Chapter 30

 

                They found the downstairs front door wide open -- the lock shattered, pieces of it on the floor leading to the stairs, while a good portion dangled like a mobile near the handle, rattling when Maxwell brushed against the door on his way in. The upstairs door was open, too, the dead bolt pulled back, unharmed. Maxwell called for Patty, but got no reply.

                "She must have run out," Jack said, easing through the door behind Maxwell, eyeing the dim interior with great suspicion. He clearly expected something to leap out of the deep shadows.

                "Why would she leave?" Maxwell asked, picking up one of the whicker chairs that had been turned over in the earlier trashing. "She had no place else to go."

                "Maybe someone scared her into leaving," Jack suggested. "I got scared out before you came back with her."

                "Who scared you? The police?"

                "Eventually. But first I had a visit from Linda's brothers," Jack said.

                "And they didn't kill you?"     

                "They wanted to. They came up the back way otherwise I would have gotten away before they got here. The only warning I got is when they killed the dog. It woke me up, but they were in here on me before I could make sense of things, beating at my face, demanding to know where Linda was."

                "Did you tell them?"

                "I didn't know where she went."

                "You didn't know she had taken up with Toad?"

                "This is news to me," Jack said. "All she told me was that she was going to get rid of the baby. I tried to stop her, but she'd made up her mind."

                "So what did her brothers do when you told them that?"

                "They wanted to kill me anyway. I think might have done it, too, except the police came, pounding on the door downstairs. They panicked, fled back the way they came, promising to kill me later."

                "So what about the police?"

                "They kept pounding on the door downstairs. I looked out the window and saw it was Wilson, and knew this wasn't no legitimate raid. So when it seemed like they were getting ready to kick the door in, I fled out the back. The brothers were a ahead of me, but they got confused and ran out to the front of the building. I don't know exactly what happened then, but Wilson got it into his head to haul them in. I think maybe he thought they were some gang trying to take over from the Boss."

                "Wilson was still downstairs when I got here," Maxwell said. "So whoever trashed this place did it between the time you left and the time we got here, and while the police were waiting outside."

                "Maybe those same people came back after you left and scared your dancer friend out?" Jack suggested.

                "Are you saying Puck came up here after her?"

                "Not him, but one of his boys," Jack said. "My guess is Hutch. If he's bolted from the Boss, he would love to lay his hands on her."

                "Are you saying he'd trade her back to Puck for a piece of Paterson?"

                "It sounds like a good plan," Jack said. "The question is what do we do about it?"

                "We?" Maxwell said. "You're not getting involved in this fight. I don't want you in the middle of this if I have to take Hutch apart."

                "I can't just sit here," Jack argued. "I'd go nuts."

                "And if you come with me, you're likely to get killed."

                "And if you get killed first, I won't have much hope anyway," Jack said, his mouth set firmly as if to say he'd made up his mind and wouldn't be talked out of it.

                "All right," Maxwell mumbled, his head tilted as if working out the details of a plan. "If you need something to do, then go find Toad, wrestle Suzanne and your girlfriends from him. Bring them both back here. The dead bolts are still in place, even on the roof top door -- though God knows if someone wants to get in they can drop through the skylight. We'll have to chance that."

                "Then what?"

                "Sit tight and wait for me," Maxwell said. "Once I get ahold of Patty, I'll bring her back here as well."

                "What a collection we'll make for Hutch or Puck or Linda's brothers to find," Jack snipped.

                "We'll figure out what to do when I get back," Maxwell assured him. "We've got a car. We've got money. If we have to, we'll leave town."

                "And go where?"

                Maxwell glanced over at one of the guitars. Like the one Hutch had broken on the street, it was now in pieces.

                "We can always move to Nashville," he said.

                ***********

                Daylight streaked across the sidewall leaving a pattern of bars as Maxwell hurried along lower Main Street towards the river -- a wooded picket fence shielded the weed infested lot from the street, the boards so weathered and cracked, Maxwell could peer right through the gap -- although the weeds showed no sign of life. Neither did the stores that followed, each window covered with paper upon which "out of business" was written. He caught sight of his own reflection, his lower face sprouting weeds of its own, his nose wound exposed slightly under the torn bandage. But it was his overall disheveled appearance that startled him most: his ragged clothing and unkept hair making him look as disreputable as the Toad.

