by Jada M Davis
“I thought you were partners.”
“We are. It’s just that Cliff knows the business and I’m just learning.”
“Well,” Ree said, “I’m going to lay my cards on the table. I have it pretty straight that you boys need money. They tell me you have a good thing here, but that you need capital.”
He paused.
Barrick frowned, cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the desk top.
“I think I can get the money for you, Barrick.”
“On what terms?” The guy was no dope, but he needed dough.
“You’d have to incorporate, I suppose. The men I deal with are businessmen.”
“They’d want fifty-one per cent of the stock, I suppose.”
“That’s right.” Lay it on the line, give it to him straight. He waited.
Barrick drummed the desk top with nervous, fluttery fingers.
“Mr. Ree,” he said, “that would give your—associates—complete control. Financial and editorial.”
“They won’t be hard to do business with. They’d be reasonable. They’d probably give you boys a free rein. After all, they’re not newspapermen.”
“I’m speaking for my brother when I speak for myself,” the Barrick boy said. “We’ve been offered plenty of deals like that, Mr. Ree. Some of them say they know a good thing when they see it and that they’re ready to toss in the money to make it go. But they always want fifty-one per cent. None of them would dream of taking forty-nine. It’s fifty-one or nothing.”
“Well, what do you care?” Ree asked. “You’d have a real newspaper. You’d make money.”
“Sure, we know that. But we won’t do it, Mr. Ree. We won’t do it because we’ll make it anyway, eventually. We’re growing. Someday we’ll get the backing without any strings attached.”
“My associates are prominent, Barrick. They can help you a great deal.”
“Yeah, I know. Halliday, Byrd, hizzoner the mayor, Sheriff Messner, Fry.”
“Well, in that case....” Ree hesitated.
“Thanks just the same.”
“Maybe you’d like to talk it over with your brother.”
“I’ll tell him you were here, Mr. Ree. But his answer will be the same as mine. A bit more emphatic, perhaps.”
“Just one thing then, Barrick. Be a little more careful about your facts before you spout off in print.”
Barrick drummed his fingers on the desk top and didn’t answer.
Ree left the building, wondering what to do next. Barrick, despite his calmness, had been mad as hell. He and his brother would go out for blood now, and it was time to move fast.
He drove back to the Hall.
Sergeant Swing looked up from his papers. “See Barrick?”
“Saw Ed Barrick. He wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Won’t play, huh?”
“No.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Fix his wagon.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“You figured out how?”
Ree plopped in the swivel chair, put his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette. He held it between his fingers and watched the smoke curl upward. “What would you suggest?”
Swing leaned forward. “Burn ‘em out?”
“Too obvious. Besides, they’ve probably got insurance enough to put them back into business. Then they’d have the sympathy of the whole damned town.”
“Not if you made it look like they did it.”
Ree chewed on it a moment. “No,” he decided. “We’ll save that one.”
“Then what?”
“We’ve got to put the boys in a bad light. See to it that it’s publicized.”
Swing scratched under his arm and waited.
“I think,” Ree said, “that we’ll follow this Ed Barrick after he quits work.”
“O.K.,” Swing said. “So long as there’s no rough stuff.”
“There won’t be.”
“O.K.”
Swing drove, and they parked a block from the Traveler office at six o’clock.
“How do we know he hasn’t quit for the day?” Ree asked.
“I know,” Swing said. “He’ll leave the building in a little while and go have a beer at the café on the corner. Then he’ll go downtown to eat.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Like I said, I know.”
They waited. A man walked past, a young man with broad shoulders, black and wavy hair, good features.
“That’s Cliff Barrick,” Swing said.
“Ed’s brother? They don’t favor.”
“No. Cliff’s the smart one. About half tough. Been around a lot. He was on some paper in New York before the war.”
“He in service?”
“Yeah. Paratroops, I think. Got some medals. His folks used to have a ranch around here, but lost it during the depression.”
They watched Cliff Barrick enter the Traveler building. Ed Barrick left the building a few minutes later. He nodded when he passed the car.
“We’ll let him have a beer first,” Ree said.
Five minutes passed.
“Let’s go.”
“No rough stuff,” Swing said.
“No rough stuff.”
“What’ll I do?”
“Just watch.”
“O.K.”
Ed Barrick was seated at the counter, drinking beer from a bottle and smoking. He didn’t look up.
Ree took the stool next to him, swung his foot and felt his toe hit Barrick’s leg, hard.
“Hey, what—?”
Ree threw his hand out, swept an ash tray into the boy’s lap and pushed the bottle of beer off the counter. Barrick slid off the stool facing Ree, his eyes asking questions beneath a furrowed brow.
Ree stood up fast and brought his right knee up into the boy’s belly.
Barrick doubled over and Ree clubbed him behind the ear.
The waitress screamed.
A cook rushed through a rear door, shouting. Ree saw Swing standing, mouth agape, near the door.
“Take this drunk to jail, sergeant,” Ree said.
