fries started for the desk Stoker said, “Go outside. Call Abe and his sidekick up here. They’re down in the garage. And then wait outside.”
“But if Port . . .” Fries started.
“He won’t,” said Stoker.
Fries left and Stoker waved at the chair.
“Go ahead, Port. Sit down.”
Port sat down.
“I’m really interested,” said Stoker. “So help me, I don’t know why you came here.”
“How could you. That’s why I . . .”
“Shut up.”
Port frowned but didn’t say anything.
“Now, I admit I’ve been wrong before, like thinking you were a friend when you’re nothing but a son of a bitch—”
“Stop calling me that,” said Port.
“Wait till I’m through, Port. Just wait till I’m through.”
Port let it go and sat back to listen. He knew that Stoker had to run himself out. He didn’t get this way very often. He was long-winded only when he was too excited and wanted to calm down before finishing up.
“Come