Recoil

by Jim Thompson

  “They have tight races, too.”

  “Well”—Burkman hesitated, scowling. “Oh, hell. I’ll do it. Send him around to the Highway Commission tomorrow.”

  “Shall I mention your name to Fleming?”

  “Yes—no. I’ll talk to him myself.”

  He closed the door quickly, as if he was afraid of being asked for something else. Doc and I went back down the stairs.

  He picked up his hat from the bench, inserted a key in the door next to the entrance and waved me inside.

  “Dear,” he called. “Oh, Lila!” Then, leaving me standing, he strode into the adjoining room, and through the rest of the apartment.

  I looked around. To my mind, the room was a little too crowded to be in good taste. There were well-filled bookcases, a piano, and a combination radio-phonograph-television set. There was a long window seat at the front, a longer divan at the opposite side of the room, a chaise longue, and three over-stuffed chairs. In the approximate center of the room was a mirrored coffee table with a built-in flower pot.

  Doc returned, slamming the connecting door.

  “Mrs. Luther isn’t around,” he said, harshly. “Not, I suppose, that I really expected her to be. Well—”

  A knock on the outer door interrupted him. He flung it open.

  “And where,” he demanded of the white-jacketed Negro before him, “have you been?”

  “With the north suite party, sir.” The Negro, a slender, clean-featured youth, smiled placatingly. “One of the gentlemen was a little ill.”

  “Mrs. Luther leave any message for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Huh!” said Doc. “I suppose you have that south rear room ready? Or did you forget about it?”

  “I believe it’s ready, sir. I mean to say—”

  “Come along. You too, Pat.”

  We went down the hall, Doc striding ahead and the Negro and I following. At the last door to the right, the Negro stepped swiftly to the front, took a brass-tagged key from his pocket and turned the lock. He snapped on the light, and Doc brushed past him.

  It was a room such as you might find in any first-class hotel. The few touches of individuality consisted of a small two-bottle bar, with the bottles; a cigarette humidor on a revolving stand, with three kinds of cigarettes; and a magazine rack with a variety of magazines.

  Doc switched on the bathroom light and turned on the Negro again.

  “Everything all ready, eh?” he said. “What about pajamas, tooth brush, comb, shaving articles? What about socks and underwear and shirts—all that stuff I told you to get?”

  “I have them, sir. Everything. I just haven’t had time to…”

  “Well, get on it! And get that telephone out of here! I—” Doc shot me a look of curt apology, “I didn’t think you’d want one, Pat.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  He slumped down into a chair and let his head loll back. He removed his glasses, and began wiping them thoughtfully. I felt sorry and embarrassed for him. It is always a little saddening to see a man upset over a woman who, obviously, cares nothing about his feelings.

  The Negro unplugged the handset telephone and went out. He returned in a minute or two and began stowing various articles away in the chest of drawers and in the bathroom. Doc had him fix us a drink when he had finished.

  “I’m pretty tired tonight, Willie,” he said, as he took the glass from the youth’s hand. “I’m sorry if I was abrupt.”

  “That’s quite all right, Doctor.”

  “If Mrs. Luther should return within the next hour, please tell her I’m back here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Negro left, closing the door noiselessly. Doc motioned with his glass.

  “Well, Pat. Think you can struggle along in here?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “You know how it is at Sandstone. The best of everything and the guest is always right.”

  He smiled and I told him it wasn’t necessary to put himself out so much on my account. I could hole up anywhere, and I’d be just as grateful to him.

  “Forget it, Pat,” he said. “I haven’t anything simpler than this. At any rate, I don’t feel inclined to discriminate against my one deserving guest. What did you think of the senator?”

  “I’m not forming any opinions,” I said. “For the next two years, at least, I intend to borrow them from you.”

  “I gather that you mean exactly that.”

  “I do.”