“But he wasn’t—” the waitress said.
“Yes, he was, sister. He caused trouble down the street a few minutes ago.”
Swing lifted Barrick. The boy was groggy, and sagged in the sergeant’s arms.
“Take him away, Swing,” Ree said. “Bring the car back. I think I’ll have a beer.”
The cook stood in the doorway of the kitchen, an angry frown on his face. The waitress was sullen. Ree drank his beer and wondered if he’d made a mistake.
He was relieved when Swing returned. “I’ll take you by your place,” he said.
“O.K.”
They went to the car and Ree slid under the wheel.
“What’s the matter, Swing?”
“I think maybe you bit off more than you can chew.”
“Why, Swing,” Ree said, lifting his eyebrows in mock surprise. “The man was drunk and disorderly! And he started a fight with a police officer.”
“Well, maybe you know what you’re doing. That waitress knows better, though. And I don’t see why you had to get so rough. The kid’s still sick.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Yeah, but his brother won’t.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, turn left at the next corner, that Cliff Barrick’s going to be damned mad. Ed’s his little brother and they’re thicker’n two peas in a pod. That guy will be out to get you any way he can! He’ll be breathing down your neck before morning!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have to cool off big brother.”
“Maybe so. You’re handy with your fists. And your knees. But you’ll find Cliff a hell of a lot harder to handle than Ed was. In fact, if you hadn’t caught Ed by surprise...”
Ree laughed. “Don’t underestimate me, sergeant. That was child’s play.”
“White house on the corner.”
“O.K.”
“This is home,” Swing said. “Better come in and meet the little woman.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a date. See you tomorrow.”
“Right. I wouldn’t miss tomorrow. Only, do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Show up early. Cliff Barrick is going to raise hell in the morning, and I don’t want to be the one to say good morning to him.”
“I’ll be there. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Ree drove into Rockford at seven o’clock by the courthouse clock. A wind had come up and clouds were forming. As he pulled into the curb and stopped, splattering drops of rain began to fall. He rolled up the windows and ducked across the walk, entered a café, and ordered a steak.
He started to ask the waitress the location of the church, but decided against it. She might remember.
He went to the telephone behind the counter and speared the directory hanging from a nail.
The church was at 111 Macklin Street.
“Where is Macklin Street?” he asked the waitress when she brought the steak.
“Macklin Street? It’s—I think it’s—I’m not sure, but I think it’s near the edge of town on the south side. I’ll ask Abe. What’ll you drink?”
“Coffee.”
She brought his coffee and then walked to the rear and talked to the cook through the serving window.
“Yeah,” she said when Ree paid his bill. “You go south on this street for eight blocks. There’ll be a signal light there, and you turn right. Go three blocks and you’ll hit Macklin Street. It’s a short street, Abe says.”
“Fine. Thanks a lot.”
“Welcome. Come again.”
He ran to the car, but the rain was peppering down and he was half wet before he got the door open. Things smelled wet and fresh. For a moment he sat still, listening to the drum of rain on the car top, enjoying the feeling of security and isolation.
Street and store lights had been turned on. Neon glowed half bright in the rain. Cars swished by, and a rolling peal of thunder jarred and rumbled.
Things couldn’t be better, for the rain would keep people inside for a while. He only hoped Preacher Green would stay away from his study this one night.
It was a cinch, finding the church, and the plain brick building was dark and lonely. He circled the block twice and parked the car a hundred yards from the church.
The front door was unlocked. Somebody inside? Or did they leave church doors unlocked all the time?
Maybe they did. Who’d want to steal anything from a church? And what? A piano, maybe?
Closing the door behind him, he stood and listened. It was pitch dark. He heard nothing but rain drops on the roof.
He struck a match. He was in a vestibule, with double doors in front of him. Locked.
He worked on the hinges with his pocket knife, hoping to loosen the screws. He gave up when his knife blade snapped.
Nothing for it but to try a window. He went outside.
Rain was falling in sheets now, soaking his clothes and trickling down his collar. His feet squished water inside his shoes, and the earth near the walls was soggy.
He was cold.
All the windows were fastened. Break one? It wouldn’t be hard, and the rain would drown out the noise. Shouldn’t do that—not to a church window.
For a breath, a long breath, he thought about it.
And what’s a church window? he decided. After Baldy.
A car, lights probing dimly at sheets of rain, passed swishingly.
He decided to try the back of the building.
His feet hit something, and he half stumbled on concrete steps.
There was a door at the top of the steps. It was unlocked. Again he stood inside, in darkness, listening to the rain on the roof.
He felt water trickle down his body, down his legs, inside his clothing.
He’d turn on the lights, he decided.
He reached out in the darkness, found the door and let his hands explore the wall beside it. The switch. Light. He was in the study. A desk, with typewriter, bookcase, and chair.
The red chair.
He wanted to laugh, thinking, if that preacher knew he’d been sitting on forty thousand dollars!
