other way. And they weren’t going to any of Stoker’s places, but perhaps that didn’t make sense. It wouldn’t make sense for Stoker to pick him up for another talk. The cab turned into the slums. They were getting close to Ward Nine, Stoker’s own hot potato, but that wasn’t going to help any now. Port knew the place well, all the streets and a lot of the people, but on this ride that wouldn’t mean a thing. The man in front had his gun out now and the big one next to Port started to shift. When the cab stopped by the curb they were ready.
“Now you go out easy, Daniel,” said the big one, “and mind you step where we say to step.”
Port did as he was told, because the one with the gun was on the sidewalk already and his gun, back in the pocket now, was waiting for Port. The man stood with a crouch, a careful bend of the back, as if he were holding a basket of eggs in front and afraid something might happen to them. The man was still hurting. Port stood on the sidewalk and watched the cabby and the tall one get out. They didn’t hurry, but the one with the gun looked eager.
They had picked their place well. They could have shot him right there by the curb and not caused enough of a stir to worry about. The cabby was locking the car, because of the neighborhood, and Port waited, the gun spiking his back. There was cardboard on broken windows, and in some places there were scrawls making ugly figures on the sidewalk. Port thought that Ward Nine hadn’t looked so ugly before; all the colors were lead-gray, as if the sky had a permanent overcast.
“In here,” said the tall one, and the one with the gun took it up, poking the barrel into the soft flesh next to Port’s spine. Port turned and walked to the basement door. There was a girl walking across the street now, watching the men go into the basement but not wondering about it. Port stumbled going down the steps. He waited while the cabby opened the door, and then he walked through. He thought he would like to see the street again, even the way it was, and, once more, the girl across the way.
The door banged and the cabby leaned against it. Port saw that much. And he made out a chair but nothing else. The room smelled wet.
“Sit.” The tall one waved at the chair.
“Let him stand,” said the one with the gun, and the gun came out of his pocket, butt end up. But the tall one reached out for the gun and pulled it free with hardly an effort. He dropped it into his pocket.
“We only talk, Kirby,” and when Kirby made a quick move for his gun the tall one reached over and gave a push. Kirby stumbled across the room and slammed into the wall.
If Kirby hadn’t been without the gun he wouldn’t have stood there, but the tall one kept the gun in his pocket and turned to Port.
“He’s sore on account of that poke you give him. We just came to talk.”
Port felt the back of his head and said nothing.
“That’s because you hit Kirby,” said the tall one. “Else I wouldn’t have clipped you.”
Kirby came away from the wall and stood by the chair where Port was sitting. Port felt jumpy and it showed.
“Later,” said the tall one. “Maybe later, Kirby. First we talk.”
Kirby stepped away from the chair again, but just far enough not to rile the tall one. Port didn’t relax. They were so slow about it, making no sense, that Port couldn’t think straight. He had to look around the room to shake off the feeling of nowhere, but there was nothing to look at. Just the walls, one high window, and the door where the cabby was leaning. He was unwrapping a stick of gum.
Port had to say something.
“What’s your name?” he said to the tall one.
“I’m George,” said the tall one. “I’m here to tell you, Daniel, we want you shouldn’t leave town.”
“You working for Fries?”
“I don’t know any Fries.” George treated it like an interruption, very patient about it, and then got back to the subject. “Because you’re leaving Stoker . . .”
“He sent you himself?”
George made an annoyed face, but he was still patient.
“I never seen Stoker,” he said.
It meant nothing.
“You left him, didn’t you?” and George stood in front of the chair, waiting for an answer.
Port said, “Why?”
“Because otherwise I got nothing to talk about.”
Port said, “Yes, I left him.” That’s what he had wanted to do and if he hadn’t said yes, George might have stopped talking too early.
“It’s about the setup you got here in town,” said George. “Stoker’s bunch, where you come from, and Bellamy, the one that heads up the Reform party. You know who I mean.”
Port knew what was coming. The relief he had felt hadn’t lasted long, and he almost wished that George had been sent by Stoker. But that wouldn’t have made any sense, Stoker pulling an act like this. Instead, he would wait in his office, just as he had said, and wait for Port to come back, because Stoker couldn’t believe anything else.
But Bellamy would. He knew Port less and had more the temperament for a primitive stunt like this.
“Bellamy wants you,” said George.
Stoker’s loss would be Bellamy’s gain. He would think like that. If you don’t like Stoker, you got to like Bellamy. What else was there?
Port started to whistle and sat back in his chair. He waited till he felt that he wasn’t going to lose his temper, that he could push it out of the way for a while. He said, “Tell me, George, then why any of this? Why this basement stunt?”
“Bellamy thought you’d be used to it.”
“Or if you ain’t,” said Kirby, “then Bellamy figured it’s time you knew what it’s like.”
“I’m surprised. Shocked and surprised,” said Port. “After all, the Reform party in this town . . .”
“She’s reforming,” said Kirby.
“And then you had to come along and spoil it,” said Port. He put his hands in his pockets to hunt for a cigarette, when Kirby swung with his fist. Port went blind with the water that shot into his eyes, because the punch had caught the bridge of his 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