Dig My Grave Deep Page 9

  It surprised Port and it made Ramon frown.

  “I only ask,” she went on, “because you've been drinking the stuff over two hours.” She had finished pouring and went back to the stove.

  “Two hours?” said Ramon. “When did you get here?”

  “He got here about twelve,” said Shelly. She turned to walk back into her room and Ramon saw her bare knee where the robe came apart.

  Ramon suddenly found that he couldn't look at Port. Two hours; so what? And besides, Ramon then remembered how he had thought that it might be a good thing if he brought Port and his sister together. But the thought gave him such pain now he felt the sweat come out of his palms like tiny needles and next only sharp rage could make it all good. Ramon looked up at Port, whose face was bland, who was blowing the steam off his coffee, who sat relaxed in his strength—and Ramon got depressed. He sank into a safe, heavy torpor, wishing only that he were asleep.

  “What calls did you get tonight?” Port asked him. And then, “Hey, Ramon.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. Anything tonight?”

  It was important to be impersonal now. It would be easy. There was nothing quite so impersonal as talking about business—only it wasn't true. This, Ramon's job, was his life, could be the start for everything he'd never had.

  “You get spells like that often?” said Port.

  The light tone of voice helped, a tone that implied that Port didn't know what went on.

  “Yes, several calls,” said Ramon. “One call about a boxing contract, a long-distance call, and the man wanted to know if Bellamy meant to sell. Bellamy said he didn't know for sure, but...”

  “Give me the next call.”

  “Next call. A man calls up to say Kirby was in the hospital, and they had to move out, and where should they go. He says a bastard by the name of Simon did it, and the big shot with him. He didn't say who this big shot is, but Bellamy seemed to know, from the way he started cursing.”

  Port started to laugh and then he asked, “Bellamy give any instructions to the man?”

  “To go to hell, he told him. And to show up in his office in the morning.”

  “Okay, what next?”

  “A cultured guy calls up, long distance, and Bellamy is now doing the yes sir, no sir. I didn't catch the name, but he says 'Judge' to him. The judge gives a speech about ethics—no, about ethics of his office making the sale necessary, so that speed of sale rather than profit are essential.”

  “This is a business call?”

  “Strictly. Because this judge apologized that he couldn't reach Bellamy at the office...”

  “What office?”

  “That's right! Realty Improvement! Bellamy is selling a piece of property for this guy, this judge, and the judge wants to know how it's going. And he wants no delays because of price quibbling.”

  “Did they sound like they knew each other?”

  “No. They don't talk very long, anyway. After that call Bellamy talks to this Jack, you remember this Jack. He's a bookkeeper, it turns out, and Bellamy tells him to put the closing charges on the bill for Swinburn.”

  “What Swinburn, did he say?”

  “Something about a motel. I think Swinburn owns it.”

  “That's right. South of town.” Port got up, stretched his legs. “Any others?”

  “That's all. Did you get something out of it?”

  “I don't know yet, Ramon.”

  “What about this judge and Swinburn and all that?”

  “Whatever it is, it sounds like legitimate business of Bellamy's real estate company.”

  Port paced back and forth, and Ramon gathered his courage.

  “Dan, I would like to ask you something.”

  “Let me think for a minute.”

  But Ramon couldn't wait. “Dan, look, you gave me a job and I'm trying my best. Are you listening?”

  Port nodded, looked at Ramon, and listened.

  “But I think my best right now isn't good enough.”

  “You're doing...”

  “No, let me finish. Would you say it's pretty important?”

  “Yes, I'd say that.”

  “Then I think you should tell me what it's all about. If I'm going to do this thing right...”

  “You know all you need to know.”

  “I don't think so. Unless I'm going to tap wire at Bellamy's for the rest of my life, and tell you about it like a parrot, it's not good enough.”

  “And,” said Port, “you're not going to do that all your life. That's what you mean?”

