Dig My Grave Deep Page 12

  “When's that paper come out, Bellamy?”

  “Don't worry about that part. I'm through horsing around with you, because once I decide...”

  “Who's the animal?” said Port, and pointed at the hood who was sipping his beer.

  “Now you listen to me, Port...”

  “What's his name?”

  “My name's Sherman,” said the hood.

  “All right, Sherman, finish your beer.”

  The hood finished his beer and then looked from one to the other.

  “Now turn around, Sherman.”

  “Don't listen to him!” yelled Bellamy. “I'll see to it that...”

  “It's my skin,” said Sherman, and turned around.

  He closed his eyes, waiting for Port to hit him, which Port did. Sherman fell down. Bellamy had to jump out of the way.

  “You'll regret this! I'm going to make it my business...”

  Then Port raked the gun barrel down Bellamy's front, making all the buttons on the tattersall vest bust open.

  “Get on the phone,” said Port.

  “If you think strong-arming me is going...”

  “I know it will,” said Port, and hit Bellamy under the heart.

  “You got a gun—you wouldn't dare act like this—”

  Bellamy went to the phone on the desk in the corner, walking crouched over because of the pain in his middle.

  “Now call up that paper.”

  “It's too late. They printed hours ago.”

  “But they don't hit the streets till six. Call up and cancel the thing.”

  Bellamy laughed, for real this time, and called up the paper. He asked for the editor-in-chief, whom he called by his first name, and started out, “Look, Billy, this is stupid, but I'm supposed to tell you to keep your edition off the streets. It's too late, isn't it, Billy?”

  Port held the gun in Bellamy's back and took the phone out of his hand. When he had the receiver at his ear he heard the editor's laughter.

  “This is Port speaking. Daniel Port.”

  The laughing stopped.

  “You know whom you're listening to?”

  “I do. Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And now I want you to listen to Bellamy.”

  Port held the phone to Bellamy's face and then did a painful thing with the gun barrel in Bellamy's back. The raw sound which Bellamy made into the phone was impressive.

  “That was Bellamy,” said Port. “He's now going to...”

  “Duress!” Bellamy yelled into the phone. “I'm under duress!”

  Port listened for something from the other end, but the editor had nothing to say. Only his breathing was audible.

  “Bellamy is right,” said Port after a while. “And it's not the kind of duress you would want on your conscience. Here's your buddy again.”

  “Do like he says, Billy. I don't care what it costs, do what he says!”

  “And tell him I'm going to cripple you if he doesn't,” said Port.

  Port gave the phone back to Bellamy, who could hardly talk.

  “Yes, you heard right, Billy. Do just what he said.”

  “And tell him you're a vindictive man, especially from a wheel chair.”

  “Billy, promise!”

  Billy promised, and Bellamy hung up. He was bathed in sweat and when Port stepped back, Bellamy sank into the chair that stood by the desk. He groaned and didn't know whether to sit up straight or double over. Port sat down too and smoked a cigarette to give the man time to recover.

  “I didn't know you were vicious,” said Bellamy after a while.

  “Push me hard enough and I'm all manner of things.”

  “I can use you,” said Bellamy.

  “No you couldn't.”

  “I pay. I can pay you...”

  “I don't do it for pay, only for necessity.”

  “Give it any name you want, Port.”

  “And I can also go without sleep for seventy-two hours, but not if I can help it.”

  Port went over to the two hoods on the floor, and saw that they were good the way they were for a while longer. He told Bellamy to get up, they were leaving, and followed himout to the room with the bar. Bellamy waited at the door while Port stopped to give the gun back to the bartender. “And there's two in the back room,” he said. “On the floor.”

  The bartender stared, reached for the gun automatically. “I—I don't get it. I got nothing but blanks in this thing!”

  Port held on to the bar for a minute, to feel the pressure under his palms and to think of nothing else.

  “I was afraid to tell you before, but the gun...”