  He swished the whiskey around in his glass, staring down into it. “I hope very much, Pat, that everything goes all right. Frankly, you’re considerably different from what I’d imagined you’d be. I didn’t think that I could develop such a strong personal interest in a—well—”

  “Bank robber? I didn’t work at the trade long, Doc.”

  “Of course, I’m glad I have,” he went on. “But what I’m trying to say is, I’d take it much harder than I thought I would if anything unpleasant should happen to you.”

  “Unpleasant?” I said.

  “About your parole,” he said, with a haste I could not understand. “I suppose you know it wasn’t strictly on the level.”

  I swallowed. Hard. “You mean there’s some danger that…?”

  “Now, don’t get excited. I just thought I’d warn you that we are in a little hell when we face Myrtle Briscoe tomorrow morning. You know who she is. The State Commissioner of Corrections; also the head of the Parole Board.”

  “I know,” I said. “I hope—”

  “Myrtle would let you rot in hell before she’d parole you to me or any of my connections. Willingly. But Myrtle necessarily is sometimes absent from the capital, and, legally, the governor then becomes acting commissioner. He’s legally the head of every department during the absence of its nominal head.”

  “But he’s not supposed to use that power?”

  “Not except in emergencies which I can’t conceive as arising. It’s a serious abridgement of democratic principles. Myrtle’s elected—God knows how many times, incidentally—because the people like what she stands for. The governor, who’s only in office to get as much as he can, gives them something else.”

  “What—” I swallowed again, “—what can she do, Doc?”

  “I don’t want to get you in an uproar, Pat. You seemed like such a cool-headed guy, I thought I could discuss things with you.”

  “You can,” I said. “I’ll keep my Sandstone shakes to myself.”

  “Well, there’s nothing she can do. Nothing she will do. Oh, of course, she could go to the newspapers and throw her weight around generally, but the object lesson she’d give us wouldn’t be worth the trouble. You’re out now. Her tactic will be to take advantage of the fact.”

  “How can she do that?”

  “More ways than I care to think about.” He yawned, and eased himself from his chair. “That’s my department, though. We’ll hear some of them in the morning when we pay our courtesy call.”

  “Can’t we—do we have to see her?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Any kind of delay would be very dangerous. Moreover, I imagine you’ll have to see her every month during the term of your parole. I don’t think she’d trust a case like you to a run-of-the-mill probation officer.”

  “Well,” I said. “Forewarned, forearmed.”

  He chuckled and moved toward the door. “That’s better. I’m glad to see I was right about you. A worrier could be very annoying.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll try not to bother you.”

  “Well, don’t get corked up. You’ll need a lot of help in getting squared away and I’m glad to give it. I just don’t want you upsetting yourself and me with senseless fretting.”

  We said goodnight.

  I began to undress, wondering what made him tick, and why the ticks were as they were. It settled down to who he really was—the threatening, cold-eyed man who had bullied Burkman, or the man who had been angry over the pollution of a river and asham
ed of being part of the general pattern of pollution.

  Whichever was the case, one thing was certain: he was a considerable improvement over Warden Fish. Whatever happened to me, nothing could be worse than being back in Sandstone. I would be better off dead than there.

  I went to sleep on that thought.

  4

  The little alarm clock at my bedside went off at seven, and after I had showered and was shaving, another white-jacketed Negro wheeled in a breakfast cart.

  He introduced himself as Henry, and made a polite but reserved mention of the fact that he was Willie’s brother. He was in and out of the room in five minutes, including the time it took to remove the silver covers from the dishes, fill my cup with coffee, and prop a morning paper against the pot.

  I slipped into my clothes and sat down at the table.

  Doc’s cook, apparently, was as topnotch as his other servants. There were tiny hot biscuits; sectioned grapefruit packed in shaved ice; oatmeal cooked so that each flake was separate from the others; and a golden and puffy bacon omelet that was almost light enough to float.

