“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Oh, yes you do. It’s low and depraved. It’s your meat, Mike.”
“Stop it,” he said sharply.
“I lived with Danny Nimo for a year,” she said. “This was six years ago. Then there was the automobile accident. Danny paid the bills and took care of me for two years although I was in a cast most of that time. That was goodness of a sort, although you’d never understand it. During that time I had plenty of time to think about myself and Danny. I tried to understand why I had got mixed up with him. But I couldn’t figure it out. Not neatly and simply, anyway. My father was an electrician, my mother was a good-hearted woman and I’d had a fair education. And I had a little talent for music. It didn’t add to the way I was living. Maybe it was the fun of being a racketeer’s girl. Living high without working for it. Being on the inside. I don’t know. But I did know that I’d taken a big step in a direction I didn’t want to go. So when I was well enough to walk I told him how I felt and left him. There’s the whole story. Did you get a kick out of it?”
The bitterness in her voice confused him. “I’m sorry I spoke out of turn,” he said slowly. “Who am I to be judging people?”
“Excuse me,” she said and stood quickly. He saw that she was close to tears.
“Wait a minute. Please. Is it that easy to get out? Like you did, I mean?”
“Easy?” She was silent a moment. Then she laughed softly. “Try it, if you think it’s easy. Just say, ‘Forgive me, I’ve been wrong.’ That’s all. But keep a drink close by. The words may choke you a little.”
“ ‘Forgive me,’ ” he said quietly. “Who do I say that to?”
“To whatever you’ve got left. Maybe yourself.”
Carmody shook his head slowly. He couldn’t say he’d been wrong and mean it. And how could anybody forgive himself? It was too simple and pat.
Nancy stirred on the couch, and then sat up suddenly, her eyes bright with fear.
“Relax, everything’s all right,” Karen said gently. “Lie down and finish your sleep.”
Nancy recognized Carmody and drew a long, relieved breath. “Old tough Mike,” she said, and put her head down on the pillow. She laughed softly. “I guess I had a bad dream.”
Carmody sat beside her and took one of her hands. She looked cool and comfortable under the single white sheet.
“How do you feel?” he asked her. He heard Karen cross behind him and leave the room.
“Pretty good, I guess.”
“Ackerman is afraid of you,” he said. “What have you got on him, baby?”
She smiled at him but it was a shaky effort. “My mother told me a man could get anything from a woman if he called her baby,” she said.
“Don’t play around, please,” he said. “You told Fanzo’s men you were going to send Ackerman to jail. What did you mean by that?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid, Mike. I don’t want to get mixed up in it.”
“They can’t hurt you,” he said. “You’re safe here.”
“You don’t know them, Mike.”
“I know them,” he said. “They’re scared and on the run. If you keep them running you’ll be safe. But if they beat this trouble you’re in a bad spot. Don’t you see that?”
Karen returned and sat at the foot of the couch. For a moment Nancy stared at her in silence, her eyes round and frightened in her childish face. “Should I tell him?” she said softly.
“I think so,” Karen said. “It would be a big thing to do.”
“All right,” Nancy said, the words tumbling out rapidly. “Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs. Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know, Mike, I swear it.”
“Dobbs?” The name meant nothing to Carmody. “How did you find this out?”
“Beaumonte told me. When he was drunk one night. You see, something had gone wrong and Ackerman phoned him and raised the devil for fifteen or twenty minutes. When it was all over Dan was in a terrible mood. He drank a full bottle of whiskey, and then started knocking the furniture around and smashing bottles and records all over the place. I never saw him so wild. When I finally got him to bed, he started talking about Dobbs. He didn’t know what he was saying, I knew. But he said that Dobbs was the only guy smarter than Ackerman, the only guy Ackerman was afraid of. It meant nothing at all to me. The next day I pretended I’d been drunk too. Beaumonte seemed a little scared. He asked me half-a-dozen times if I remembered what he’d been talking about, but I played dumb. Listening out of turn is just as bad as talking out of turn.”
“You must have used Dobbs’ name with Fanzo’s men,” Carmody said.