  “Will you keep your voice down, for God's sake!”

  The bartender swallowed what he had meant to say, but his expression didn't change.

  “About those two in the back—how did you, what did you—”

  “I scared them to death,” said Port. “The way you just did me.”

  He followed Bellamy out of the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was getting dark when they got to Port's apartment. He shaved and changed but didn't take a shower because Bellamy was no longer wrapped up enough to be left alone for that long. He sat in a chair watching Port. Bellamy thought he could kill him—which would be a mess for sure; or he could force Stoker to break with him, which might even the balance. And in each case he would lose Port. How valuable is one man? If he let the man go, it would be like never having tried; if he just made him bleed, Port would come back to him; if he had him killed—Bellamy found himself back at the beginning and not one step closer to the right solution. He knew only that he hadn't solved it, and the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

  Port took Bellamy to Ward Nine and when he picked up Shelly he even took him upstairs. Shelly's smile dropped off fast when she saw him, making Bellamy take a short step back.

  “He came to drive us,” said Port, “so me and you can sit in the back.” They grinned at each other and Bellamy went down the stairs ahead of them. Ramon didn't show up. He had stayed in bed, smoking.

  Bellamy's driveway had two entrances and there were two policemen at each. They had nothing to do but stand there, tip their hats regardless of which party affiliation drove through, and at the end of the evening there was an envelope waiting for them in the kitchen. The two at the entrance gate were kept busy saluting and waving the cars through to avoid a traffic problem, while the two at the exit gate just stood around, bored with each other. Every so often one of them took off for the kitchen, the old one for beer and little caviar canapes, the younger one to drink coffee and watch the maids. At the house another uniform waited. This one had been hired from one of the clubs, epauletted and braided like a South American general. He opened car doors and helped riders get to the curb safely, and then he blew his whistle to make the chauffeur drive on. Port and Shelly stood by the curb and waited for the general to blow his whistle, except this time he didn't know what to do.

  “Tell Mr. Bellamy to park the oar,” said Port. “And tell him we'll wait for him here.”

  The general did that. After the car had torn off to the parking area the general came back to the curb. “He says not to wait for him. He says he'll meet you inside.”

  Port and Shelly went up the stairs, laughing, but they would have been sorry had they known what they missed. When Bellamy tried to sneak into a side entrance he got stopped by one of the exit cops who was just on his way back from the kitchen. Bellamy's evil mood, his torn vest, and his haste in general meant a long delay while the cop decided to check with some guests whether it was all right to let Bellamy in. It made a spectacle which left the main hall deserted, except for Bellamy's daughter, who was doing the hostessing. Even the butler had left.

  Janice Bellamy had her father's light hair and reddish complexion, but where he was heavy she was dry and thin. She looked up when Port and Shelly came in and said, “Mr. Port!”

  “Miss Bellamy. May I present Miss Ramon.”

  Miss Bellamy stared, be
ing short-sighted but without glasses on gala occasions, and when she recognized Shelly she just managed to say, “How unusual—”

  Shelly smiled at her and made the mistake of slipping her cape off her shoulders. It showed the long evening dress which was designed to make broad lights over the hips and to reveal the bareness on top.

  “Well,” said Miss Bellamy. “It looks positively new.”

  “It is.”

  “Did Mr. Port buy it for you?”

  “I gave her the money,” said Port.

  “I couldn't have swung it, on a maid's salary,” said Shelly.

  “I know that,” said Miss Bellamy. “But I'm sure you know how to make out in spite of having lost your legitimate job.”

  Port took the cape from Shelly. “We'll join the guests,” he said.

  “Will we see you after you're through here?” and he handed the cape to Miss Bellamy.

  Port and Shelly walked into the room with the guests.

  Because of the commotion that Bellamy had caused, almost everyone was at one end of the room. Port recognized several people but didn't see Stoker. He saw Fries, though, who was standing at this end of the room, fingering the half-finished hooked rug on the frame. He looked up and came over.