  Doc had me drive his sedan into town. I was a little reluctant to try it but he insisted, and it was easy enough after I got used to the steering-wheel gear shift.

  I hadn’t been in Capital City since my senior year in high school. At that time it had been a big sprawling town with a great many parks, clean wide streets, and modest, comfortable appearing homes. Now the streets were jammed and dirty; two and sometimes three shacks stood on a lot once occupied by a single neat cottage; and the parks were islands of oil well derricks, surrounded by barbed-wire fences. There were fine homes, certainly; some of them occupying an entire block with their wide, well-kept lawns. But they pointed up, rather than detracted from, the general picture of decay and squalor.

  I put the car on a parking lot Doc directed me to, and we sat there several minutes while he turned through the paper. At last he folded it carelessly, tossed it into the back seat and took out his wallet.

  “Here’s forty dollars, Pat. It’ll give you something to rattle until payday.”

  “I—”

  “I know. You’re grateful. And you hope to show your appreciation. And if I see an opportunity for you to do so, for this or any other favor, past or impending, I’ll let you know. Anything else?”

  “I was going to thank you,” I said, “but I guess I’d better not.”

  “You just have. Now let’s see about some clothes.”

  We crossed the street and walked up to the corner where he led me to the entrance of a store.

  A tall gray-haired man in a black coat and striped pants strolled out to us.

  “Ah, Doctor,” he said. “I hope we’re to be allowed to serve you in some way?”

  Doc shook hands with him indifferently. “I think I’ll let you take care of my friend,” he said. “This is Mr. Cosgrove, Williams.”

  “It will be a pleasure,” Williams beamed, giving my hand a tender shake. He didn’t seem to notice my clothes.

  “Mr. Cosgrove has been ill for a long time,” Doc went on. “He’ll need a complete outfitting, but we have an appointment within the hour. Can you fix him up in something casual immediately, and get his measurements for a couple of suits and whatever he needs in the way of accessories? Send it out to the house later.”

  “Certainly,” said Williams. “We’ll be very prompt with Mr. Cosgrove. Now, if I may show you inside…”

  Doc hesitated a moment, studying a tweed sports coat. He half turned and started to enter the store, then he glanced across the street. He stiffened.

  “I won’t be able to go in,” he said quickly. “Meet me at the car when you’re through, Pat. Williams, I’m putting Mr. Cosgrove in your hands.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “He’ll use my account.”

  “Of course, Doctor. If you please, Mr. Cosgrove.”

  Doc swung off across the street, moving in quick angry strides. I let Williams lead me into the store.

  The next thirty minutes were like a comedy. Shoes were being slid on and off my feet while my shoulders were draped and undraped with coats. I tried on trousers while hats were being placed on my head. A swarm of frock-coated salesmen moved around me with coats, pants, ties and shirts, hats and shoes. And Williams said “Quite,” and “Exactly,” and “I’m afraid not.”

  Then they were all gone except Williams and a clerk, who was fitting a linen handkerchief into my breast pocket while Williams turned me toward a three-view mirror.

  “I don’t see how you did it,” I said, at last. And it is hard to say who felt the better about it, they or I.

  Williams escorted me to the entrance and we shook hands again. I crossed the street to the parking lot.

  It had filled up considerably by this time, and there were cars on both sides of Doc’s. I didn’t know there was anyone with him until I was almost behind the sedan. Then, the door slammed and I heard the other man curse.

  “You’re being a fool!” he said. “You’ll spoil everything with your damned jealousy!”

  “Don’t give me cause to be jealous, then,” Doc snarled. “She’s my wife. You’d better remember that.”

  “I’ve told you it was simply business!”

  “Business or not—”

  “To hell with you! Try pulling something and see how far you get!”

  The man came bounding out of the lane between the two cars, head down, blind with rage. I bumped into him, bringing my heel down on his instep. When he doubled, I let him have a touch of elbow across the windpipe.

  I had to grab him then to keep him from keeling over.

