On this trip he did not sleep.
There was part of the fake cargo on deck: several rows of large drums with cheap wine inside, destination a legitimate port which was one day’s run from Okar. The Okar stop, on the books, would be for engine repairs.
At first the drums were wet because of the fog off the Sicilian coast, then they were dry because of the fast blow during the night, then they were moist again, making the black metal look a great deal like velvet. Just south of Malta they met the sirocco. Dry again, all day under the sun, and then toward evening Quinn did not watch any more. He knew how many drums there were, having paced back and forth where the rows were strapped down, back and forth, back and forth, like counting his canisters in the dark, and for the same reason, to know all there was to know, just as long as it was simple.
But by the next night he had quit the pacing. He felt cold and clear and he thought, anyway, it’s good that it’s clear. Shame though that it also has to be cold.
There was a perceptible change in the temperature as they got close to Okar, but Quinn paid little attention to that. Thinking about cold had nothing to do with the temperature.
The boat slowed before Quinn knew why but then he saw the lights of Okar, far away, just a few lights, which slid out from behind the land tongue which made the bay. There was also a beautiful moon. Quinn did not notice. Another half hour of deceptive distance and then Quinn could make out the pier.
The first one Quinn recognized was Bea. There were other people on the pier but Quinn saw Bea first.
Some people, he thought, look stupid waiting, or they look somehow silly, or like cattle standing around.
I’ve always thought she looks beautiful. She looks exciting now, and she must be excited the way she stands there in the light, she doesn’t see me on the dark boat, but she looks for me.
The boat docked and the first one down the plank was Cipolla. He headed across the pier towards Whitfield who stood by the warehouse with the clipboard under his arm.
At first Quinn went fast, going down the plank, then slowly. He wanted to see everything, he wanted to see everything there was to see in the way she stood, walked toward him, waited.
At first they stood close by each other, not touching, then she put her hands on his arm the way she always did, and then he bent to put his face into her hair. He put his hands on her waist, feeling her, and then straightened up again.
“You’re back,” she said.
Maybe she had said it as a question? He said, “Yes.”
But as soon as they had started to talk, the words had taken over for him and he found everything difficult. She is too beautiful and perhaps that’s why, he thought. Why do I have to think this and not say it to her.
“Warm here,” he said and felt the sweat creep out on him, from the sheer awkwardness and stupidity of his remark.
“Quinn,” she said, “are you done?”
“Hell, yes, I’m done over there.”
“What?”
“Done working for Santa Claus. You should see him.” She did not understand him and waited. “I’m staying here, Bea.”
“Here?”
“It’s the best I can figure. It’ll be all right with Remal. I think I can handle him now and I got a good relationship at the other end.”
He thought she was going to cough, the way her breath went, or perhaps she could not get any breath for one reason or another. How can anyone catch a cold in this place, it went through his mind. But she was not coughing or gagging at all. It had been a deep painful breath, all dry, no tears, a dry shaking inside her, so that she sounded hoarse when she talked, and he almost had to guess what she was saying.
“My God, Quinn,” she said, “I thought-maybe you’d be done and, and it’s over, but you’re only starting all over.”
“Bea.”
She stepped away and then she walked away.
“Just a minute now,” he said and caught up with her. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going away, Quinn.”
“Why?”
She did not answer. There were several people on the pier and the boat made low sounds against the pilings but Quinn knew only the pier in the spotty light, big stretch of pier, and black, quiet night. Then he saw the box. Bea was gone and there was the box.
The first thing he had seen had been Bea and now the first thing he saw was the box. It was as if having a choice of one first thing after another.
The box was upright and the crack had been repaired. There was a new lid, all white wood, set to one side and the box was still open.
Everything that happened next happened, in a manner of speaking, without any succession. Everything that happened next was all life and death. Something that is always immediate, that does away with all past and future. There is only now, and so there is no succession.
All the things that came next happened with Quinn and there was a death in it every time.
To lay all of it out, there was a dead man who floated by the pier in the water. There was a dead man lying face up on the rocks where the desert started. And then there was a dead man who lay curled up in a box which was shipped to New York.
