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  “All right,” said Stoker, “all right, all right—”

  “What if a real catastrophe should happen to you,” Port went on, “then what could you do? Burst into flame?”

  Fries had a lot of control. It killed his appetite, made him gassy, gave him shooting pains in the back—but none of this showed, which was the point.

  He said, “You and I must have a talk some day.”

  “Another one?”

  “Another kind.”

  “If you're both through performing,” said Stoker, “before I die from a couple of things that've got nothing to do with my heart—”

  “Okay,” said Port. “All right if I smoke?”

  “Makes no difference,” said Stoker.

  Port lit up. “I think we've got the ward for a while longer, maybe.”

  Nobody expected it, not even Fries. He got out of his chair and started to bellow.

  “Maybe!” A vein jumped out on his forehead, thick blue, and he was hoarse. “A while longer, maybe! You got an idea that's enough? You got an idea you do us a favor sticking around while you feel like it and swing a little deal on the side so maybe it works and maybe it don't? Now get this straight, Port, and you listen too, Max! There's been a lot of horsing around here doing some greasing now and then, or a pep talk now and then, when it looked like business might get out of hand. That's not good enough now! We got the machine in this town, and we can make it hum. But you gotta first throw the right lever, and believe me, Port, that takes muscle!”

  Fries stopped with a hard breath in his throat, and then he sat down. He looked away for a moment, rubbing his mouth, as if he were afraid it might start screaming again. Stoker sat still in his bed and Port looked at him.

  “What was that?” he said, and the surprise in his face was real.

  Fries was back to normal when he said to Port, “If you're going to start making jokes again...”

  “He won't.” Stoker might have felt sick, but he didn't sound it. Fries closed his mouth and Port listened. “Three of his men got into a brawl.”

  “Got jumped,” said Fries.

  “Three of his men got jumped. That's why he's talking that way.”

  “If Bellamy thinks...”

  “I think they're imports,” said Port. “The three I was talking to were suntanned, and who do you know in this town, this time of year, who've got suntans.”

  “Very clever,” said Fries. “I'm really impressed. Most of all by the way you figured that out. They had suntans!” To Fries it didn't sound funny. The tic came back into one of his eyes and he said, “That Reform Party started to roll when Bellamy took it over. Next thing you know he bulldozed right over everything our brain-truster here ever set up. And next thing you know, he imports hoods. The difference between...”

  “I'll tell you the difference,” said Stoker. “Some places it's muscle, other places that doesn't work. That's the difference, but Bellamy doesn't know it. He starts heaving muscle in this game and maybe starts thinking that's all he needs...”

  “What makes you think he's got no brains?”

  “The first real move he made,” said Port. “That's what makes me think so.”

  “Listen.” Fries showed how little he liked being contradicted. “If you mean that newspaper release, it pretty near wrecked us. For all you've said around here, it's still got us running.”

  “If you'll listen a minute, Fries.” Port pulled out his cigarettes. “His first big move is a dumb move. He throws it around to the public that we bribed the Planning Board. So we did. So what. To make hay on that, there's got to be two things. One, we have to give him an argument so the public can get involved; two, he's got to be ready with something to follow it up, some concrete thing that shows him to be better than us. He didn't have it. All he had was a lot of political hogwash hung on to his revelations. So there's Bellamy yelling robbers, but he isn't making a move to chase 'em himself.” Port looked at Fries. “That makes him dumb. Remember that, Fries.”

  Stoker rolled over in bed and closed his eyes as if he were tired. “I want to hear what you did about it.”

  Port told him. He explained what he did with McFarlane and with Councilman Sump. There wasn't a chance for the city to tear down the slums and ruin Boss Stoker's Ward Nine. It sounded complete and final.

  “You satisfied?” said Stoker from the bed.

  “You'll have to watch it to see what they do next.”

  “Who do you mean by 'you'?” said Stoker.

  Port didn't answer, so Stoker went on.

  “Let's say I ask Fries to watch it. What should he be watching for?”

  “He's an old hand,” said Port.

  “Let's say Fries keeps watching Bellamy's hoods, so his monkeys don't get clobbered when they drink beer some place.”

  “That would be bad,” said Port.

  “What should I be watching?” asked Fries.

  Port ignored the tone and answered him.

  “Stalling the slum clearance can work for years, but ifs never better than stalling. After a while there won't be any slums.”

  “You sound like Landis,” said Fries.

  “He's got brains.”

  “Let's stick to the point,” said Stoker. “What happens now?”

  “We stalled them on a legal gimmick. An interpretation. So the next move from Reform should be a re-interpretation.”

  “State Capitol?” Stoker asked.

  “I don't know. Maybe they can do it locally.”

  “I can handle that. But I'm not good enough to handle the Capitol.”

  “They haven't gotten that far yet. Maybe they never will.”

  “But what if they do? We gotta have the next step all laid out. We can't...”

  “Leave me out of it, Max.” Port got up.

  Stoker turned on his back.

  “Danny.”

