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, your losing interest.”
They both knew what Stoker was talking about, but Port didn’t want to go into it. He was suddenly angry. He didn’t say anything.
“When your kid brother got it is when you lost interest, isn’t it?”
Port got up and went to the window, then back to the desk. He tried to talk very quietly.
“Bób got killed working for you. You sent him out to fix up that policy trouble with Welman. For a talk—just to talk with Welman. Maybe that’s all you thought it was going to be, but you also knew that there might be trouble. You knew Welman for a nut with a gun, and that my brother had more temper than brains. And you sent him out there.”
“Blaming me—” Stoker started, but Port wasn’t listening.
“I didn’t want him to go! I didn’t even want that kid hanging around you!”
Port took a breath and stared at the dark window.
“Blame you?” he said. “I don’t know. I don’t know whom to blame.”
“Now you listen to me.” Stoker put his elbows on the desk and rubbed both hands over his face. When he looked up again he nodded at Port. “You don’t know whom to blame, but I know whom you’re blaming. I’m going to . . .”
Port made an impatient gesture but Stoker didn’t let him talk.
“I’m not done. I know you’re going to ask what this has to do with your staying or leaving, so I’m telling you. Listen. I picked you up broke in New York, broke because you were wet-nursing that brother you had. The kid gets out of the army and falls in with bad companions and you to the rescue. He loses his roll. He gambles himself red, white and blue in the face and you stake him to a comeback.” Stoker sat back and laughed. “All through the war, did you see him, did you nurse him along? No. He’s in the Pacific and you in the ETO. Does he get along without you all that time? Sure he does; never a scratch. But you meet up in New York, you take care of him, and you both end up in the gutter. Right? Answer me!”
“Yeah. So what?”
“So I make a long story short and tell you I pick you up, I take you in, and from then on you started sailing. You and me, Danny, we got along fine because you got respect for a man who shows you what you don’t know and you got it in you to learn.”
“What’s that got to do . . .”
“I said wait.” Stoker lowered his voice. “And all this time you keep wet-nursing the kid brother along. Maybe you thought he was too dumb or maybe you thought I’d take advantage of him, but it comes out the same way: Dan Port, his brother’s keeper.”
“You’re damn right I was my brother’s keeper!”
“You don’t have to yell, Dan. I know. Except for this.” Stoker paused to look up at Port’s face. “Now I’ll tell you why you’re quitting. Your kid brother’s dead and it’s your fault.”
Port didn’t say anything because he knew Stoker was right. He didn’t say anything because he thought Stoker was through.
“All through the war the kid gets along with no help from you. Then you take him in hand and he dies.”
“You