  “Where've you been anyway? I thought you told Stoker to...”

  “I couldn't make it in time. Besides, I had to pick up Shelly. Mr. Fries,” he introduced, “Miss Ramon.”

  But Fries didn't unbend.

  “Isn't she the sister of that Ramon who got thrown out of the club?”

  “It's worse than that, Fries. He's a Bellamy man.”

  Fries wasn't going to be party-spirited, so Port and Shelly left him to the hooked rug. Then Port saw Stoker.

  “Shelly, I'll leave you here. You want me to bring you a drink?”

  “Just tell the man with the tray. I'll wait for you here.” She sat down on a couch.

  Port waved at the waiter and left Shelly.

  Stoker looked old. He seemed to have lost more weight and his face was pale. He acted animated enough but the tiredness showed. When he saw Port he stopped talking. A low-key color came into his face.

  “Hi, Stoker. Ready to make the rounds?”

  “Where in hell you been?”

  “I wouldn't run out on you, Max. Come on, let's circulate.”

  They walked, said hello here and there, looking casual.

  “After the way you been acting, and no word from you for the past few days...”

  “I didn't feel like answering the telephone.”

  Stoker looked up.

  “How'd you know I called? You been home?”

  “Most of the time.” Port nodded and said, “Hello, McFarlane.”

  “Don't overdo it,” said Stoker.

  “Hello, Sump.”

  Stoker said hello too, but kept on walking. Port held Stoker's arm.

  “Aren't you talking to him?”

  “What for?”

  “What for? Listen, Max, I came here for one reason only.”

  “He doesn't know a thing, if you mean the vote.”

  “He heads the committee. He ought to know what...”

  “I won't know till ten. They're having a meeting and after that Ekstain will call here.”

  Port looked at his watch and saw it would be another half an hour.

  “Half an hour isn't going to kill you,” said Stoker.

  “Just don't be so offhand about it.”

  “I know why you're here. We'll talk about it after ten.”

  Port didn't answer. He didn't feel like talking about it now, or half an hour later. He would sit out his promised duty, he would stick close to Stoker, for the show, but he had said his good-byes. Port looked for Shelly, and saw she wasn't alone any more. Two old men were on either side of her, acting like billy goats, and three middle-aged ones stood close by, each telling a joke but all at the same time. Shelly smiled and nodded, and tried to lean out of the way.

  “I see Paternik,” said Port. “Did you say hello to him yet?”

  “We shook hands.”

  “How'd that real estate thing go? Did you try it?”

  “I told Fries to handle it. I haven't asked him since.”

  “You want to keep track of him, Max. Not like you been handling me.”

  Stoker gave Port a sour look. He nodded a few hellos, shook his head at a waiter who was carrying a tray, and kept walking. It wasn't a very festive mood, thought Port, not the way Stoker acted.

  “Did you see our host?” he asked.

  “I saw him come in.”

  “Max, you're not laughing and smiling. I'm here so we'll look friendly together, and when it comes to Bellamy that should really amuse you.”

  “I barely caught a glimpse,” said Stoker. “There was something about the policeman not wanting to let him in.”

  “And his clothes all mussed. Wasn't that funny?”

  “How do you know? You just got in.”

  “I brought him.”

  Port thought it would give Stoker a laugh and told him how the day had gone, about Bellamy, his two apes, and the paper. Port didn't like Stoker's mood and tried to put things in a funny way, tried to make light of an evening which he meant to be his and Stoker's last together.

  “I don't think it's funny,” said Stoker. “When a guy like Bellamy gets that anxious...”

  “He's bluffing,” said Port, not believing it.

  “Watch him, no matter what you do.”

  “You sound like a speech, Max. Come, I'll show you something nice,” and Port took Stoker to the couch where Shelly was sitting.

  She got up when she saw Port and so did the two old men sitting next to her.

