“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