  “I figure I can grow in the organization. I figure with the way I'm working out, doing this job the way I am—” Ramon's courage failed him, and he stopped. He fought to find his way back, but for a moment nothing came.

  “Go on, Ramon.”

  “I want in!” He bit his lip, but then it was too late. “I want in, I want to grow, and you're holding me up. I don't want to end up nowhere when this job ends up nowhere, because I got plans for myself! I don't think you're doing right by the job I'm doing, and you aren't doing right by me, u— After all, you picked me because I got something.”

  Port waited a moment, to give Ramon a fair chance to hear.

  “You got something, and that's why I picked you. You're eager. And right from the start, Ramon, I told you not to get so eager that you get scared. You're scared of losing out. So you push. Don't push that hard, Ramon.”

  “Why not? You got one good reason why not?”

  Port gave it up. He raised his arms, dropped them, and said, “You wouldn't believe me, Ramon.”

  “Just try me.”

  “All right: because it isn't worth it.”

  They looked at each other, and Port saw he had been right. He had said too much and Ramon couldn't understand.

  “Worth it! Just look where it got you! You trying to tell me that it's worth staying a hick? You...”

  “No. Not a hick. I didn't say that.”

  “You telling me you don't like what you're doing? Well, try me! I'll know what to do with it. I'd like to see those jerks snap to when I walk into the club, break up their daisy chain, tell them to run me an errand. What's more, I'd be good at it. I got the organization in mind just as much as myself. I can...”

  “Right now you can shut up.”

  Ramon hadn't heard Port speak sharply before, and it startled him. But then he gave it the wrong label.

  “Hold me back, will you? I'm not scared now, let me tell you, and while I'm at it, why don't you tell me the works, what I'm doing in Bellamy's basement? Maybe you're scared! Maybe if I know too much...”

  “You almost got it, Ramon.” Port's voice was just as sharp, but much lower. It gave the feel of a muscle tensing but it hadn't moved yet. “If they catch you, Ramon, with, the wire down in your room, what'll they do? They'll twist your arm till you talk. Not so you can tell them how much it hurts, but to tell them all you know. How long do you think you'd last, not spilling, if you knew what I know and they're twisting your arm? Tell me! How long?” Ramon sat down in his chair and his mouth came open. “Simple enough?” Ramon still didn't talk.

  “Or didn't you know that kind of thing is part of the big position you're after?”

  Ramon breathed hard, to kill his confusion.

  “And following orders without knowing why, and getting the pants scared off you, like right now, that's part of the big career you got in mind. You got that clear now?”

  Shelly had come back into the kitchen, and she stood by the door, not moving. Then Ramon thought he had the clincher.

  “The way you talk, Dan, how come you stick around?”

  “He likes it,” said Shelly.

  Port gave her a look that made her catch her breath. Then Port talked to Ramon.

  “I'll tell you this much. After the Bellamy job you can stay in or bow out.”

  Just by chance, Port thought, Ramon might understand. But Shelly answered.

  “He will,” she said. “He'll bow out!”<
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  Ramon whirled around as if stung, but didn't look at his sister for long. When he turned back to Port his face was livid.

  “I'm in, and I stick! Nobody pushes me out!”

  Port looked from one to the other, then he went to the door. “You know the score,” he said. “Report to the mailman, like before.”

  After he had closed the door nobody spoke in the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That morning the sun was very bright and the air fresh, making Port think of taking a walk. He took a few deep breaths and wondered why the town was so big, getting bigger all the time, but nobody minding the weather the way it was most of the time. A day like this happened only a few times a year. Then he noticed that Simon hadn't shown up. He grinned to himself and got his car.

  After a short ride downtown, Port pulled up to the clothing store. The right side sold suits and ties and the left sold dresses and things for women. Port said, “Hello, Marv,” to the man in the store and asked him if he might use the phone. “There's nobody in back,” said Marv, and Port would be welcome.