  5

  He was a handsome, forty-ish sort; dark, keen-eyed, bold looking. I could see why Mrs. Luther might like him. I felt an instinctive, almost unwilling liking for him myself. I’d given him a jolt, but after one murderous glance he was trying to grin.

  Doc got out and helped hold him up, and he looked at me as though he wasn’t too well-pleased.

  “Are you all right, Bill?” he said. “Can I do something?”

  The man shook his head. “Just—just give me a second. I’ll come out of it.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Pat,” said Doc. “It was entirely unnecessary.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  “Well, it might have been very serious. From what I saw—”

  “Oh, stop bawling him out!” The man straightened up, and spoke in a normal tone. “Pat thought you were in trouble and tried to help you. Now cut out the scolding and introduce me.”

  “Of course,” said Doc. “Mr. Hardesty, Pat Cosgrove. Mr. Hardesty is an attorney, Pat. He was instrumental in obtaining your release from Sandstone.”

  Another one, I thought. How many, how much, why…?

  “And I was glad to have the chance!” Hardesty wrung my hand. “They gave you a mighty raw deal, son. I’m glad to see you came through it so well.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  “My pleasure entirely. I like the cut of your jib, Pat. I like to see a man who sticks up for his friends.” His warm dark eyes traveled over me admiringly. “He looks like a million dollars, doesn’t he, Doc?”

  “Pat and I have got to be going,” said Doc. “We’ve got to see the Commissioner of Corrections about Pat’s parole.”

  “Mad Myrtle, huh?” Hardesty chuckled. “Can’t say that I envy you. If she gives you too much trouble—”

  “I think I can handle her,” said Doc.

  “If you can’t, she can’t be handled,” Hardesty agreed. He grinned, nodded to me and strolled away whistling. I crawled in at Doc’s side and headed the car toward the capitol.

  He was silent for several blocks, seemingly absorbed in his newspaper. Finally, he repeated an action that was to become familiar to me—folded and tossed the newspaper over his shoulder—and spoke:

  “What did you hear of my conversation with Hardesty?”

  “Not very muc
h,” I said.

  “I asked you what you heard.”

  “Well, I heard you tell him to keep away from Mrs. Luther, and he swore and said you were just jealous.”

  Doc turned in the seat and I felt the full power of the gaze that raged out through the thick-lensed glasses. Yet something—something I implausibly sensed as fear—held back the explosion.

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Pat,” he said softly. “You’ve got an excellent memory; I’ve tested it on several occasions. Now! Give me a word for word account of what you heard.”

  I did it. I repeated it word for word.

  “And what do you make of that, Pat? Any questions you’d like to ask?”

  “I don’t make anything of it,” I said. “I haven’t any questions.”

  Doc settled back in the seat. He laughed quietly.

  “Hardesty’s a nice fellow,” he said, “but he’s a little too quick to fly off the handle. You rather cooled him off.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “I thought you might want him so I tried to stop him for you.”

  “And I appreciated it.” He put his hand on my knee for a moment. “However, it wasn’t necessary, as you know now. Hardesty and I are actually pretty good friends,” he went on. “Mrs. Luther fell heir to a small estate some time ago and he’s been handling it for her. He’s the kind of man that can’t talk to anyone, male or female, without getting personal; and I should have known he didn’t mean anything by his attitude toward Mrs. Luther. But I’m afraid I’m not very reasonable where she’s concerned.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, let’s forget it,” he said. “You did an excellent job on your clothing, Pat. I had to look twice to recognize you.”

  “Williams should get the credit for that,” I said.

  “I’ll give it to him.” He smiled at me in the mirror. “I’ll also give him credit for the bill—just in case you were worrying about it.”

  “It’s nice to hear you say so,” I said.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “Well, here we are.”

  I parked in one of the drives on the capitol grounds proper, and we walked across a stretch of lawn, and started up the marble steps of the main entrance.