didn’t answer, but the frown came back to his face, and he turned and ran down the length of the corridor. He opened a door and before Port could get there he heard Fries talking to Stoker.
Port walked in. Stoker got up from behind his desk and Fries stood by, one hand working the back of a chair.
“What’s the matter?” Port looked from one to the other.
For a moment nobody answered. The only change was the flushing color in Stoker’s face. He leaned over his desk, looking straight at Port, and his breath was noisy.
“You son of a bitch!” he said.
Port stood for a moment and then took a step toward the desk.
“Sit down,” said Fries. He hit the back legs of the chair on the floor and stood by, waiting for Port. “I said, sit.”
Port saw Fries’s hand come out of the pocket, holding a blackjack, and he walked up to the chair. He kicked it hard, making it fly into Fries’s shins. Fries doubled over, sweating, and Port went up to the desk.
“Everybody nuts in this place? Since when does that creep go around telling me things?” he demanded.
Stoker sat down without answering. He looked over at Fries, who was straightening up painfully, and when Fries started for the desk Stoker said, “Go outside. Call Abe and his sidekick up here. They’re down in the garage. And then wait outside.”
“But if Port . . .” Fries started.
“He won’t,” said Stoker.
Fries left and Stoker waved at the chair.
“Go ahead, Port. Sit down.”
Port sat down.
“I’m really interested,” said Stoker. “So help me, I don’t know why you came here.”
“How could you. That’s why I . . .”
“Shut up.”
Port frowned but didn’t say anything.
“Now, I admit I’ve been wrong before, like thinking you were a friend when you’re nothing but a son of a bitch—”
“Stop calling me that,” said Port.
“Wait till I’m through, Port. Just wait till I’m through.”
Port let it go and sat back to listen. He knew that Stoker had to run himself out. He didn’t get this way very often. He was long-winded only when he was too excited and wanted to calm down before finishing up.
“Come to think of it, now, I do know why you’re back. What you did was just the beginning, and of course you and I know you got plenty more. So here you’re back to let your old pal know . . .”
“Stoker, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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
