There was a shiny black car with sporty trimmings parked in front of Danny’s Bar when Jackson turned the corner into East Street. He slowed to examine it. A car like that on East Street, on a night when there were no sailings, spelled racket with a capital R, and so did the man in the black chesterfield and pearl-gray snap-brim hat who sat in the open front door.
The man was playing with a half-grown brindle puppy, cuffing and tumbling it, his white hand darting in and out like the head of a striking snake, but always avoiding the small, sharp, snapping teeth. He did not speak or laugh as the average man does under similar circumstances but was serious and intent, as though it were of prime importance to him to be able to worry and annoy the dog without being bitten. Jackson knew the type and felt sorry for the little dog if it should succeed in catching the deftly moving hand.
Jackson paused in the doorway; the man looked up, his eyes like red glass in the reflected light of Danny’s neon signs. There was something familiar about the face, and Jackson wondered where he had seen it before.
Inside Danny’s the tables in the front room were empty, but a dozen customers lined the long bar, and a lone hooker sat in the rear room, drinking beer and peering out through the archway in the latticed partition with predatory eyes. Jackson walked past a drunken longshoreman and a water-front bum trying to wheedle a drink and squeezed himself in beside two seamen from the pier of the Holland American Line who were jabbering Dutch at each other.
“Beer,” he grunted at the white-coated bartender.
He passed a long-fingered hand over his face and looked at his reflection in the bar mirror. The blue eyes of the reflection peered back at him quizzically from a leathery, tanned face.
“Has Whitey Gordon been in?” he asked as the bartender slid his beer over the wet bar.
“Haven’t seen him. He’ll be along though. He always comes in for a beer before a union meeting.”
Jackson nodded. He drank half of the beer and then set the glass down and stared thoughtfully at the amber contents. Had it really been Whitey whose trouser leg he had seen going out the private door of Murdock’s office? What would Whitey be doing hobnobbing with the boss?
Jackson thought of the tight spots he and Whitey had been in together. They had organized the first rank-and-file group in the union two years ago when they had to meet in cellars and back rooms to keep Weller from finding out who the leaders were and blackballing them. All through those tough days youthful, stubby, pug-nosed Whitey had fought with him shoulder to shoulder against the union’s racketeering leadership, never once faltering or crying quits. Now that the fight was practically won it was ridiculous to think of Gordon turning yellow. It was worse than ridiculous—it was a breach of faith. And yet, why was Whitey in Murdock’s office?
Jackson frowned and shook his head at his reflection. If you don’t trust Gordon whom will you trust? he asked himself. You’ve got to trust someone, you suspicious idiot.
A voice at his elbow said, “Hi, Jack,” and he looked down to see Gordon’s round face, topped by its pale yellow thatch, grinning up at him.
“What were you doing in Murdock’s office this morning?” he asked without preamble.
Gordon acted as though he had been half expecting the question. “I guess I was kinda out on a limb, Jack,” he said. “I blew my top because the boss Stevie on Consolidated Fruit threw me off the pier for collecting dues during working hours. So I went to Murdock and told him he couldn’t get away with that stuff. Hell, when Weller was running things his goons would have dumped you off the pier if you were a month behind—and the boss Stevie, too, if he got tough. Then while I was there in Murdock’s office the news of the accident came in and——”
“Wait a minute,” Jackson interrupted. His tone was quiet and conversational, but his eyes were hard. “Since when do you handle grievances all by yourself?”
Gordon did not look up. He ran his finger along the edge of the bar, following a long scar in the wood. “I was sore,” he said. “I didn’t stop to think.”
“You thought pretty fast when you heard Melius and me outside the door.”
Gordon started. “Melius didn’t see me, did he?”
“I came in first,” said Jackson. “Lucky I did. If Melius had got a squint of your tail going through that door he’d sure paint a pretty picture for the union membership. One union leader sneaking out of the boss’s office when another one comes in. Anybody but you, and I’d say it looked like the old double cross.”
Whitey looked up and met Jackson’s eyes for the first time.
“You big lug,” he said, “are you hinting——?”
“Keep your shirt on. I said anybody but you. You’re just about the one guy I trust in this yellow-bellied outfit.” He downed the drink setting in front of him and turned his hard blue eyes on the smaller man. “But don’t think I’m excusing you for acting like a damn fool. Hotheads may have the best intentions in the world, but sometimes they can hurt a union damn near as much as stool pigeons.”
Gordon winced and opened his mouth to reply angrily.
“Shut up,” Jackson snapped. “You got it coming and you’re going to listen and like it. You didn’t hurt the union this morning but the next time you might damn near wreck it, and if anything like that happened I’d be the first one to crucify you. Don’t think I wouldn’t. Remember that next time you lose your head.”
“All right.” Gordon choked down his anger. His voice took on an injured tone. “You’re right but you don’t have to be so damn righteous about it. Some guys are human, not cold-blooded fish like you.”
Jackson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Never mind that,” he said. “You going to behave yourself from now on?”
The two men looked at each other, and both began to grin. “Okay, Papa, you old pain in the neck,” said Gordon. “I’ll stay in line.”
He ordered a beer.
“Who’s the punk parked out front, Max?” he asked the bartender.
Max craned his neck over the half curtains. “Bennie Augustino.”
“Bennie Augustino?” Jackson arched his brows and cocked his head quizzically toward the front curtains. “You don’t say.”
“You look like a bird dog,” grinned Whitey. “You know him?”
