Stoker stared across the desk. He frowned and rubbed the loose skin under his face. “So help me,” he said. “So help me if you don’t sound like you meant it.” Stoker put his right hand on top of the desk and put down his gun. Then he reached into a drawer, drew out a paper, and threw it on top of the desk. It came open, front up.
“Read it,” said Stoker. “Unless you already know all about it.”
Port picked it up.
STOKER MOB BLOCK SLUM CLEARANCE
The slum clearance project, long on the docket of our City Planning Board without receiving the urgent attention which it deserves, has long been stalled by machinations of the Stoker machine. Stoker controls Ward Nine, comprising the major area of substandard housing, and slum clearance and relocation of the Stoker machine vote victims would wipe out Ward Nine as a political tool. Is it therefore any wonder—and we give you proof positive, with names, dates, and reasons—why Boss Hoodlum Stoker and his Grand Vizier Port have tried at any price, and to the detriment of the unfortunates forced to dwell in the slums, and to the total detriment of our city, have threatened and bribed slum clearance into an all but dead stall. Planning Board members Erzberg, Cummins, Utescu, threatened by Daniel Port. Members Toms, and Vancoon, bribed with one hundred dollars in cash plus personal gifts and one hundred and fifteen dollars in cash and personal gifts. The bribes were arranged by Daniel Port and executed at his direction. And all this in our city! Now it has long been the aim of your Reform Party, etc., etc.
Port tossed the paper back on the desk and lit himself a cigarette. When he looked up again Stoker sat waiting. Port exhaled.
“This is news?”
“News! Now it’s the truth, you jackass. It’s been printed!”
“Don’t yell, Stoker. You can’t afford . . .”
“If I drop dead I’m going to lay this thing out for you. You walk out, you walk off with three guys we don’t know, you get lost all afternoon, next this mess of an Extra with names, dates, and prices, and on top of that—and on top of that you got the gall to come in here and . . .”
“Who saw me? Fries?”
“Somebody he sent.”
“Did your bird dog . . .”
“Fries had the idea. Until now I didn’t think it was necessary to have a friend of mine shadowed.”
“Did the bird dog also report that I got slugged?”
“That you made a good show of it.”
“I could show you my wound,” said Port. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray, which kept him from seeing how Stoker meant to react. When Port looked up again Stoker was leaning back in his chair, rigid with pain. He tried to breathe carefully, and his face was suffused with blood. Port jumped up, got the pills out of Stoker’s vest pocket, and dropped them on the man’s tongue. They were still lying there when Port put the glass of water up to the mouth and poured.
After a while Stoker came around. He didn’t look at Port, but wiped the cold sweat off his face.
“That was a bad one,” said Port.
“Closer.” Stoker’s voice was strained. “Each time closer and closer.”
Port frowned, then turned away. He went to the window and lit himself another cigarette. “Danny,” said Stoker. Port turned.
“Danny,” said Stoker.
Port turned.
“Danny. What can I believe?”
“You could believe me,” said Port.
“You were walking out.”
“I told you that months ago. I don’t lie.”
Stoker just nodded.
“And I’m still leaving.”
“Then why did you come here?”
Port shrugged, getting impatient.
“I thought I had news for you.”
“What was it?”
“It isn’t news any more.” He flipped one finger at the paper on top of the desk. “I got picked up and they told me they were going to spring something like this.”
“Bellamy?”
“Not himself. He’s too reformed for that.”
“What did he want?”
“Me.”
Stoker sat without talking, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he said, “You know why, don’t you, Danny?”
“Because I was leaving.”
“And you know why he sprang this dirt in the papers.”
“There’s nothing in that sheet that Bellamy didn’t know months ago.”
“True,” said Stoker. He put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “He timed it, Danny. He sprang it when it would hurt most—when you were leaving.”
Port didn’t answer. Instead he started to whistle. He sat down in the chair and got up again, and then Stoker went on.
“You still think you can walk out and nothing will happen?” Stoker sounded really tired now, and he kept plopping his hands together in a listless manner. “If I say, Danny, go ahead and pack up, you think that’s enough? You know that isn’t enough. You’re taking too much with you. Sit down, Danny.”
Port sat down. He wished he had left earlier, some other way, maybe, and he wished he had never told anyone about it. But it was too late now. And Stoker being his friend couldn’t make any difference.
“Listen, Danny, how long we been together?”
“What do you want, Max?”
“Didn’t I treat you right, Danny? You weren’t so much, you know, when I picked you up after the war.”
“I know. Lots of stuff but no application.”
“But you learned. And now what are you doing? You’re throwing it all down the drain. You don’t make enough, maybe? Or you think this setup is too local or something?”
“I make enough, Max.”
“So what is it?”
Port held his breath and looked out the window. It was dark outside. He thought that if Stoker didn’t know by now, there was no use going into it again.
“Tell me again, Danny.”
“I want out, that’s all.” Port tried to hold his temper, but it didn’t work. “I want out because I learned all there was: there’s a deal, and a deal to match that one, and the next day the same thing and the same faces and you spit at one guy and tip your hat to another, because one belongs here and the other one over there, and, hell, don’t upset the organization whatever you do, because we all got to stick together so we don’t get the shaft from some unexpected source. Right, Max? Hang together because it’s too scary to hang alone. Well? Did I say something new? Something I didn’t tell you before?”
“Nothing new.” Stoker ran one hand over his face. “I knew this before you came along.” He looked at the window and said, “That’s why I’m here till I kick off.”
The only sound was Stoker’s careful breathing and Port’s careful shifting of his feet. Then Port said, “Not for me.”
It changed the mood in the room, as if Port didn’t want to talk any more and had said all there was. Only Stoker didn’t leave it that way.
“What else, Danny?”
“Nothing.”
“It happened too sudden,