“I guess I did,” Nancy said sadly.
“And it went back to Ackerman.” Carmody stood up and turned the name around in his mind. He knew men named Dobbs but none who fitted the role of Ackerman’s blackmailer. “Where’s the phone?” he asked Karen.
“In the kitchen.”
Carmody went into the tiny kitchen, took the phone from the wall and dialed his Headquarters. When the clerk answered, he said, “I’m looking for George Murphy, the reporter. Is he around?”
“Well, he was here half an hour ago. He said he was going up to the press room, I think. Wait, I’ll switch you.”
The clerk transferred the call and another voice said, “Press room.”
“Is George Murphy around?”
“Hold on. He’s talking to his desk on another phone.”
“Okay.”
Murphy came on a moment later. “Hello?”
“Mike Carmody, George. Are you busy right now?”
“Nothing that won’t keep. What’s up?”
“I want to talk to you. Can you meet me at the South end of City Hall on Market Street in about fifteen minutes?”
“Sure, Mike. I’ll be the man with the press card in his hatband.”
Carmody walked into the living room and said to Karen, “I’m going now.” His whole manner had changed; the lead was in his hands and his hunter’s instincts had driven everything else from his mind.
“Be careful, Mike,” Nancy said. Karen watched him in silence.
“I will.” He left the apartment and went down to his car.
Murphy was waiting for him at the north entrance of the Hall, his hat pushed back on his big round head, a fresh cigar in his mouth. He looked sleepy and comfortable, as if he’d just finished dinner; but behind those drowsing eyes was a mind like an immense and orderly warehouse. “Hi, Mike,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth.
“Let’s walk,” Carmody said. “What I’ve got is very private.”
“Okay.”
They strolled across the avenue that wound around the Hall, and started down Market Street, walking leisurely through the crowds that were pouring out of shops and office buildings.
Without looking at Murphy, Carmody said, “I’ve got the start of the biggest story you ever saw. But I need help. When I get the whole thing, it’s all yours. How about it?”
“Let’s hear the start of it,” Murphy said, putting the cigar in his mouth and clasping his hands behind him.
“Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs,” Carmody said. “Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know. I want you to help me find him.”
“It doesn’t sound right,” Murphy said, after walking along a few feet in silence. “Ackerman’s not afraid of anybody. He’s got rid of anybody who could hurt him, and don’t bet against that.”
“My tip is straight,” Carmody said. “If we can find Dobbs, and spade up what he’s got on Ackerman, then you’ve got a story.”
Murphy took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it as they waited for a light. “The story I’ll get is your obituary, Mike. You can’t buck Ackerman now. Six months from now, maybe. But the city isn’t ready yet.”
“I’m ready,” Carmody said. “To hell with the city.”
“You couldn’t keep them from killing your brother,” Murphy said thoughtfully. “Wha
t makes you think you can stay healthy?”
“We’re different types,” Carmody said.
“I guess you are,” Murphy said cryptically. Then he shrugged his big soft shoulders. “Let’s walk over to the office. Maybe we can find this Dobbs in the library. But I don’t see much hope for it.”
They spent the next three hours in the Express morgue, studying items on those Dobbses whose fame or notoriety had rated interment in this mausoleum of newsprint. There were obits, news and sports stories, announcements of promotions, luncheons, engagements, divorces, weddings. Murphy pawed through the yellowing clips with patient efficiency, occasionally embellishing the stories with scraps from the warehouse of his memory. Finally, he weeded out all but five clippings. “I’ll check these,” he said. “Each one of these guys knew Ackerman in the old days. And that’s where the dirt is, I’ll bet. Here we got Micky Dobbs, the fight promoter. And Judge Dobbs who worked for Ackerman before he retired. And Max Dobbs, the bondsman. Tim Dobbs, the fire chief.” Murphy grinned crookedly. “He used to condemn joints that didn’t cooperate with Ackerman. And last is Murray Payne Dobbs, who was a big trucker before Ackerman ran him out of the state.” He made a pile of the clips and then got up from the table and rubbed the top of his head. “You want me to handle this? I can do it through the paper without causing too much talk.”