                He couldn't remember the last time he had washed or slept or combed his hair. His clothing stank from the dumpster they had hidden in and of his own sweat drawn from that panicked flight. He sweated down, even in the cool air, his quick step pumping his heart nearly as fast as his jogging did.

                He could not contain his rage, though he could hear Charlie's calming voice telling him to center himself.

                "Angry people make mistakes," Charlie once told him.

                Yet each time he closed his eyes, other ghosts emerged, drawing up that rage again: Puck, Hutch, the old mayor, Toad, Wilson, even Red Bone, as if he now had a score to settle with each of them and would not find peace until he had.

                "God help Hutch if he hurts Patty," he thought, knowing just how capable the son of a bitch was of doing just that, knowing that Hutch would take great pleasure in returning spoiled goods to either of them.

                "Of all people, Hutch would know how deeply that would hurt both me and Puck," Maxwell thought, then pondered that thought, stunned by the fact that both boys had grown up to love the same woman.

                Love? Maxwell had told Creeley differently. But that was a lie. Only love could manufacture the kind of rage roaring inside Maxwell now, a rage that would not be satisfied by anything less than flowing blood.

                Maxwell had already pushed his talents into dark uses. He had found one of Hutch's stooges watching the door to the loft, grabbed him, shoved him against a window, and demanded to know where Hutch was. The whimpering thug was no match for Maxwell's rage. Street life didn't always breed tough people, and the squirming creature soon gave up Hutch's hide out in exchange for his life. Maxwell hurried down to the riverside to seek out the shack the thug had given.

                There, on the southern side of the river -- perhaps even on the very location of the original Passaic Hotel -- the shack stood, looking more like a collection of drift wood than a habitable structure, its gray planks so weathered they could have come from the hotel as well. No sign showed of any attempt to paint or repair the place, and -- except for a small square, hand-painted sign near the door -- nothing suggested habitation. Some steam clouded the quarter pain windows and a puff of occasional smoke rose from a rusting pipe in its roof.

                Heavy metal chords droned through the thin wood accompanied by a gaggle of laughter, the smell of marijuana drifting out the cracks like escaping gas. An scarlet point of light appeared on the darker side of the building, then faded out, telling Maxwell that someone was standing there, sucking on a cigarette. It reappeared a moment later, farther up the weed-cluttered river bank, faded again, appearing farther away still -- Maxwell able then to make out the shape of a man against the soft glow of the housing projects on the far side of the river. He was holding a rifle.

                Maxwell slipped over the edge, down a sharp incline of embankment to the edge of the water itself, easing towards the building from an unexpected direction. Dawn glowed faintly on the horizon, leaving Maxwell little time to make his move or find himself discovered in open daylight. From this vantage point, however, he saw other glowing points of light, like fireflies flicking on, then fading out.

                Did they all have guns, he wondered?  Was this some kind of trap?

                No, he finally decided. This was more a fortress than an ambush. Hutch had apparently sent his message and now waited on the reply, making his demand that Puck turn over the city to him in exchange for Patty.

                They knew Puck's first reply would come as violence -- a police raid, perhaps. Puck still had enough cops on his side to stage such a raid.

                Or would he try something more covert?

                Maxwell took a deep breath, then climbed embankment behind the building, then eased around it, his back to the wall, until he reached the door.

                A small sign hung on the door itself, crooked hand-written letters spelling out: "Hutch's joint."

                Maxwell tapped sharply.

                A gun barrel appeared around the corner of the building, a pimple-scarred Halloween mask of a face easing out from behind it.

                "You hold it right there, mother fucker," the red-haired kid said, his voice wavering slightly from fear.

                "I'm here to see Hutch," Maxwell said, just as the door popped out exposing another gun barrel -- and something like a black milk carton attached to it.

                "Did he send for you?" said a harsher, huskier voice from behind the machine pistol.

                "No," Maxwell admitted. "But he knows me."

                "So?"

                "So he'll want to talk to me."

                "What about?"

                "It's about the girl. The dancer he dragged from the apartment on Main Street."

                The red-haired kid came closer, his close set eyes studying Maxwell for a moment.