Whistling soundlessly, one eye on the door, he turned over the chair.
The tape had been torn away!
Laura! Not so dumb Laura! She’d played him for a sucker.
He raged from the room, stumbled across the churchyard, and drove away. The rain fell steadily, but he ignored it as he sent the car hurtling over the slick pavement. Once, when he passed a truck, the car went into a slide. He almost lost control.
Not until he passed the city limit sign did he let up on the gas.
Laura had the money, forty thousand bucks.
To hell with the money as money—but it was wrapped in the Johnson Tool wrapper. That wrapper could burn him—if Laura decided to talk.
And he’d hit Laura that night, so she’d be out to get even.
Laura’s apartment was dark. The door wasn’t locked, and he went inside. She wasn’t there. He went back to the car.
The scared feeling was gone, but he was cold and tired.
It was good to shuck out of the wet clothes and slide into bed. Flat on his back, he tensed his muscles and let them relax. But he couldn’t sleep.
He couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t stay awake. For a time he was half awake and half asleep.
Someone knocked at the door.
Or, maybe he imagined it.
“Ree?”
Someone knocking, someone calling, close but far away.
“Ree?”
“Who is it?”
Wide awake now.
“Swing.”
“Come on in, sergeant.”
He fumbled on the table until he found the bed lamp, and then sat up in bed and blinked at the light.
“What’s the matter?”
“Plenty, Ree. All hell’s to pay!”
Wesley’s back, spouting off. Maybe he went to the papers.
But no, couldn’t be.
Not yet.
Maybe Laura had talked.
“What is it, Swing?”
“It’s that Barrick kid! He’s in the hospital!”
“Why?”
“You busted something or something, or ruptured him! When you let him have it with your knee, I guess. Anyway, he’s at the hospital.”
“Aw, hell! He’s faking!”
“No, he’s not! Ree, he’s not! He’s unconscious and they’re going to operate!”
“Guess I’d better go down there then.”
“Yeah, you better had! There’ll be hell to pay when Cliff Barrick gets down there!”
Ree dressed, taking his time. He wanted to ask Swing if the doctors had expressed concern at the boy’s condition, but he decided not to show concern himself.
Swing was nervous. Scared.
“Calm down,” Ree said. “If the guy hadn’t resisted arrest he wouldn’t be hurt.”
“Yeah,” Swing said. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Don’t forget it.”
“I won’t, but—”
“But what?”
“That waitress. And the cook.”
“They won’t talk.”
They went to the car. The rain had stopped. On the way to the hospital, Ree spoke once.
“The waitress and cook didn’t see how I started it.”
Sergeant Swing grunted.
Cliff Barrick was in the waiting room. He was sitting on a wicker couch, a cigarette burning to long ash between his fingers, legs stretched out. His eyes sought Ree’s, locked and held.
He didn’t speak, didn’t move.
A nurse was seated at a desk.
“What about Barrick?” Ree asked.
“He’s in surgery,” the nurse said.
“How is he? How bad is he?”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak to the doctor.”
Ree sat down and motioned Swing to a seat. The nurse shuffled papers.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Barrick snubbed out a cigarette, leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Swing shifted in his seat, crossed his feet, picked at his nails.
Cliff Barrick stared at the wall. Ree eyed Barrick. A nurse entered the room, spoke to the nurse at the door, and went out again.
“Mr. Barrick?” the nurse at the desk called.
“Yes.” Barrick walked across the room.
“You may see your brother now.”
Barrick turned to Ree. “See you later,” he said. His voice was soft.
The nurse led him down the hall.
Swing cleared his throat. Ree lit a cigarette.
Five minutes, six, seven.
The nurse returned.
“How is he?” Swing asked.
“As well as could be expected,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”
“That’s good,” Swing said.
Five minutes.
A man came through the front door. He was a big man. His gray hair was close-cropped, his cheek bones high, his mouth wide and lips thick. He spoke to the nurse in a low voice.
“They’re expecting you,” the nurse said.
The two disappeared down the hallway.
“Who was that?” Ree asked.
“That was Hurly Barrett,” Swing said. “He’s a lawyer.”
Trouble.
“I guess Barrick will want to sue,” Ree said.
Swing laughed nervously. “They can’t get blood out of a turnip.”
“Maybe they’ll sue the city.”
“Maybe.”
“That’ll be a shade rough.”
“We’ll lose our jobs,” Swing said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you can do something.”
“What?”
“Well,” Swing said, “apologize. Pay the hospital bill.”
Ree laughed. “That would be an admission of guilt, Swing. Anyway, they wouldn’t listen. Kick a guy in the crotch and go in and apologize to him while he’s still in the hospital and he might not be in a receptive frame of mind. Maybe they won’t sue. They’re just mad now. Later on they’ll change their minds and hit us some other way.”
“You hope!”
“Yeah.”
The lawyer and Cliff Barrick came into the room. The lawyer was doing the talking.