“Okay. Call me when you learn something.”
“Where’ll you be? At the hotel?”
“No. I’m staying at the old man’s.”
Murphy glanced at him queerly. “I thought you hated that place.”
“It’s quieter out there,” Carmody said.
At ten-thirty that night a slim, dark-haired man stepped into a telephone booth, fished in the return slot out of habit then dropped a coin and dialed a number. When a voice answered, he said, “Sammy Ingersoll. I got a message for Mr. Ackerman.”
“Just a minute.”
“What’s the word?” Ackerman said, a few seconds later.
“Carmody’s bedded down for the night. At his brother’s home in the Northeast. He’s been huddling most of the evening with a guy from the Express. Murphy.”
“What about the girl?”
“Only got a guess so far. But it’s a good one, I think. She’s stashed away in the apartment of that dame who saw the shooting. Karen something-or-other.”
“You don’t get paid for guessing,” Ackerman said angrily.
“I know, Mr. Ackerman. But Carmody took some dame there. I got that from a neighbor who was up early with an earache. This neighbor saw Carmody and the girl go in about four in the morning. I can’t check it because they got police guards there. In the lobby and up at her apartment.”
“All right,” Ackerman said, after a short pause. “We’ll handle the police detail. You’ve earned a vacation. Take a couple of weeks in Miami and send us the bill. And keep what you told me to yourself.”
Sammy made a small circle with his lips. His sharp little face was completely blank. “Mr. Beaumonte asked me to let him know if I learned anything.”
“I said to keep it to yourself. You’d better not misunderstand me.”
“No chance of that. I’m on my way.”
When he left the booth, Sammy wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. There was no future in getting in the middle between Bill Ackerman and Dan Beaumonte. Miami seemed like a beautiful idea to him, not just for two or three weeks but maybe two or three years.
11
Carmody slept that night in his old room. In the morning he discovered that someone had taken care of the things he had left here years ago. His suits hung in plastic bags, and his bureau drawers were full of clean linen. Carmody looked at them for a moment, remembering his father’s finicky concern over his and Eddie’s things. Neatness wasn’t his strong point, but he had worked hard at being father and mother to them, repainting their wagons, trimming their hair, getting after them about muddy shoes and dirty fingernails. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” he had usually intoned while herding them to the bathroom. I suppose he always expected me to come back, Carmody thought.
He had finished a breakfast of orange juice and coffee when the phone rang. It was Murphy.
“Can I pick you up in about twenty minutes?” he said. “We got some work to do.”
“What did you find out?”
“Something damned interesting. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”
Carmody lit a cigarette and walked into the living room. The early sun slanted through the windows, brightening the somber tones of the furniture and pictures. For some reason the room didn’t depress him this morning. He thought about it as he smoked and looked at his father’s piano. Ever since he had started trying to save Eddie his thoughts had been returning restlessly to the old man. He should have no time for anyone but Ackerman. His thoughts should be on what Murphy had dug up, but instead they swerved irrelevantly into the past. Back to unimportant details. Like his clothes hanging neatly and cleanly in the closet upstairs. And an image of the old man at the piano booming out something for the Offertory. Redemptor Mundi Deus. Even now the somehow frightening Latin words could send a shiver down his spine. But why? They were just words, weren’t they?
A footstep sounded on the porch and Carmody went quickly to the door. Father Ahearn smiled at him through the screen. “I just thought I’d see if you were home,” he said.
Carmody let him in and the old man sat down gratefully.
“It will be hot today.” He sighed and looked up at Carmody. “You asked for understanding from me yesterday but I left you. That wasn’t the way for a priest to behave. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“I wish I could help you. You know, Eddie gave me his will the last time I spoke with him. He wanted you to have this house. Did he tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t,” Carmody said slowly.
“You don’t want it, do you?”
“I haven’t thought about it. But I guess not. Why should I?”
“You’re a stubborn man,” Father Ahearn said. “Just like your father. If you understood him, you might understand yourself, Mike. He was a proud man, and very set in his ways. But they were pretty good ways.” The old priest smiled slowly. “Remember how touchy he was about his singing. And the truth was he didn’t have a very good voice.”