                "You're him?" the boy asked. "The one that broke Hutch's arm?"

                "Just tell Hutch I'm here," Maxwell said.

                The red-haired kid nodded at the man inside the door. The door closed, and a moment later, the music and laughter ceased inside. The door popped open with a jerk.

                "He wants to see you," said the man -- a large Latino, older than the others, mostly bald except around the ears -- motioning the milk carton gun to indicate Maxwell should go inside.

                Maxwell squeezed through the partially open door, down a narrow, short passageway -- plaster board walls ineptly repaired with several sections sunken in -- then through another door into what Jack would have called "an old man's bar."

                It stank from years of booze and cigarettes, although it was the more recent scent of burning marijuana that most assaulted Maxwell when he stepped through the door.

                A square bar stood at the exact center of the room, illuminated by soft amber lamps hidden in the bar's recessed. A handful of lamps hanging from the ceiling helped dispel the depressing dimness natural to the interior.

                "Well, well, well," Hutch boomed from the far side of the room, seated at a large round poker table in the far corner, a jukebox spinning a Marshall Tucker tune from the 1970s. The top of the table was littered with beer bottles and the glasses thick with the melting ice of mixed drinks. "So what brings Mr. Maxwell Zarra down into our little world, eh?"

                Two women stood to either side of Hutch, dripping jewelry and perfume, their faces so heavily painted Maxwell struggled to tell the race or nationality of either, although one looked familiar to Maxwell. He studied her face for a moment, taking note of the African features the makeup could not disguise, and to his horror realized it was Jack's girlfriend.

                "Linda?" he said.

                She stirred at the sound of her own name, keeping her gaze down so as not to meet Maxwell's.

                "So you recognized my newest pet," Hutch said gleefully as he patted her ass.

                "Your pet? The last I heard she was hooked up with Toad."

                "Toad doesn't know what to do with quality merchandise."

                "You do?"

                "Of course," Hutch said, grinning, the dim light emphasizing the gap in his front tooth. "That's why she's here."

                "Which leads to the question of how you got her?"

                "I didn't steal her, if that's what you thin, though God knows I could have. The way the Boss did."

                "Puck stole her? Why?"

                "to trade with me, and pay off Wilson. I got this bitch and a piece of the action. Wilson got his bitch. The Toad got to go for a swim in the river. By this time tomorrow, the Garfield cops will be fishing his body out down by the Service Diner."

                Maxwell's head swam with the visions of a dying Toad, a beaten Linday and a Suzanne chained to Wilson's zipper."

                "What did you have to give Puck in exchange?" Maxwell asked.

                "You know," Hutch said, his grin expanding a little. "She's what brought you here. I know you came to free her, planning to make a hero out of yourself by beating the hell out me. But you'll have to take that up with the Boss -- if he's still Boss by the time you get to him."

                "You mean you'll let me leave here without a fight?" Maxwell said.

                "I have to," Hutch said. "It's part of the deal."

                "I'm part of the deal? How's that?"

                "If I hurt you, Puck comes after me."

                "That's crazy. Why?"

                "Go ask the madman on the hill, he's got that answer. But don't push your luck with me too far. I'll blow your head off if you step on my toes. I may not be the King of Paterson, but it won't be long before I am. Even if the Boss survives the mayor's he's grown weak. All I have to do is bide my time, and I'll get what I want. But I'll be damned before I let a slug like you get in my way.

                Maxwell nodded and turned, glancing briefly at Linda, who no longer looked like a 13-year-old, but like many of the aging barflies he had seen over at Rosey's, hints of Suzanne's fate in her future. He sighed, and hurried out. He now knew what he had to do and who he had to see.

                ***********

                Maxwell didn't find the house right away, a small, white building with a crumbling front porch tucked up in the Totowa section of Paterson. It was located above the Great Falls and along the north west bank of the river. This was the transitional section that divided the barren downtown from the more middle class Hillcrest section. The street number had peeled away with the pain and Maxwell passed it twice, backtracked before finally realizing which place it was.

                The whole time a black man sat on the porch rocking slowly in a love seat -- his face as lined finely grained wood, although he bore an annoyed expression when Maxwell mounted the porch towards him.