  Port sat in back where the small window looked out on a row of cans in the yard. He used the phone; nobody bothered him and he stayed there several hours. His calls had to do with 1200 Birch, with Swinburn's motel, with Realty Improvement Company, and with Sun Property Management. He didn't call Realty Improvement itself because he had no connections in Bellamy's office. His calls were to some local finance companies, to the recorder's office, and to the file room of the Real Estate Board.

  It all turned out to make sense. Stoker could make of it what he wanted.

  When he got to the Lee building office Stoker wasn't there, but Fries was. He took Port into Stoker's office, sat behind Stoker's desk, and said, “What have you got?”

  “How come I'm talking to you?” said Port. “Where's Stoker?”

  “Home in bed. While he's gone...”

  “Something worse?”

  “A few days in bed and he'll be back. In the meantime I handle the details.”

  Port sat down on the couch and put up one leg. Fries had to shift to see Port, and it spoiled his pose. He had an idea Port had done this intentionally, but he kept it to himself and started to play with a pencil. He let it slide through his fingers so the point hit the loop of a paper clip on the desk. He kept doing that.

  “I think you can take it from here,” said Port. “I'll give you the details.”

  “You sound like you're leaving,” said Fries.

  Port looked at his fingernails and then up at the ceiling. “You can stop clowning, Fries. You know the same thing Stoker knows. I'm leaving when it's set up so Ward Nine stays together.”

  “I've heard you say it, but I don't know any such thing.”

  “So don't worry about it, Fries.”

  “I'm only worried about the important part. What did you set up?”

  “The council will vote on the thing on Friday, next week. As far as I'm concerned it's in the bag. We should know what the vote will be a few days before. Like always.”

  “I don't know any such thing.”

  “Hell, Fries, you're supposed to take Stoker's place. Don't you know when the vote will be certain?”

  “Stoker keeps track of that part.”

  “I thought you said...”

  “He's got a phone, doesn't he? And besides, how come you don't know?”

  “I've been doing other things.”

  “Any better than fixing McFarlane? Like you said yourself, his slum ruling will stand up just so long. If you're thinking of leaving when the council votes...”

  “Fries, when somebody offers you a cigarette, I bet you say, 'Let's have the whole pack.'

  “I don't smoke.”

  The fine click when Fries dropped his pencil was getting on Port's nerves, but if Fries hadn't been doing that, something else would have gotten on Port's nerves. The thought made his irritation worse. He thought he was acting like Ramon, fishing for praise, and that didn't help. Then he made the mistake of trying to make Fries stop playing with the pencil. He said, “If you'll stop playing with your pencil a minute, Fries...”

  “Why don't you come to the point,” said Fries.

  Port got up and came over to the desk. He kept his lips shut tight because he didn't want to start whistling, and he didn't look at Fries, because he didn't want to lose his temper. He looked out the window and thought how nice the weather was, and how in a short while he wouldn't look at it any more, in this town.

  “Here's what I found out, and then you can figure on how to use it. I think it's good enough to keep the ward almost indefinitely.”

  “Not counting the unforeseen,” said Fries and dropped his pencil.

  “Don't bother me.”

  “You might as well learn, Dan...”

  Port reached over and grabbed the pencil out of Fries' hand and threw it down on the desk. “You want a clean deal on that ward job, or don't you? If you don't, I'll blow now and you can sew it up your way.”

  “I don't sew.”

  Port shut his eyes and groaned.

  “Besides,” said Fries, “you promised Stoker....”

  “I got only one weakness,” said Port; “one great self-destroying weakness. I let you get under my skin.”

  “I have hardly said a word, Port, and all you've said doesn't add up to a hell of a lot either.” Fries had started to scratch at an inkspot, scratching at it with one long, horny nail.

  “Here,” and Port handed the pencil over. “Take your pencil, please. Just take it, click it, point it, and let me get out of here.”

  Fries colored, but kept still. Other people's irritations meant nothing to him, but a sharp voice made him apprehensive.

