said. Maybe it was the look of him that won the sympathy. He failed at
unconcern-looked back at the officer who had acquired a companion.
“Your party’s waiting for you,” the second officer said, “out by the lift.”
Allison, he thought, at a new ebb of his affairs. He should have accepted jail;
should have refused the typing. He had fouled things up. But confinement—being
shut up in a cell for Dubliners to stare at—being shut inside narrow station
walls, in places he knew nothing about—
The officer indicated the door, opened it for him, pointed down the hall to the
left “Around the corner and down.”
He went, turned the corner—stopped at the sight of the silver-coveralled figure
standing by the lift, a man he had never met
But Dubliner. He walked on, and the dark-haired young man gave him no welcome
but a cold stare, C. REILLY, the pocket said, on a broad and powerful chest.
“Curran Reilly,” the Dubliner said.
“Where’s Allison?”
“None of your business. You’re through getting into trouble, man. Hear me?”
“I’m headed down to the exchange. I’m not looking for any.”
“You hold it.” An arm shot out, blocking his arm from the lift call button. “You
got any enemies in port, Stevens?”
“No,” he said, resisting the impulse to swing. “None that I know about. What’s
your percentage in it?”
Curran Reilly reached in his coveralls pocket and pulled out several credit
chits, thrust them on him and he took them on reflex. “You take this, go get
breakfast, book into the same sleep-over as last night. You don’t go to the
exchange. You don’t go near station offices. You don’t sign anything you haven’t
signed already.”
“I’ve been printed.”
“A great help. Really great.”
He thrust the credits back. “Keep your handout I’ve got my own funds.”
“The blazes you have. Shut your mouth. You go to that sleep-over and stay there
and that bar next door. We want to know right where to find you. We don’t want
any complications and we don’t want anything else stupid on your part. Keep that
money and don’t try to touch what you arrived with. You’ve got enough troubles.”
He stared into black and angry eyes, smothered his own temper, afraid to walk
away. “So how do I find the place? I’m lost.”
The Dubliner reached and pushed buttons on the lift call. “I’ll get you there.”
“Where’s Allison?”
“Don’t press your luck, mister.”
“That’s Captain, and I’m asking where Allison is. Is she in trouble?”
“Captain.” The Dubliner hissed, half a laugh, and the scowl darkened. “Her
business is her business and none of yours, I’m telling you. She’s working to
save your hide, and I’m not here because I like the company.”
“She’s not spending any money—”
“You’ve got one track in your mind, haven’t you, man? Money. You’re a precious
dockside whore.”
“Go-”
“Shut your mouth. You take our charity and you’ll do as you’re told.” The car
arrived and the door whipped open. The Dubliner held it for him and he got in,
with rage half blinding him to anything but the glare of lights and the
realization that they were not alone in the car. Curran Reilly stepped in: the
door shut and the car shot away with them. A pair of young girls stood against
the rail on the far side of the car; an old man in the front corner. Sandor put
his hands in his pockets and felt the Reilly money in his left with the sandwich
wrapper, with the adrenalin pulsing in him and Curran Reilly standing there like
a statue at his right. The girls whispered behind their hands. Laughed in
adolescent insecurity. “It’s him” he heard, and he kept staring straight ahead,
an edge of raw terror getting through the anger, because his face was
known—everywhere. And he had to swallow whatever the Dubliner said and did
because there was no other hope but that.
If the Reillys were not themselves plotting revenge, for the stain on their
Name.
A long, slow trip on Dublin, Allison had warned him, if he crossed her cousins.
Revenge might recover Dublin’s sullied Name, when the word passed on docksides