Recoil (3 page)

H
e 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 much,” 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.

We pushed our way through the crowded corridors, Doc speaking and being spoken to occasionally, and took a jerkily-moving elevator to the fourth and top floor—“Renegades’ Roost,” Doc whispered, as we stepped off the car.

We turned off the central corridor, and wound through a series of narrow hallways. Just when I was beginning to believe Doc was lost, we came to a door marked:

Doc threw away his cigarette and removed his hat. Mine was already in my hand. He gave his tie a final pat, straightened his shoulders and opened the door.

A
hatchet-faced girl with greasy hair and horn-rimmed glasses was pecking away at a typewriter.

She looked up when we came in, started to smile—and made a point of changing her mind. The nostrils of her oily nose quivered.

“Well!” she said.

“How do you do?” said Doc. “Will you please tell Miss Briscoe that Dr. Luther and Mr. Cosgrove are here.”

“I certainly will!” snapped the girl. “And how!”

She got up, walked over to a door marked “Private” and knocked. She opened it and stuck her head inside.

“Miss Briscoe,
Doctor
Luther and
Mister
Cosgrove are here to—”

A roar cut her off. “So he showed up, did he? Well, lock the vault and send him in! Send ’em both in!”

The girl turned, flushed, smiling meanly.

“Come right in—
gentlemen.”

We went in, and the girl closed the door behind us.

I imagine every convict and ex-convict in the country has heard of Myrtle Briscoe. She’d held an elective office in a politicians’ graveyard for thirty years, and remained honest.

She was about five feet tall, including the red discolored topknot of her hair. She wore a white shirtwaist with a high collar, high-topped button shoes, and a skirt that resembled a horse blanket.

She stood up, as we entered, but she didn’t offer to shake hands. “Sit down there,” she snapped. “No, no! Keep your chairs together. I want you birds where I can watch you!”

Doc said, “Really, Miss Briscoe. Is that—”

“Shut up!” she bellowed. “Shut your big bazoo and keep it shut until I tell you to open it! Cosgrove, where did you get those clothes? You look like a pawnshop salesman.”

“Miss Briscoe,” said Doc. “I will not tolerate—”

“Will you shut up! Cosgrove?”

“Doctor Luther bought them for me.”

“Why?”

“It’s too cold to go without any,” I said. “And the state fund for buying them seems to be exhausted.”

“So?” She leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting. “Any idea why it is exhausted?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “But
I’ve
been in prison for fifteen years.”

She chuckled sourly. “All right, young Cosgrove; I stepped into that one. Now, I’m going to tell you the secret behind that non-existent state fund. I’m going to tell you why you don’t have any money to buy books at Sandstone; why the food is slop. Why this, one of the richest states in the union, has become a beggar among the other commonwealths…”

“I’m sorry, Miss Briscoe,” I said. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s because we’re eaten up by rats. Rats, do you understand? That’s the only name for them. And I don’t give a damn how nicely they dress and talk or how generous—generous, hell!—they are to people who play along with ’em.

“Who else but rats would foist inferior textbooks upon children; force an entire generation to grow up in ignorance? Who else would take money at the cost of leaving dangerous highways unrepaired? Who else would build firetraps for helpless old men and women? Who else would place two thousand men in the care of a maniac to be starved and tortured, yes, and killed? Well? What do you say, Cosgrove? You, of all people, ought to agree with me.”

“I read the Brookings Institution report,” I said.

“Oh, you did? Well, well! But what did you do when my investigators were there at Sandstone? Did you talk to them, tell them exactly what you were up against?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“No. You’re damned right you didn’t! You expect one woman with the lowest budget of—”

“But I know some that did talk,” I said.

“Oh,” she said flatly; and for a full minute she was silent. Then she sighed, scowled, and looked at Doc. “Doctor, why wasn’t the application for Cosgrove’s parole made in the usual way?”

“I, uh—” Doc hesitated, drawing his lip down over the protruding teeth. “Senator Burkman thought that—”

“Senator Burkman never had a thought in his life, and you can tell him I said so! You were confident I wouldn’t parole anyone to you, weren’t you? Oh, don’t bother to answer. Where will Cosgrove be employed? In that brothel of yours?”

“Miss Briscoe,” said Doc, dangerously. “I don’t care for your language.”

“Woof, woof,” Myrtle Briscoe grinned. “Well?”

“I plan on getting him a job with the state. Of course, he’s technically in my employ until—”

“I know. I know the routine. And you, Cosgrove, you’re willing to be another hog at the public trough?”

I smiled at her, and she grimaced wryly.

“Foolish question, huh? Doc give you any reason for all this dough he’s blowing on you?”

“Whatever is spent on me,” I said, “I intend to pay back.”