                "What do you want?" the man growled in a creaky voice.

                "I'm looking for the Johnson family."

                "You found them," the old man said. "At lease, you've found me and I'm a Johnson."

                Maxwell glanced out at the littered front yard, at the rusted lawnmower surrounded by two-foot high weeds. He caught glimpse of a pink, tri-wheeled scooter with one wheel missing and a white doll without a head. Pipes and lumber sat in the midst of this in preparation for a job never engaged.

                "Is someone else around," Maxwell said. "Someone I could talk to about -- Linda?"

                The old man's hazy stare crystalized. Maxwell had never seen hate in a stare before, but saw it now.

                "What do you want with our Linda?" the old man asked, as he reached over to the screen door and began to bang it against its frame, a rat tat tat the echoed throughout the house. It drew thudding feet.

                "I don't want anything with her," Maxwell said. "I just wanted to let you know where she is."

                Three large black men charged out of the door, halting sharply when they saw Maxwell.

                "He's come about our Linda," the old man told them.

                The three large men bristled, their gazes narrowing as they focused their attention on Maxwell.

                "You got balls coming here?" one of them said. "Go find some white whore if you need it that bad. Leave us and our family alone."

                "I'm not looking for any whore," Maxwell said. "I'm Jack's roommate and I came because your sister is in trouble."

                "Trouble because of your friend," one of the other brothers said, smaller than the other two, with a set of thick-lensed glasses that bloated his angry eyes. "Get out of here."

                "It isn't my friend that's whoring her around," Maxwell said.

                "You've seen her?" one of the larger brothers said.

                "Yes."

                "And she's bad off?"

                "If you don't get down there and get her, she's going to be."

                "Down where?" the third brother asked.

                "Hutch's place," Maxwell said. "He's taken her on as his personal whore."

                The largest of the three snorted, a low growl rising from deep down in his throat. "That honky?"

                "That's right."

                "Where did you say she was?"

                Maxwell gave them directions, then headed back downtown. He had another appointment to keep.

                ***********

                Maxwell waited in the shadows as the cars pulled in, one after another. Police officers were changing shift. He had asked the desk sergeant about which shift Wilson worked, and expected the fat cop's car to pull in any moment. This was the night shift. Paterson had only eight cars to cover a city of six square miles and a half a million population.

                As was to be expected, Wilson pulled in last, and eased his pudgy body out of the car. He glanced around, his lower lip trembling, his tiny eyes shifting uneasily. The other cops seemed to avoid him, stepping out of his way as he climbed the stairs towards the glass doors to the station.

                "Wilson!" Maxwell called, stepping out of the shadow near the bottom of the stairs.

                The pudgy cop turned, hand falling to his side, automatically flipping open his holster. His gaze widened in recognition of Maxwell.

                "What the hell are you doing here?"

                "You know. Where is she, Wilson?" Maxwell said, bounding up the stairs so as to reach the landing just above where Wilson stopped.

                "Get out of my way," Wilson said.

                "Not until you tell me what you've done with her. I'm finished fooling around with you. If you don't tell me, I'll break you in pieces."

                Wilson's hand moved for his pistol, but Maxwell beat him to it, jerking the weapon out. It clattered down the stairs and stopped at the feet of another cop, who looked down, then looked away. This wasn't his concern.

                "I'm not bluffing," Maxwell told Wilson. "I can hurt you bad, a little at a time. Is the girl worth that much to you?"

                Beads of sweat bubbled up onto Wilson's brow. His tiny eyes stared straight into Maxwell's.

                "I should have killed you when you were a kid," the cop hissed, "before you got so high and mighty."

                "I'm not being high and mighty. I just don't like people like you hurting people like Suzanne."

                "Whose hurting her? She's just a rag. I'm doing her a favor fucking her. I'm keeping her alive."

                Maxwell hit the cop across the mouth, before he could stop himself, drawing blood from Wilson's lower lip.

                "That's right, Zarra," Wilson shouted. "I fucked her, and I'll fuck her again when I'm off duty, and I'll keep on fucking her until she dies of exhaustion."

                The next blow, Maxwell intended, striking the fat man right in the fattest part of his body, keeping his fingers stiff so they plunged deeply into his fat flesh. The cop lost breath, but Maxwell pushed his fingers deeper to keep him from getting it again. The fat face went red, then gray.

