“Enough!”
I was relieved when the old German accompanied DiMarco as he marched me to the quiet room. I’d been afraid DiMarco might have more punishment in mind.
“Get a good night’s sleep, O’Banion,” DiMarco said. “I’ve got a special duty assignment for you tomorrow. If you think you hurt now, just wait.” He turned to Volz. “Don’t try to interfere with this, Herman. Clyde Brickman told me to do whatever was necessary to keep this hooligan under control. I own him now.”
“You hurt this boy any more, Vincent, I don’t care if they fire me, I will beat you bloody.”
“We’ll see who’s still standing at the end of all this, Herman. O’Banion, give me that damn harmonica.”
He’d taken much from me already, my dignity, my firm resolve not to break down when the strap bit into my back again and again, but that harmonica was the hardest thing to lose.
“We will see about this,” Volz said.
“It’s Brickman who wants the mouth organ, Herman. He says they’re at the end of their rope with O’Banion. And listen, you lousy Kraut, if you’re thinking of coming here in the middle of the night to offer this kid some food or comfort, think twice. Because if you do, I’ll make sure the Brickmans know about that big secret of yours out by the quarry. You’ll lose your booze supply, your job, and anything good you think you’re doing for all these miserable little vermin.”
DiMarco took my harmonica, put it to his own vile lips, and blew a shrill note. Then he closed and locked the door.
CHAPTER NINE
FROM THE ENCYCLOPAEDIA Britannica article I’d read years before, I understood that rats had a life span of three years at most. I’d known Faria for four already. Within the protection of the former stockade, he’d grown older than old. The speed and agility that had marked his early years were gone now. When he crept from the wide crack in the masonry, he didn’t exactly scurry so much as sidle along the wall. He would have been an easy meal for any barn cat. But to me, he was an old friend, and I hoped the crumbs I was able to offer repaid him just a bit for keeping me company on so many otherwise lonely nights in the quiet room.
That evening he came from hiding early. When I saw his little whiskered nose poke from the wall crack, I was surprised. I’d never known him to come out without the cover of dark. He emerged a little farther and looked at me. Whenever I’d seen his eyes in the moonlight, they were shiny little things, but now they seemed dull. I reached into my pocket for the gingersnaps I’d pulled from the wreckage of the Frosts’ destroyed farmhouse. They were broken, but I tossed some of the pieces toward the far corner to entice Faria into the open. He didn’t move and that was odd. Me, I could have eaten a horse by then. I’d saved those gingersnaps especially for Faria, and it concerned me that he didn’t seem interested. I tossed more crumbs much closer to him, but still he didn’t respond. Finally, I threw them at the wall crack itself, where they scattered about his feet.
He sniffed at my offering, but didn’t nibble, just sat there, looking at me.
We communicate in myriad ways—with our voices, our hands, our writings, even with our bodies themselves. But how do you talk to a rat? I wanted to ask, “What’s wrong, Faria? Not feeling well, old friend?” I wanted, maybe, to be able to tell him a story to take his mind off whatever little misery had beset him. Or to commiserate because I was feeling pretty miserable myself after the beating DiMarco had delivered. I did talk, low and soothing and on and on, and Faria just sat there, not moving at all. Finally I realized the truth. The little creature was dead. Right there in front of me, no more than half a dozen feet away, he’d given up the ghost.
I know it must seem ridiculous that I wept over a rat in much the same way I’d wept for Cora Frost. Love comes in so many forms, and pain is no different. The hurt from the welts on my back was nothing compared to the hurt I felt when I realized Faria was gone.
One by one, Albert had said. And I wanted to scream at him and at God.
I placed the creature’s little body