  “Once more,” said Port. He sat down, and went through the whole thing. “Like I told you and Stoker, they can't clear the slums, now that McFarlane ruled that it violates statutes. That can last a while, but not forever. What would hurt most is if they take it to the Capitol, and if I know Bellamy it'll be only a matter of time and he will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Fries, don't bother me, will you?” Then he went on while Fries sat and listened, though for a long time Fries didn't get the connection.

  “The Supreme Court judge with the weight in this matter is Paternik. Paternik comes from this town, he's got the seniority, he's a figure. Did you know Paternik owns real estate here?”

  Fries waited.

  “There's an outfit in town, Sun Property Management. They don't just manage property, they also own some. It's a stock company, but the stock is family-owned. The name of the family is Evoy, but that doesn't mean a thing. It turns out they own the stock in the name of a relative, all very legal, and for no reasons of concealment. When you're rich, that's how you do it. Judge Paternik owns Sun Property Management, and that's how he owns Twelve hundred Birch.”

  “I see.”

  “You will. Right now the Judge is trying to sell the property on Birch, because it is a blotch on his name. It's a substandard tenement in Ward Nine, and what with the stink about the slums, if it should come out that the judge owned property there—well, it's a stink.”

  “Paternik isn't in with Stoker,” said Fries.

  “So what? It doesn't look good. So here's your setup, Fries. Step in and put Paternik over a barrel.”

  There was silence for a while, because Fries didn't know what Port meant. Then he said, “I'll tell Stoker about it.”

  “You mean you don't know what I'm talking about.”

  Fries accidentally broke the point of his pencil, which meant he was much too busy to answer right away.

  “Here's what you do, Fries. Buy the building from Paternik.

  “Stoker has made it a policy—” Fries started, and was glad when Port interrupted.

  “Stoker buys the building through a dummy, and he pays higher than valuation, way higher. Then if it's ever important to push the judge, you put it this way: Paternik sold something to Stoker—
that's bad in itself. Paternik sold for more than the building's value. Is Stoker a jerk who pays more than something is worth? Not Stoker. Then what did the judge get the extra dough for? For services rendered. Judge Paternik in the pay of the Stoker mob!”

  “I'll be damned!”

  “You tell that to the judge once the sale has been made, and the judge jumps.”

  “He can show that the whole thing...”

  “Don't use it till you need it. That's when you can ruin the man.”

  Port lit a cigarette and watched Fries get up. Fries took several steps, back and forth, and then he stopped in front of Port's chair. “Very nice. If it works. Get going on it.”

  “Run your own errands,” said Port. He killed the cigarette without having smoked it. He got up and pushed Fries out of the way. When he got to the door he told Fries, “I sent Simon home. I won't need him any more.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Port made a phone call from the lobby and talked to Stoker. “I just gave Fries all there was. He'll take it from there.”

  “What is it, Dan?”

  “You got two setups now. The McFarlane ruling, to keep Council from voting against you. And if that doesn't hold there's a setup to keep the Supreme Court in line. Fries will give you the details.”

  Stoker smiled into the phone, thinking how glad he was that Port hadn't left.

  “That ties up the bargain, Max. I'm through.”

  Stoker kept as calm as he could. He breathed deeply and let the first impulse go by. Then he said, “The vote isn't in, Danny. You promised...”

  “What's the difference? How can they vote, except...”

  “Danny. I'm in bed. I'll be up after the weekend. I won't have word on that vote till after next week's committee meeting. At least you can do me the courtesy to not take off at a time like this. Over the phone, me in bed—”

  “When, next week?”

  “The vote should be certain the day before council meets. That's next Thursday. Dan, you can make it easier for me and wait just those few days.”

  “I don't see what good it'll do, except to give you more time figuring out some new angle.”

  “Thursday night Bellamy's got an affair in his house. Political good-will meeting, he calls it. I want you to come with me.”