                "Where is she, Wilson?" Maxwell whispered.

                Other cops gathered at the bottom of the steps. But none made a move to rescue their co-worker, they just watched.

                The fat cop began to crumble, easing down to his knees, unable to do anything else.

                "Are you going to tell me?" Maxwell asked.

                Wilson gave a short nod. Maxwell eased his fingers out, just enough to allow Wilson a short breath.

                "She's down by the bridge," he wheezed.

                "Which bridge?"

                "West Broadway."

                "In a house?"

                Wilson shook his head. "In a shack," Wilson said, taking a deeper breath as Maxwell eased his fingers out of the fat man's stomach. "It's where Toad lived."

                Maxwell turned, bounding back down the stairs. "She'd better be there," he said, "or I'll be back."

                "Zarra!" the fat cop croaked. "This isn't the end of things."

                **********

                The brown water swirled here, still frothy and violent from its decent over the falls. Old car tires littered the far short, cast up against the crumpled cyclone fence and concrete by a freak element in the current. Even in daylight, this place seemed dim where the walls of the former mill runways overshadowed the water -- straight sides running down from the hydro plant. Near the bridge, slicing straight down from the road, a dirt path descended at a break in the wall, so slanted Maxwell struggled to keep from sliding down. His sneakers kicked up gravel and send the small stones plopping into the water below.

                Beneath the arch of the bridge, a hobo village sat, a few dozen shacks protected from the harsher elements from above, but not from the raging winds flowing along with the water. Most were made of old wood found on the street -- pieces of furniture, packing crates, scrap lumber, cobbled together into dubious jigsaw puzzles that might collapse at any moment.

                Piece useless for building, they burned, as they did trash and tires, the stench and smoke of which added to the dark, despite the roaring flames out of which trash can. Under the overwhelming odor of burning rubber, Maxwell caught the scent of cooking coffee and sizzling meat -- pondering what foul creatures these people hunted down. A brown-faced, gray-haired man glared at Maxwell as he made his way along the cobble stone undersurface into the village.

                "I'm looking for Suzanne," Maxwell said.

                At first, the man said nothing, his brown wrinkled face lit from below by the glow of the fire. Then, he asked: "You a cop?"

                "No," Maxwell said.

                The man shrugged and titled his head towards the row of shacks.

                "She's in the last one," he said. "But she ain't in any mood to see visitors."

                Maxwell, who had taken a step in that direction, stopped. "Is she hurt?"

                "No so you can see from the outside," the man mumbled. "She ain't heard from Toad in a while."

                "He's dead," Maxwell said.

                "You know that for a fact?"

                "Hutch told me."

                "That's cruel," brown man said. "Toad never hurt nobody."

                "He hurt Suzanne."

                "Hurt nothing, he loved her."

                "But he pimped her to the police."

                "And she let him, out of love," the man said. "You ain't down here. So you don't know what it's like -- especially for a girl like that. Someone's always going to hump here, whether she wants it or not. The best she can do is get herself a situation, and have someone around like Toad to make sure she survives."

                "And you're saying Toad did that?"

                "And more. He treated her like a lady and made sure nobody hurt her -- ever."

                "Wilson hurt her."

                "Not where it counts. Not on the inside."

                "Hutch did."

                "Only by offing Toad. She ain't going to get over losing him. I hate to be the one who has to tell her."

                "Does she need to know?"

                "It's that or have her think Toad's dumped her."

                "So why don't you tell her?"

                "Me? She should get it from the source."

                "But you came looking for her. So maybe you care, eh?"

                Maxwell sagged. "Yeah," he said. "I care. So much I stole her from Toad and got Toad killed. How am I going to tell her that?"

                The brown man stayed silent, slowly stirring the coals of the fire, his metal rod clanking against the inside of the can. Around them, the air swirled with smoke. Sparks stabbed at Maxwell's face as he turned towards the line of shacks and slowly made his way to the one in which Suzanne waited.

                He had to push aside a blanket to get in, and hold it open so as to cast light inside. At first, he saw no one, just bundles on the floor like those that had decorated the police station steps. Then, he saw one of the bundles move.