  “What do you want from me?” The other two men looked up. “You want a thirty-year contract or something? Or an oath? I told you before what you're going to get from me. I'm through explaining. I don't run out, and I don't leave you a mess. There won't be any loose ends when I'm through, and I'm going to be through when they vote down the clearance project. And meantime don't keep pushing at me or dreaming up extra work to take home nights.” He went to the door and said, “I'm going to bed.”

  Boss Stoker stopped him.

  “There's a new arrangement,” he said, “because of Bellamy and his new methods.”

  Port waited, keeping his hand on the door knob.

  “Beginning tomorrow you don't go out except with protection. You got a gun?” Stoker continued.

  “I always sleep with a gun under my pillow.”

  Stoker ignored it.

  “Fries will send over a man in the morning. He goes with you.”

  Port said, “Go to hell,” and slammed the door shut.

  Chapter Nine

  When Port got out of the shower he heard the telephone in the next room. It was barely past eight in the morning. He stopped toweling himself and picked up the phone. The voice started right in, “Hello, hello? That you, Dan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dan, this is Ramon.”

  “Where you calling from, damn it?”

  “The booth down at the corner from Bellamy's place—”

  “All right, what is it?”

  “This morning, maybe five, ten minutes ago, I just happened to pick up the receiver—I don't go to work till nine, you know—and there's Bellamy talking.”

  “About what?”

  “I didn't listen long enough, Dan, I thought you ought to know who the other guy was.”

  “All right, who?”

  “McFarlane!... Did you hear me?”

  “You said McFarlane.”

  There was a pause from Ramon, and then he said, “Well, that's it. Isn't he supposed to be in with us? What's he doing having talks with Bellamy?”

  Port rubbed his hair with the towel. Then he said, “McFarlane plays both sides of
the fence. I thought you knew.”

  “He does? And you do business with him?”

  “Why not? He never gets told anything the other side isn't supposed to know, and meanwhile he delivers.”

  Ramon was glad that Port couldn't see him.

  “Christ, I thought—I'm sorry I called for nothing.”

  “Don't worry about it.”

  “Really, Dan, if I had known...”

  “As long as you didn't know, you did right.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Now get back there and dig in the garden.”

  Ramon said good-by and hung up, but the thing stayed with him for quite a while longer.

  Port forgot about it and got dressed. When he got downstairs and walked out on the street a man pushed away from the wall of the building and said, “Bang.” Then he grinned.

  For a minute Port thought he'd murder the guy, but then he took a deep breath and rubbed his hands so they would stop shaking.

  Simon laughed. “You see, Danny, Max was right. You do need protection.”

  Port came up with a long string of profanity, repeating himself several times and inventing some new things. Simon waited. When Port was through Simon said, “That was beautiful. Are you through?”

  “You're through. Now beat it!”

  But Stoker had picked the right man, because Simon could not be impressed. He could be told what to do; after that it was hard to get to him, and when it was contradictory there was no use talking to him at all. “I could beat the stuffing out of you and leave you on the street,” said Port.

  “No, you couldn't.”

  Port knew this was true.

  “Look, Simon, you're too slow. I can't use you. What if something comes up all of a sudden, I get jumped, for instance...”

  “I'm good from close in.”

  This was true too. Simon had the nervous system of a slow worm. It made him sluggish, but it also made him immune to pain. With Simon the other man always got off the first punch. After that—when the other man slowed down in surprise—is when Simon paid off. He could hit, and he could last, like granite.

  “All right, come on,” said Port. “But keep out of my way.”

  “What you say, Danny?” Port didn't bother to answer and kept still all the way to the club, where he went into a room with a desk and a typewriter. A club member was sleeping in the swivel chair and Port told Simon to throw him out. Simon did this. Then Port told Simon to leave the room and to let nobody in. Port wasn't bothered for the next five hours. He put typing paper and carbon into the machine and typed almost continuously. Sometimes he stopped, closed his eyes while he got things straight, and then he would write again. Part of the time Simon could hear Port whistling.

  When Port finished he addressed an envelope and called Simon. “Run down to the office in front and get Phil up here. He should bring his notary public thing. And if you see Lantek tell him to come up, too. If you don't see him, bring anyone.”

  Simon came back with Lantek and Phil, who had brought his notary public stamp.

  “All you guys stand over there by the wall. Can you see me writing?” Port took a desk pen and made passes at the sheets in front of him, as if he were writing.

  “You're making passes at the paper there,” said Simon. Lantek nodded and so did Phil. They couldn't read the typing, but they could see where Port started to sign each page in the margin. The last page he signed on the bottom. He turned the pile over, blank side up, and had Phil sign his notary spiel and apply his stamp. Under that he got the two others to witness the notarizing. He did this with each sheet. When it was done he sent them all out again. Port sealed the original into the envelope and fastened the carbon together with a paper clip. He put those two things, and the carbon paper, into his pocket. When Port went downstairs, Simon followed him.

  “What did you write, Danny?”

  “Last will and testament, seeing you're here to protect me.”

  Simon laughed at that. He was still laughing when Port stopped at the curb outside.

  “Take my car,” said Port, “and run down to Tucker Street. I'll wait for you here while you pick...”

  “That means you're staying here alone!”

