nose. A slow pain started to grow, leaving Port awake but feeling weak and alone. He even had room to think of the man who had hit him, what kind of man he must be, and real amazement went through Port’s mind. Then the second punch knocked him out.
There was the bare wall again, then the high window, next to Kirby. This time Kirby was on the chair. And this time he had his gun. The tail end of a conversation went on with George saying something about wasting time and Kirby laughing that it was worth it, that there was nothing to worry about because it had only been the butt end of the gun, not the real McCoy.
“He’s up,” said the cabby at the door. He had a newspaper in his hand, looking over it.
Kirby stood up and gave Port a kick. Then George was there too. He reached down, took Port by one hand, and pulled him off the floor. It felt worse than the kick. Port leaned against the wall and heard them talking at him.
“You’re making a mistake, Daniel—”
“Make it again. Come on, sport, make it again—”
“He wants you to listen to sense. Bellamy says—”
“One way or the other, sport, have it any way you want—”
“Not the same deal like this Stoker. Bellamy wants you—”
“But the works, sport, whichever way—”
“Kirby,” said Port, “which way is up?”
They both stopped. They watched Port straighten up, pushing away from the wall.
“Up? Up what?” said Kirby.
“Up yours,” and Port swung from low down, catching Kirby under the nose so his head flipped back and then the whole man went over backward.
George caught him in his arms, because he was standing that way, and tossed the limp Kirby right back at Port. George would do something like that. Port had stepped clear and saw Kirby crash into the wall.
“About our talk,” said Port. He hadn’t moved again, watching George, and George didn’t come any closer. As long as Port didn’t make a wrong move, George wouldn’t. That’s where Kirby had been different, but now Kirby was out.
“Bellamy wants you to come over,” said George, “and I’m here to give you the message.”
“I left Stoker,” said Port, “because I want out. I’ve had mine and now I want out.”
“You can’t leave.”
“That’s what Stoker said.”
“Forget about Stoker. It’s Bellamy now.”
“I wouldn’t do him any good.”
“He wants you to come over. There’s all kinds of dirt on Stoker, and you’re the one who would know about it. Bellamy . . .”
“I told you, George, I’m through with the local dirt.”
“You selling elsewhere?”
“No.”
“You protecting Stoker?”
“You don’t listen, do you?”
George shrugged, gave a short look at Kirby out on the floor, then turned back to Port.
“Bellamy wants the dirt.”
“He can make his own.”
George gave a short grin, which surprised Port, and said, “He mentioned that. To start with, he can make his own.”
“Fine. That leaves me out.”
“But you’re in it.” George laughed again. Then he changed back and was sober. “Think it over, boy. And don’t try to leave town. Won’t work.”
George went over where Kirby was on the floor and picked him up. He carried him to the door and gave him to the cabby. Then he came back.
“And keep your hands off Kirby,” he said to Port. He hit under the heart and didn’t wait to see Port sink to the floor. Then the door opened, and when Port looked again the door was still open but the men were gone.
Chapter Three
WHEN he left the building it was getting dark and the same overcast lay everywhere. Port gave himself time to rest and to look at the street. Then he saw the girl again. She was coming the other way, on his side of the street, and she was wearing a different outfit of white nylon, buttoned down the front and very antiseptic-looking, like a nurse’s uniform. But he was sure she wasn’t a nurse. Her legs were bare and over one breast she wore a red carnation. Her skin was dark and her thick hair shiny black, making the red flower more vivid and the nylon more white. As she came closer she looked at him standing by the steps, but without special interest. She still didn’t look away when she came past.
Port said, “Pardon me. You got the time?”
She said, “Close to six,” and walked by without breaking her pace.
“Wait.”
She stopped and looked back at him.
“I— You know, I saw you before, across the street.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw you go in here.”
He walked up to her, smiling, but didn’t know of anything else to say. He looked at her. He looked at her feet, then up, and stopped at her face. He didn’t care what she thought. He smiled again and she must have misunderstood.
“No,” she said, turned around and walked down the street without looking back.
After a moment Port turned the other way and walked steadily for a while, careful not to jar the aches in his body. By the time he had left the slums he was going faster. His mouth looked thinner, and hardly moved when he started to whistle.
The Lee building was closed when Port got there, but he rapped on the glass door and waited for the night man to show up. He came across the wide lobby, squinting to see the entrance. When he saw it was Port he got out his keys and unlocked the door.
“Evening, Mr. Port.” He held the door open. “You lose your key, Mr. Port?”
“Is Stoker still in?”
“He’s there. He said he wouldn’t be leaving till nine or so, he and Mr. Fries. I think they . . .”
“Take me up, will you?”
“Sure, Mr. Port.”
All the way up the night man wanted to say more but Port didn’t encourage him. Port left the elevator on the tenth floor.
Stoker’s door said Civic Services, Inc. The frosted glass showed a light. Port walked into the reception room, then through the big one with the desks and typewriters, and down the corridor