                "Nathaniel?" Suzanne asked, her pale face showing itself from among the rags.

                "No, not Nathaniel," Maxwell said. "It's only me."

                She lowered her head again, emitting a disappointed, "Oh."

                "Suzanne," Maxwell said easing himself towards her, the blanket falling back into place behind him, casting them both into an even deeper haze. "How would you like to come live with me?"

                She did not answer. She only let out a breath in what must have served her as a sigh.

                "Did you hear me, Suzanne?"

                "I hear."

                "Do you want to?"

                "No."

                "Why not?"

                "I live here now. Not in now store."

                "You wouldn't have to live in a store. You could live in my apartment with a room of your own."

                "Where would Nathaniel stay?"

                "Nathaniel doesn't need a room," Maxwell said, his voice barely a whisper. "He doesn't need anything or anybody because he's..."

                "Go away!"

                "I can help you. I can make it all up to you."

                "GO AWAY!"

                "But I still love you, Suzanne."

                The declaration opened her eyes wide, but made them hard as well, as if the words had stirred up that part of herself which she had forgotten, bringing back, not just hints of memories, but a flood of pain.

                "I don't love you!" she said. "I hate you. Go away."

                She sank back into her gray bundles. Maxwell stayed for a moment, then finally eased back out into the open air, only then aware of how sweat-soaked he'd become. He was exhausted. He wanted coffee, but needed something else less easily acquired. He kept thinking about history, how it always seemed to repeat itself in some perverted way. He thought of Suzanne's history with the men in New York and he thought of Patty in Paterson -- a captive of a possessive Puck.

                Rage roared to life inside him.

                His hands shook as he waved good-bye to the brown-faced man, to his oil drum fire, to this little city under the bridge.

                Maxwell was so angry, he muttered to himself the whole way up the muddy path to the street, cursing and crying, wiping the wet from his cheeks. He yelled when he got to the top, at no one, at everyone, listening to the echo of his voice strike the sides of the speed well, ricocheting off the walls until it reached the canyon of the falls itself, where the roar of water erased it.

                "I'm going to kill you, Puck!" he shouted.

                And he meant it. And he meant to go get Patty back, and keep her from the same as Suzanne's.

                And he would have, too, except that at that moment a cop car pulled up to the curb and two very muscular officers jumped out either side, both brandishing riot clubs and wearing expressions so grim Maxwell needed not clues to guess why they had come.

                "Zarra?" one of them asked.

                Maxwell nodded, the fight evaporating out of him.

                "The mayor wants to see you," the other cop said.

                ***********

                They escorted him through the station the way they had the first time, the hand cuffs cutting his wrists.

                "Why do we need the handcuffs if the mayor only wants to talk?" Maxwell asked.

                "As a precaution," the grim cop told him.

                But the route the cops took did not lead up to the mayor's office, instead down to the cells in the basement of the building.

                The steps were wider than those in the old station, and the walls made of a smoother concrete. But the smell was the same, that of trapped bodies. And the sound was the same, the moaning, groaning and cursing of men waiting to be moved to more secure quarters in the county jail.

                Downstairs was better lighted the previous jail, with cameras in the corners documenting the movements of everyone -- a significant relief to prisoners who remember the numerous injuries recorded in the former, darker halls. Reports indicated repeated accidents on their way to and from their cells.

                On either side, faces pressed against the bars to get a glimpse of Maxwell, gray colored faces with the same mocking eyes that Maxwell remembered from his first trip, many hooting at him, some demanding that the cops deliver him to their hands.

                Somewhere deep in the back of Maxwell's head, he heard his young self pleading for Charlie to come rescue him.

                "In here," the cop said, holding open one of the cell doors. The space beyond it was not empty. But the prisoner it contained did not come to the bars the way the others had. To Maxwell's relieve the cop unlocked his cuffs, before shutting and locking the gate behind him.

                "When do I see the mayor?" Maxwell asked.

                "When the mayor's ready to see you," the cop replied, then retreated back the way he'd come, the clatter of his footsteps echoing for a little while.

                Behind Maxwell, curled into one of the bunks, the other inmate whimpered. Maxwell squinted to make out the pudgy shape.

                "Jack?"