  There was a short pause by both of them, but after a moment Port started to walk to his car. Simon followed. When they turned into Tucker Street Simon couldn't wait any longer. “I know you don't want to talk to me, Danny, but I'm getting hungry. For me it's way past lunchtime right now. I'm wondering...”

  “I noticed you got kind of lively,” said Port. “We'll eat right now.”

  Simon was pleased until he saw where Port stopped and where he went in, because a flower shop wasn't what Simon expected. Port came back with a short-stemmed red carnation and Simon didn't say a word. They drove back to Ward Nine, parked near the club, and Port led the way to the Deanery with the grocery counter in front. The special was corned beef hash patties with a fried egg, and a tomato salad. They ordered that and sat at a table. Simon sat facing the door, since he took his job seriously, and Port sat facing the back. Shelly wasn't there. The fat grocer served them. Port ate with one hand, holding the flower in the other.

  “Danny, I don't mean to be personal,” said Simon, “but the flower—”

  “You like it?”

  “Just don't hold it the way you do, Danny. I'm eating corned beef and smelling carnation.”

  Port moved the flower and they finished eating. Shelly still hadn't showed up.

  The door opened and a girl came in. Port couldn't see her because he was facing the other way, but he guessed that it was a girl from Simon's expression. They both watched her pass to the counter where she sat on a stool. They had a good view. Port missed seeing Shelly come in from the back, and he missed what she did. Shelly stopped in the back door when she saw Port and took off the red carnation she had on her lapel. She put it behind the counter.

  Then the girl on the stool turned around and got up. She came to the table and said, “You're Danny Port, ain't you?”

  “Sit down, sit down,” said Simon and pulled out a chair for her. She sat without looking at Simon, and then Port remembered. She had worn only a blouse and shoes, and eight men had been with her.

  “You don't remember? I was up in the club, with eight of 'em.”

  “Sure, I remember. How's it been—”

  “Kate ”

  “How's it been, Kate?”

  “What you mean, eight of 'em?” Simon wanted to know.

  “I'm a hooker,” said Kate and turned back to Port.

  He twirled the stem of the flower between two fingers, and tried to catch Shelly's eye. When she looked at him he smiled, but she didn't give it back. “Three coffees,” he called, and then looked back at Kate.

  “You working?” he asked her.

  Shelly came over with three cups of coffee and put them down without saying a word. Port kept twirling the red carnation, kept trying to look at her, but Shelly looked elsewhere. When she was gone and Port picked up his cup it seemed to him he'd never had coffee that hot before. “I'm not working,” said Kate. She had a careless face and a careless body, and when she leaned back in her chair Simon spilled coffee down his chin.

  “I come to thank you,” said Kate, “for the way you treated me.”

  “Sure, Kate.”

  “They coulda throwed me out without paying, except you told them to.”

  “You're welcome, honey.”

  She looked at Port for a moment, as if she were waiting for more. Then she said, “I come to thank you.”

  Port smiled at her and said, “Good,” because he thought she had said thank you often enough.

  Simon leaned over the table and sounded as if he had a raw throat. “She means in trade, for God's sakes. She wants to pay you back in trade.”

  “Kate, you don't owe me a thing.”

  “I think so.”

  “Dan,” said Simon,“she thinks so. What in hell is the matter with you?”

 
Kate said, “Ain't that Shelly's flower? Shelly always...”

  “Not yet,” said Port, and stopped twirling the carnation between his fingers. “I haven't given it to her yet.”

  “Is she watching?” said Kate. “No.”

  “So why don't you go out and wait at the car. Where's your car?”

  “Honey, I said no.”

  Kate looked from one to the other, not knowing what to do next. “So how am I gonna return the favor?”

  Port didn't know what to say, and Simon couldn't talk. He was grinning, biting his lip, and his eyes looked wet. “He a friend of yours?” and Kate nodded at Simon.

  “Quite a while now.”

  “Maybe you owe him a favor.”

  Simon, at special times, could be very fast. He said, “Does he! He owes me favors from way back. Danny, don't you remember from way back the favors you...”

  “Okay then,” said Kate. She got up and waited for Simon, who almost knocked over the table.

  Port said, “Jeesis,” and watched them go out of the door.

  After a while he called to Shelly that he wanted another coffee and when she came the first thing he saw was that she was wearing a red carnation. She put his fresh cup down and picked up the three old ones.

  “I brought you this,” said Port and held up the flower. “I thought...”

  “I got one.”

  “Yours is wilted, Shelly.”

  “I don't think so. I think the one I have is fine.”

  “Then wear two. One here, and one there.”

  She didn't answer, and took the used cups back to the counter. Port got up and went to sit on a stool. Shelly turned to look down at him.

  “Would you like something else?” She could look mean as hell.

  “Sure.”

  “No,” she said. “Like the first time, on the street.”

  Port grinned and smelled the flower.

  Shelly turned away to clean up the grill, which was already clean. It made her feel silly after a while, and there was a place on her back that started to itch.

  “Look,” she said, “just because you got my brother to take jumps and make cartwheels for you, don't think...”

  “I'm not thinking of your brother. I'm sitting here looking at you, and it's got nothing to do with your brother.”