“Sure. He was with Swede Jensen when we ran the Swede off the Frisco water front. I thought there was something familiar about him.”
“You think Weller’s got him down here cooking something up?”
Jackson shrugged. “Could be. Weller’ll make a final play before he’s through.”
Gordon leaned his elbows on the bar. “Once we get a new contract signed——”
“Contract!” Jackson interrupted explosively. “With that gang of yellowbellies we got on the union committee! Look!” He turned to Gordon and held up a large, calloused hand. “Who’ve we got? Melius and Doc Painter? They were on the committee when Fink Weller was running things. The boys elected them because they’re old heads, but I’m wise to them. They missed the gravy train and they’re sore: too much work and no rake-off. They’d sell the union down the river tomorrow for a chance to get back to the good old days and the good old graft. Riorden? He’s old and needs his job too much to risk it fighting rats. And who else have we got to represent the union? Colletti? He’s a nice little guy but he doesn’t know what it’s all about and that big windbag Melius has him buffaloed.”
He pushed back his hat and ordered another beer. “You ask me,” he finished disgustedly, “the committee stinks.”
“Don’t be like that,” Gordon said. “They’re the committee the boys elected, and we gotta work with them.”
“Okay, I’ll work with them but I won’t trust them—Sangster and you and maybe pretty-boy Burke, but not the rest of them.”
A voice behind them said, “Whatdya mean, maybe?”
Jackson and Gordon swung around. A tall, hatless youngster with black curly hair was standing there looking at them. He was a little drunk and swayed slightly. In his blue dungarees with the bright steel hook shoved through the belt and his khaki shirt open at the throat, he looked like a college boy playing longshoreman.
“Whatdya mean, maybe?” he repeated, “and where do you get that ‘pretty-boy’?”
“Hey, Tommy, pipe down,” said Gordon, “you’re drunk.” Tommy Burke laughed. “Yeah, I’m drunk. I’m just drunk enough to tell this big lug off. I’m sick of his guff. Look, sour puss”—he tossed his head at Jackson—“you’ve been trying to run things ever since we got rid of Weller. Who the hell do you think you are, his successor?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then flicked sidewise at the customers lining the bar. He downed his beer and set the glass on the bar. “Serves me right for shooting my face off in a joint,” he said. “Come on, you guys. We’re due at the Union Hall right now.” He turned to the bar and paid for his drinks while Burke hesitated uncertainly. Gordon took Burke’s arm and urged him gently toward the door. He spoke in a low voice. “Shut up, kid, and let’s get out of here. How’d it look for two of the union’s new leaders to be scrapping in a saloon?”
Burke grumbled but yielded to the steady pressure on his arm. As they approached the door it opened, and the man Jackson had seen playing with the brindle puppy came in.
He was a little man, standing not more than five feet six in his built-up heels and weighing about a hundred and thirty-five, if you discounted the padding in the shoulders of the chesterfield. He stood very straight, as though trying to appear taller than he was, and would have been a ridiculous figure were it not for his eyes. The eyes were opaque and expressionless, as though there was nothing behind them—no emotion, no thoughts. They gave him the faintly horrible appearance of a walking automaton. He ignored the other men in the bar and came straight to Burke, stopping when they were very close but not touching. His hands were in the pockets of the chesterfield.
“Hello, Tommy.” His voice was as expressionless as his eyes. Burke stared. “Bennie! What are you doing here?”
“Just trying to collect a little bill. You want to talk to me about it?”
“Why, yeah. Sure. Sure,” breathed Burke. He had difficulty speaking. He was very frightened.
Gordon started to speak but stopped when Jackson put a hand on his sleeve. “Hello, Bennie,” Jackson said. “Remember me?”
The pale eyes flicked to Jackson’s face, then held there for a long minute. Muscles tightened along the line of Bennie’s jaw. “You’re Jackson. You had me beaten once. I swore I’d blast you and I ought to do it right now.”
Jackson’s arms hung loosely at his sides. He smiled. “Why don’t you?”
“Hey, you mugs,” called the bartender. “No rough stuff here. I’ll call the cops.”
Without shifting his gaze Bennie said, “Quiet, punk.”
“You’ll keep,” he told Jackson. “Business is business, and blasting you would be a pleasure. I’ll see you later.” He looked at Burke. “Well?”
Burke said, “Sure, sure,” again with a kind of hysterical urgency. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll see you later.”
Bennie Augustino laughed, a shrill, mirthless sound like the scream of a sea gull. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said. “We’ll both see you later.”
He followed Burke toward a booth at the rear of the room, his shoulders very straight, his hands still in the pockets of his chesterfield.
Gordon expelled his breath in a long sigh. “For God’s sake.” They started again toward the door. The bartender leaned over the angle of the bar and whispered to Jackson, “Watch yourself, brother. That guy may be a rat, but he’s dynamite when your back’s turned and he sure hates your guts.”
Jackson nodded: “He’s got a right to. He’s like the Chinese; he lost face with me once and he’ll never get over it.”
The bartender looked blank. “I don’t get you, brother.”
“Skip it, brother,” said Gordon ironically. They went out.
They walked south and then east toward the hall. Wind blew against them as they turned the corner, bending their hat brims across their eyes and trailing sparks like a starry banner from the pipe Jackson had lit, so that he had to cup a hand over the bowl. Gordon pumped his short fat legs to keep up with the taller man’s rolling stride.
“Whatdya s’pose that heel wanted with Tommy?” asked Gordon.
Jackson mumbled unintelligibly around the stem of his pipe. It was something about bangtails.