                The whimpering figure struggled to turn away from the wall. His face had acquired numerous purple welts, with the spaces around his eyes swollen. From the rasping sound of his breathing, Jack apparently suffered injuries to his lungs and other body parts.

                "Funny -- meeting -- you here," Jack said, trying to be glib.

                "What the hell happened to you?"

                "I... went looking for Linda."

                "Hutch has her."

                "I -- know."

                "He did this to you?"

                Jack shook his head.

                "Her brothers?" Maxwell asked again.

                Another shake. "The -- Boss. At least -- that's who they -- said they were -- working for."

                "Because of the money you owe?"

                "Because -- of you."

                "Me?"

                "I'm -- supposed to serve -- as a -- warning."

                "Warning about what?"

                "Trying to -- get the -- Boss' woman back."

                "Then you know about the deal?"

                "I -- was on my way -- to talk -- to Hutch, when -- these other thugs -- got me."

                "There's no point talking to him, he'd only beat you up for trying."

                "But -- I have to try -- and get -- her away."

                "You won't. But her brothers might."

                "What -- do you mean?"

                Maxwell told Jack what he had done. Jack closed his eyes and smiled a little. "I -- wish I could be -- there," he said.

                "So how did you wind up here?" Maxwell asked.

                "The cops -- picked me up -- looking for you," Jack mumbled. "But -- I need rest."

                He closed his eyes, and seemed to drift off, his breathing growing more regular as he did.

                Maxwell -- although weary -- could not rest, pacing the cell for a few minutes before calling out for a cop. This raised a ruckus among the other cells, and eventually a guard appeared.

                "What do you want?"

                "My friend needs a doctor."

                "So?"

                "He's hurt. He could die."

                "Tough luck."

                "People might think you did it."

                The cop -- who had started back the way he had come -- halted abruptly. "You some kind of jail house shyster?"

                "I'm just pointing out the obvious," Maxwell said.

                "And you think you'll get out to tell anyone if he dies?"

                "I'll get out," Maxwell said, his tone so flat the tall cop blinked.

                The cop said nothing for a long time, then finally nodded. "I'll get the doc," he said and left.

                But no doctor came. Instead the guard returned, banding on the bars with a night stick to make Maxwell stand back -- as other, grumbling guard rushed in bearing a stretch, each glaring at Maxwell as if promising him retribution later. Then all vanished again, taking with them the still sleeping Jack.

                Maxwell sat on the bunk Jack just abandoned. The thin mattress still shimmered with Jack's bleeding. He did not lie down, but prompted himself against the wall and dozed. He jerked awake, startled out of a dream of his previous stay at the county jail -- a small voice screaming at him not to fall asleep. Glancing around at the empty cell, Maxwell sighed over his own foolishness. He remembered waiting for so long for Charlie to rescue him, he didn't believe it when the man actually appeared -- dressed in his Army greens, his brows wrinkled with misunderstanding as they drove away.

                "I don't understand how you got into jail in the first place," Charlie had asked. "The police tell me you were very uncooperative. They said you refused to tell them the details concerning a crime."

                "I couldn't," Maxwell told his uncle.

                "Why not?"

                "I promised I wouldn't."

                "Did you help him with the crime?"

                "No."

                "But you're helping him now."

                "I can't help that."

                "Give me one good reason why you're protecting that punk?"

                "I'm not sure I have a good reason."

                Charlie did not press Maxwell for the answer before leaving again for overseas, and Maxwell remembered standing at the curb as the man climbed onto the bus that took him to Newark and eventual death in Vietnam, remembered how he had wanted to shout out the truth to him, to tell him everything, but resisted, promising himself to tell Charlie when the man returned from the war.

                The jangle of keys started Maxwell out of another doze. Footsteps echoed down the corridor amid hoots from the other cells, and sharp rebukes from guards telling the prisons to shut their mouths. But it was not the guards Maxwell saw first, but instead a flood of gray suits, the most prominent figure was the shortest, and the man Maxwell recognized as the mayor.

                "Open this damn door!" Frank X. Graves, Jr. snapped at one of the guards. "You think I've got all day?"