“How?” She spoke as though Doc were not in the room. “Any idea what a caper of this kind costs, Red? Hardesty was in on it. So was Burkman. So were the several legislators he horsetraded into bringing pressure on the governor.”

“Miss Briscoe—”

“Doc, if you don’t shut up I’ll put you out of the office.…So that’s your picture, Red, or most of it. I don’t mean that Doc spent much actual cash in getting you out. What he and his crowd spent were pledges. They tacitly canceled certain favors owing them and obligated themselves for others. They used up a lot of their steam—steam they could use right now. Now, why do you think they did that, Red?”

“I know why,” I said. “But I’d prefer that Doc explained it to you.”

“Smart,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Can you cook, too?”

“Miss Briscoe,” said Doc. “I want you to believe I helped Pat for just one reason: because he needed help and deserved it, and I was in a position to give it.”

“I know you want me to believe that.”

“Pat served fifteen years for a robbery in which nothing was lost and no one was hurt. He served it not because he was a criminal, but because he wasn’t. He should never have been sent to anything but a juvenile correctional institution.”

“You’re right there,” said Miss Briscoe, grudgingly.

“Pat stayed on in Sandstone five years after he was eligible for parole. Ten years would have been a terrible punishment, but he stayed five years more. He could have spent his whole life there, solely because he had no friends or money.”

“And you got him out, solely out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Put it this way,” said Doc, slowly. “I’ve—I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Maybe this will help wipe some of them out.”

Myrtle Briscoe stared at him, elbows on her desk, hands under her chin.

“Dammit, Doc, I’d like to believe that!”

“It’s the truth.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve lived so much of my life surrounded by crooks that—” She broke off. “Pat—Red, Sandstone isn’t a very nice place, is it?”

“Suppose I said yes,” I said. “Or no?”

“Never mind. But there’s more than one kind of prison, Red. They don’t all have walls around them.”

“I know,” I said. “I worked in the library, Miss Briscoe.”

“Well, I hope you learned something. You’ve had a bad time. I hope you’re not in for something worse. Not that it makes much difference. I’m like everyone else; I have to play ball. Doc knew I would, didn’t you, Doc?”

“I hoped for your cooperation, certainly, Miss Briscoe.”

“I’ll play—this time. But don’t get in a rut, Doc. There’s an election coming up, and I’m pretty sick of trying to clean house with a whiskbroom.”

Myrtle Briscoe came around the desk and gripped me by both arms and looked up into my face.

“I was kidding about the clothes,” she said. “You look good—and you’re going to have to be good. Hard as it may be, and even if we both think it’s nonsense. You know what I mean. No drunks, no wild women, no rough stuff. That’s what the books say. That’s what I say as long as they say it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe—oh, get the hell out of here!”

T
here was a restaurant in the basement of the capitol, and Doc and I ate lunch there. Neither of us was very hungry, and we had only a salad, rolls and a bottle of ale each.

Several people stopped by our table. There was a Senator Flanders with a man who, as nearly as I could make out, was a textbook salesman. There was a commissioner of something-or-other whose name I didn’t catch. Another senator named Kronup. Several people; I saw them all later, from time to time, around Doc’s house.

Burkman came in, just as we were finishing the ale, and took a chair at our table. There were pouches under his eyes, and his voice was even more hoarse than it had been the night before.

Doc told him about Myrtle Briscoe.

“Myrtle dropped a hint about not running next time. A threat, rather.”

“Nonsense! I happen to know she’s already lining up her campaign material. Anyway, she doesn’t need to run. She’d get a big enough write-in vote to be elected.”

Burkman cursed. “It’d be about like the old bitch to pull something like that! We’re going to have to baby her along a little bit, Doc. Get her some better offices. Let her have another investigator.”

“It might not be a bad idea.”

“You’d better tour around with me this afternoon, Doc. I want you to tell the governor—” Burkman paused, looking from me to Doc. “I meant to tell you, Pat; I got that job for you. Drop around to the Highway Commission tomorrow morning and ask for Mr. Fleming.”

“Thank you, very much,” I said. “About what time, Senator?”

“Oh, suit yourself. Some time in the forenoon.”

“What does it pay?” Doc asked.

“Two and a half. Best I could do right now.”

Doc shrugged. “It could be worse. What about it, Pat? Do you think you can accept a job at two hundred and fifty a month?”

“I’m very grateful,” I said. “I only hope I’ll be able to do the work.”

Burkman’s eyes widened. Then, he leaned back and roared with laughter. Doc chuckled. “The job won’t be too difficult,” he said pointedly, reaching for our check. “I’m going to be tied up for the next couple of hours. Is there anything you’d like to do?”