The way fever makes the vision shimmer and draws all the color and sharpness out of seeing, that was how Quinn saw the pier in a moment. Everything was holding still and there was no meaning anywhere, until Whitfield happened to drop his clipboard. This made Quinn jump. He did not jump visibly but on the inside in some way.
“You dropped your clipboard,” said Quinn.
“Oh.”
Quinn smelled the gin. He watched Whitfield pick up the clipboard. It was now all very quiet again and Quinn felt no haste. And now, he thought, now for the finish. And I care very much how it turns out.
“Whitfield,” he said. “You know where anyone is?”
“If you mean just anyone, then the question…”
“Whit, don’t just talk. Not this time.”
Whitfield looked at Quinn and immediately took him very seriously. It felt a lot like respect.
“Only the box is here,” said Whitfield.
They both looked at the box which stood by the edge of the light. White, new wood on top, the rest stained as before. The contrast was obscene.
“What do you know about it, Whitfield?”
Whitfield took a breath, feeling the air was too thick.
“Quinn,” he said. “I know they fixed it, I saw them. That’s all. Quinn, I even want to know less than I do know.”
“Yes. You’re always like that.”
Whitfield wiped his face. “I never sweat. I think I’m afraid. What do you do when you’re afraid, Quinn?”
Out of nowhere Quinn felt a very clear affection for the other man, so clear that he was sure it must show and therefore he need say nothing. Perhaps Whitfield caught this. He wanted to say something, but the habit of keeping things dullish and pleasant made him think of some platitude. He did not want to say it and kept still.
Then Quinn turned, walked to the box. He moves like a cat, thought Whitfield. When Quinn reached for the crowbar which leaned by the box Whitfield held his breath with sudden excitement.
Quinn hauled out the iron bar very steadily for a long, wrecking smash into the side of the box, but then he never hit. He suddenly spun around and stared at Whitfield.
“Quinn, what…”
“Out of the way,” said Quinn. “To the wall.”
Quinn wasn’t looking at Whitfield at all and when Whitfield had moved, as if hypnotized, he saw where Quinn had been looking.
Cipolla was coming out of the warehouse. He walked slowly, as if wading in water, and the water was very cold.
“Spread out,” he said, and then Quinn saw the two sailors whom Cipolla had brought along.
Quinn was not winded but he now started to breathe in an inhuman way. He crouched forward a little and breathed with a sound which was deep and loud. He reached back with one hand and touched the box behind him. He barely touched and then pulled his hand away.
“It’s no good,” he said, “unless I’m alive. You know that, don’t you, Cipolla?”
“That’s why,” said Cipolla. “That’s why you’re still standing there.”
“You going to take me alive, Cipolla?”
The small man didn’t answer. He showed his teeth for courage and he swung his arms like an ape, a big ape twice his own size. For the moment he did nothing else. What crazy eyes, thought Cipolla. And he moves like a cat and maybe got nine lives “Ah,” said Quinn and smiled very slowly. It was hard to tell by the high bulb light over the pier what the smile meant, but Whitfield, by the wall, thought the smile was sad. “Ah,” Quinn said again. “And Santa Claus knew Ryder all the time, didn’t he?”
“I told you that was Mafia country,” said Cipolla. The remark made him feel strong and no longer alone. “All right!” he said to his helpers.
Whitfield, by the wall, closed his eyes. He was therefore almost startled out of his skin when the box gave a sudden drum bellow of a sound because Quinn had swung the crowbar into the wood.
“Now!” Quinn yelled. “And remember, Cipolla, whatever is going to happen now isn’t going to happen to my corpse! Try me!” and he hit the box again, sharp and heavy, breaking wood. He spun back around to Cipolla and held the bar in both hands. He stood like that and looked like a killer.
The two sailors, with the true hireling’s caution, hung back and looked everywhere except at Quinn.
“Rush him!” yelled Cipolla.
Quinn laughed. He stood with his back to the box and laughed.
“Rush him!” Cipolla again.
“Shut up,” said Quinn, and then, talking quietly, “Shut up and turn around.” His smile was back. “You’ve got friends there.”
To Cipolla, of course, this was the oldest trick in the world. Except that Whitfield looked past Cipolla and gasped.