  “I'd like you to meet Mr. Stoker,” said Port. “The old man himself, and my guardian angel.”

  They all laughed and then Shelly said, “And this is Judge Paternik and his clerk, Mr.—”

  “Auburn,” said the clerk. He was as old and impressive looking as Judge Paternik, but Paternik had something special. Nobody looked at the clerk any more while Judge Paternik started to crackle with magnetism.

  “Mr. Stoker,” he said, “and Mr. Port. I know both of you by reputation and welcome this chance, this non-partisan chance, to meet both of you man to man.”

  “We're delighted,” said Port. “And I hope your presence, your non-partisan presence, will serve to temper...”

  The judge couldn't have been listening because he interrupted to say, “Why, when it comes down to it, gentlemen, we all are, are we not, of the same...”

  “You put it well, Judge, and I'm glad you did. Shelly, has the judge...”

  “I have that, I indeed have that,” said the judge, and under the guise of paternal affection he patted Shelly's bare arm.

  “While I introduce Miss Ramon to our host, I'll leave you and Mr. Stoker together,” said Port. He saw Stoker unbend and get affable, because the party was, after all, business.

  “Why do we have to meet Bellamy again?” said Shelly. She held on to Port's arm and pushed herself close.

  “Just to make it polite,” said Port. “After all, he got dressed for us.”

  His tuxedo jacket—it went without saying—was Scotch plaid, and so was the cummerbund. In his haste he had grabbed a pair of pants with a plaid stripe down the side that didn't quite match the jacket. When they reached Bellamy, Shelly was happy to see there wasn't going to be much conversation. They passed each other, nodded with smiles, and Bellamy was gone. Port had not seen Bellamy being short before, not in public.

  “I see the terrace,” said Shelly and steered Port by the arm.

  They went outside and leaned against the stone railing. They smoked and were glad to be together.

  “It's over soon?” said Shelly.

  “Tonight.”

  “And nobody knows?”

  “Stoker does, but he won't believe it.”

  “I believe you. I believe you without your explaining it, just seeing how different you are from those—�
�� She nodded towards the house.

  “They're not that different from anyone else.”

  “But they think so.”

  “Let them. It makes them easier to spot.”

  Port looked into the lighted room and saw the rat race in operation. The false smile, the innuendo, the threat by omission, and the dirty jokes and the club-house bravado, all making a hail-fellow-well-met gesturing out of the knife in the back.

  Port saw Paternik standing alone, looking for the waiter who went around with the tray. Stoker had left him. Stoker was not in the room.

  “Okay, honey—”

  “You're leaving?”

  “Once more. Have a chat with Mr. Auburn, to be completely safe.”

  She gave him a smile and they went inside. Shelly went one way and Port went toward the half-finished hooked rug where Fries was standing.

  “Stoker get his phone call?” asked Port.

  “Sure. You anxious?”

  “Is he still on the phone?”

  “He hasn't come back yet,” said Fries.

  They stood by the hooked rug and Port caught himself counting stitches.

  When Stoker came in he looked subdued and had a flush on his face. He saw Port and Fries and came toward them casually.

  “Well? What did you hear?” Port asked.

  “You don't sound like you got much confidence in your setups no more,” said Fries.

  Port ignored it and waited for Stoker to speak.

  “The Ward stays,” said Stoker. “They're voting it our way.”

  Port found that his excitement had been artificial. He heard the words—meaning it's now all over—but there was no relief. Or the excitement was genuine but it had nothing to do with the news on the vote. He knew what the vote was going to be; he had known it for days. He thought he had known that with the vote in the bag it was over, and now he knew that it wasn't. Stoker put it into words for him.

  “Danny, now comes the serious part. Come along.” He followed Stoker out of the room, and decided to make the break final. For the moment he didn't remember that he used to think he had done so before.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “All right,” said Port. “Don't act like a wake.”