“Why, nothing in particular,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind strolling around the building.”

“That’s a good idea; give the people a chance to see what the well-dressed man is wearing. Come back here and have something more to eat or drink if you like.”

“I think I’ll just walk around,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Oh,” he glanced at his watch, “make it the front entrance.”

I said I’d be there, shook hands with the senator, and left.

It took me almost an hour to find the state historical museum. Most of the cases and cabinets were empty. Tacked on the front of them were small, age-yellowed signs:

I went from the museum to the state library—“Closed For Repairs.” Then, since my time was running short, I located the highway commission offices and went out to the entrance to wait for Doc.

I was leaning against the stone balustrade and starting to light a cigarette when she came out.

I dislike trying to describe her, because the physical facts of a person so seldom add up to what that person really is.

She was no youngster—every line of her full but compact body spoke the mature woman—and she made no attempt to appear one, superficial facts to the contrary. She was just herself, a forever young and gay self, and I could not picture her as acting or dressing in any other way than she did.

She wore a plain blue dress with a white collar and a little white belt, tied in the back. She wore low-heeled shoes, and I think her firm round legs were bare. She had a black straw hat with a saucer-like brim which was slung over her arm by its elastic band. Her crisp brown hair was pulled back in a single thick curl, barely reaching to her shoulders and tied with a tiny white ribbon.

She stood at the top of the steps for a minute, breathing deeply, happily; her brown eyes and her small straight nose, her entire face crinkling with good humor. She smiled at me, without actually seeing me, of course: impersonally, simply because it was a nice day and she was alive and that was good.

Then, she went jauntily down the steps, the hat swinging over her arm, the little belt spanking her gently on her bottom.

I wanted to run after her, ask her name, hold her somehow; never let her go away. And I remembered who I was—Doc—Myrtle Briscoe—Sandstone—and I could only stand and watch. Feeling sick and empty. Lost.

Near the end of the walk she stepped over into the driveway, and started down the row of parked cars.

She stopped at Doc’s big black sedan, glanced casually over her shoulder and opened the door.

I stood where I was for a moment, unable or unwilling to believe what I had seen. Then, I went down the steps, three at a time. I cut across the driveway and ran, stooping, along the far row of cars. I came parallel with Doc’s sedan, vaulted silently over a bumper and dropped down behind her.

She was kneeling on the seat of the car, her back—well, not her
back,
exactly—to me. She pulled a zipper on the seat cover, reached in between the cover and the seat, and fumbled for a moment. She brought out a long, thick brown envelope.

She put a foot down on the running board, and started to back out. I was in the way. She wiggled a little, not realizing that someone was behind her. She pushed, and I pushed back.

She looked around, then.

“Oh,” she gasped, and her mouth dropped open. Then, the crinkled smile returned and she cocked her head on one side. “Now, really,” she said, in a teasing-scolding tone. “Don’t you think you should ask a girl, first?”

I backed off a step, feeling my face go red. “I’m with Dr. Luther,” I said, nodding at the car. “I saw you take something…that envelope.”

“Nooo!” Her mouth formed an
o
of exaggerated awe. “What do people call you, you pretty red-haired man?”

“My name is Cosgrove,” I said. “Patrick Cosgrove. And I’ll take that envelope.”

“Bet you won’t,” she said, instantly, her eyes dancing.

“Now, look, Miss—”

“Flournoy. Madeline Flournoy.”

“You say that like it should mean something to me,” I said. “But it doesn’t. I’m afraid—”

“I work for Doc. He sent me after these contracts. Now is that good enough for you, or do you want to wrestle?”

“If you work for Doc,” I said, “you won’t mind my walking back with you to where he is.”

“I don’t mind at all, Patsy,” she said promptly. “But I’ve made it a lifelong principle never to give in to a redhead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll either have to go with you or have you wait here until Doc comes.”

She put the papers and her hat behind her, lowered her head and walked right into me. She pushed against me and I could hear her teeth gritting.

I tried to reach around her and grab the papers. Instead, I caught hold of her hat, breaking the band that held it to her arm. It struck the running board and rolled between us.

“Now see what you did,” she said, reproachfully.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

We both reached for it at the same time. Our heads bumped painfully. It gave me a bad jolt, and I know it must have hurt her worse. Her face went momentarily white.

I said I was sorry again, and started to pick up the hat.

She brought her knee against my chin with a force that almost knocked me out.

It was instinctive, a natural animal reaction to pain. What I did was also instinctive.

I grabbed her by the ankles and jerked upward.

She sailed through the door of the car, open fortunately, and landed bouncing on the seat. Her feet went up in the air and her dress flew over her head.

“Just what the hell,” said Dr. Luther, “is going on here?”