“Or maybe I’m wrong,” Quinn said. “Maybe you’ve got enemies.”
Cipolla couldn’t wait any longer and had to turn then. He saw Remal standing there very quietly. Remal had one Arab along and held a gun. He was holding it down by his side, as if it were not important.
“Cipolla,” he said, “you will please step aside.”
“ What? ”
“He’s mine,” said Remal and made a small flick with the gun in Quinn’s direction. Aside from that he hardly looked at him.
Oh God, thought Whitfield, what do you do when you’re afraid? Then he began to tremble. And then, because everything happened so fast and so violently, Whitfield started to scream. He stood by the wall like a child and screamed.
It seemed to Quinn that nothing mattered for the moment but Whitfield’s screaming and his fright and that he, Quinn, must now give that man a hand. The thought struck Quinn as weird and out of place even while it happened, but it was also true that with Whitfield full of fright, Quinn felt none. After that, it went fast.
One sailor got knifed by Remal’s Arab, Cipolla whipped out a gun, Quinn threw the crowbar and saw Remal stagger. And there was a shot and Quinn ran.
He had Whitfield by the arm and yelled, “Run, Whit, run!” and when they were in the warehouse there was another shot back on the pier. They ran across the cobblestone square when Whitfield started to cry.
“Run, Whit, I’ll help you-I’ll help you-” Quinn kept panting while Whitfield cried like a child, not like a drunkard, because no drink was strong enough for what Whitfield went through.
“I can’t-I can’t any more-”
“Run, Whit, the quarter, shots no good there, Whit, let me help-”
They ran through the quarter, one way or the other, and came out into the desert where the moon was like a white stone in the sky.
“Oh God,” said Whitfield, and Quinn let him stop. “God, I’m too tired to be afraid any more.” He could hardly breathe, but he made a small laugh. “And so sober,” he said.
There were two shots. In the open like that it was simple murder, though with the light as it was it was hard to tell who was shot But as if to a magnet which never lets go he had to come back to the box a while later. He went slowly this time, creeping through shadows, though by the time he crossed the square he no longer cared if he were seen or not. Because it was almost over and he was almost there. I’ve got nine lives, he thought, and I’m going to use all of them In the warehouse he could hear the voices and walked no further than the nearest stack of bales.
“He’s out there,” said the voice which was panting hard.
“You shot him and left him? Did I tell you to shoot, you son of a bitch?”
“Listen, all you said…”
“Shut up and get the tools and get the thing fixed up!”
Voice high and tense like a mouse and then Cipolla’s hard step on his extra-high heels, that too a high, tense sound coming closer.
No haste now, thought Quinn by his bale. He’ll freeze all by himself.
Cipolla did. One chopped heel sound and he stood very still by the dark bale. Quinn did not hit him. He reached out and dug his hand into Cipolla, high on the neck. This was pure satisfaction. There was no talk.
Cipolla, though small, turned out to be very strong. He started to see life and death come and go, nine lives come and go, and he now had all the strength of all his hate for everything he had ever hated.
It seemed to Quinn that he cared less than the other man. The silence of their grip on each other was much like a drug to him. I see nine lives go, he thought, and don’t care. I only care that I have none left over Then came a death, slow like a sigh.
When they found the body in the desert, very dry and the eyes staring up, there had been no doubt about this one because of the hair. Nobody in Okar had had hair like that; only Whitfield had blond hair, which was the only thing which had not changed on the corpse.
The one with the hole in the skull, the one who had been in the water for such a long time, there was some delay and some doubt about the identification, because so little was left. But of all the ones missing, only Remal used to wear the long shirt which was still floating around the thing.
And much later, in New York, where Ryder made a special trip for the occasion, there had been no doubt or delay when the box was opened. Ryder gave one look, stepped back quickly, and said, “I thought he was going to get back here alive.”
“Accidents happen,” said somebody.
“Stupid punk,” said Ryder and got into his car. “They don’t shrink that much, you idiot. That one’s maybe half of Quinn’s size.”
Okar, except for the missing people, did not change very much. There was talk for a while, but no change. About where the woman might be, the one who had left suddenly after having known everyone, and where the man might be, the one who had come in a box.