                The guard fumbled with the keys, somehow managing to get the key in the lock the wrong way, struggling to get it out again, as the mayor fumed. When the lock finally snapped open, one of the other guards grabbed the mayor's arm, halting him.

                "This one's dangerous, Mayor," the cop said.

                "Dangerous? With all of you here?" the mayor scoffed.

                "He could kill you before we could stop him," the cop said.

                "Nonsense. He has no reason to hurt me," the mayor growled, yanking open the door. Still, as he stepped in, he slid to one side away from the bunk, as if expecting a sudden attack. Behind him, yet another guard rushed in with a chair, placing it behind the mayor. The gray-haired man sat. He had a broad face, thick with lines, looking more like a dock worker than a politicians, his knuckles heavy with scars from a time when running for office meant physical combat. The mayor's grey eyes squinted to make out Maxwell still pressed against the wall.

                "You don't look like a criminal," Graves said.

                "What does a criminal look like mayor?"

                "A good point," Graves admitted. "Still, I've had some dark reports about your behavior."

                "Such as?"

                "Acquisition of narcotics, flight from justice, kidnapping, assault on a police officer, possible involvement in prostitution," Graves said, his voice remarkably soft.

                "That's an impressive list," Maxwell asked. "Are you sure I haven't killed anybody?"

                "Do not make light of this," Graves said, his voice suddenly sharp. "These charges can put you away for a long time."

                "Provided you can prove them," Maxwell said. "What do you want from me?"

                Graves suddenly exploded with a laugh. "You're no fool, Zarra," he said. "I can understand a little why Puck is so concerned about you. You're smarter than he is, and perhaps even as tough. But you have something else he doesn't have."

                "Which is?"

                "A conscience."

                "Is that a bad thing?"

                "It is to him. He can't trust people who have any kind of moral code. To him, you're kind is unpredictable."

                "Do you feel the same way?" Maxwell asked, easing out towards the edge of the bunk, aware of the rustle in the ranks of officers just beyond the bars. Several had pistols out, although not aimed at him.

                "Of course not," Graves said. "I have a conscience, too -- although I'll admit, it's not as pure as yours seems to be. But if push comes to shove, I stand on your side of the equation, not Puck's."

                "Puck doesn't seem to see a difference," Maxwell said. "He thinks you're just like he is."

                "When dealing with snakes, it helps to think like a snake."

                "Sometimes that leads to becoming a snake," Maxwell noted.

                "Admittedly," Graves said. "There are people who see me as badly as Puck."

                "You certainly haven't done much to dismantle Puck's machine."

                "That's not precisely true," Graves aid. "What I've done may not seem obvious, but I have worked for years to destroy Puck and what he's created here in Paterson. But you don't knock down a fortress over night, or by banging your head against the front door. You chisel at its foundations, working slowly and in secret until you're certain it will fall when you finally push against it. I hate Puck and I spend every minute of every day trying to rid this city of him. Paterson is a good place, despite its obvious flaws, and it can be a better place once we're rid of people like Puck."

                "So what does all this have to do with me?"

                "Ah," Graves said, casting a glance towards one of the other gray-suited men. "You and your friend are key to bringing Puck's empire down. He hates and fears you so much he's neglected everything else. His personal Rome burns while he fumes over you."

                "He's a fool then," Maxwell said. "I'm no danger to him. I don't want anything expect for people to leave me alone."

                "He doesn't see things that way," Graves said. "Puck sees you as his replacement, bent on stealing from him everything he has -- just as you have already stolen the heart of his girl."

                "Patty isn't his girl or mine," Maxwell said, "and I certainly haven't stolen her. If Hutch can be believed, Puck has her this very minute."

                "Puck has part of her," Grave said. "But she hasn't accepted her fate graciously. My people tell me Puck has her heavily drugged to do what he wishes."

                "And what exactly is that?" Maxwell said, a sharp note of alarm rising to his voice.

                "Maybe you should see for yourself."

                "That's hardly possible with me locked up in here."

                Graves nodded and turned towards the nearest guard. "Release this man."

                "But he's..."

                "I said release him."

                The guard grumbled, nodded and motioned at someone else. Graves turned back to Maxwell.

                "You'll find the girl at Puck's club," he said. "But you'd better hurry if you intend to catch up with her. We're planning the raid the place."

 

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