“But big,” Carmody said.
“Oh, it was that, I grant you.” Father Ahearn got to his feet with an effort and went to the piano. “Eddie kept all the music, I see.” He picked up one of the sheets and smiled at it. “O, Blame Not the Bard ” His eyes went across the music. “Twas treason to love her, twas death to defend,” he murmured, shaking his head. Then he looked sharply at Carmody. “That’s something to remember about your father, Mike. He wasn’t allowed to love his own country. Like thousands of other Irishmen, that love was a kind of treason. Can’t you understand their bitterness when their sons went wrong over here? Instead of being grateful for a country to love and live in, some of the sons seemed bent only on spoiling the place. That hurt men like your father. It makes them angry and unreasonable, which isn’t the best tone to use on hot-headed young men. Can’t you see that, Mike?”
“Well, it’s all over, anyway,” Carmody said. “He’s dead and I’m still the rotten apple. Talking won’t change it.”
“How did you get so far away from us?” Father Ahearn said, shaking his head slowly.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t one decision.” Carmody shrugged. “Little by little, I guess.”
“Couldn’t you try coming back the same way? Little by little, I mean.”
“Admit I’ve been wrong? Ask for forgiveness.” Carmody turned away from him and pounded a fist into his palm. “It’s no good. If I did that I’d come to a dead-center stop. And I can’t stop while my brother lies dead and his murderers are living like kings.” Turning back, he stared angrily and hopelessly at the priest. “All I’ve got is a certain kind of power and drive. I can do things. The
way I am, that is. But I’d be nothing if I turned into a confused sinner, begging for forgiveness.”
“You’ll be nothing until you see that Eddie’s murder was wrong,” Father Ahearn said sharply. “Not because he was your brother, or a police officer, but because he was a human being whose life belonged to God.”
A car door slammed at the curb. Through the windows Carmody saw George Murphy coming up the walk. “I’ve got to be going, Father,” he said, relieved to end this painful and pointless argument.
“Remember this,” the old priest said, and put a hand quickly on his arm. “Don’t get thinking you’re hopeless. St. Francis de Sales said, ‘Be patient with everyone, but above all with yourself.’ Keep that in mind. All sinners flatter themselves that they are hopeless. But no one is, son.”
“Okay, okay,” Carmody said shortly; he wanted to be gone, he wanted no more talk about sin and forgiveness. Turning, he left the house and met Murphy on the front porch.
“We’ve got to take a ride,” Murphy said. “You set to go?”
“Yes.”
When Father Ahearn came down the steps, Murphy’s sedan was moving away from the curb. He watched until it had disappeared at the corner, and then shook his head and started back to the rectory. His expression was weary and troubled.
“Well, what is it?” Carmody asked, as Murphy headed through the bright streets toward the River Drive.
“The Dobbses we found in the clips didn’t add up to anything,” Murphy said. He looked tired and hot; his day-old beard was a black smudge along his jaws, and his eyes were narrowed against the sunlight. “I worked all night on them and didn’t get a lead. But I found another Dobbs, and he could be our man.”
“Who’s that?”
“This fell into my lap, from an old guy named Sweeney who’s been a rewrite man on our paper since the year One. I got talking to him this morning, and he told me about a Billy Dobbs who worked on the Intelligencer years back. Not a reporter, but a photographer. The only memorable thing about Dobbs, Sweeney told me, was that he once stumbled accidentally into a bank stick-up. This was in ’38. Dobbs was coming in from a routine assignment, driving south on Market Street, when three guys ran out of the old Farmer’s Bank with satchels of dough and guns in their hands. They killed two cops right in the street, and a bullet hit the windshield of Dobbs’ car. He stopped and scrambled into a gutter to get out of the fire. All he thought about was taking cover instead of taking pictures. He could have been a hero by photographing the gunmen, but he’d probably have been a dead one. That’s what he said, at any rate. Two years later Dobbs quit the paper and that’s all Sweeney could tell me about him.” Murphy glanced at Carmody. “You see where this might be leading?”
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