by Jim Thompson
“Eat your dinner,” Donna said. “I’ve warmed it up about fifteen times now, and I’m not going to do it again.”
“And I’m not going to tell you again.” Lord’s eyes glinted dangerously. “You get switched into your store duds and do it quick, or I’ll do it for you!”
“That would be typical of you,” Donna nodded, spooning stew into her mouth. “When you can’t win an argument through reason, you resort to force.”
Lord scowled; this was definitely a very low blow. Even the Plaintiff Lord, of the legendary Lord vs Lord, had never filed such a sweeping charge.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll reason—if you know how. I’ll tell you how I look at things, and you just show me where I’m wrong.”
Donna said that was fine with her. “Now, hadn’t you better eat, dear? Or can’t you do it while you’re reasoning?”
Lord snatched up a spoon, took a huge mouthful of stew. It was boiling hot, and he choked and sputtered, his eyes watering. Donna buttered a slice of bread and handed it to him.
“Eat that with it, dear,” she said gently. “And maybe you’d better take smaller bites.”
Lord accepted the bread shakily. He took a very small bite of the stew.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it right from the beginning. For a marriage to work, people have to have a lot in common. You’ll agree to that, won’t you?”
“No, I won’t.”
“But—but you got to! Everyone knows that!”
“I don’t,” said Donna, and she looked up at him levelly. “Believe me, Tom, people can have a very miserable marriage and still have a great deal in common.”
“Well…well, look, now,” Lord said. “You want a home, comfort, security. You do want that, don’t you?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Well—uh—to a degree, yes. But they don’t mean everything to me.”
“They don’t mean everything to me, either. The only thing that really matters is love. And”—she gave him another level-eyed look—“you can believe that, too.”
“All right!” Lord pounced on the statement. “But how can you love a man when you’re hell-bent on changing him? Tryin’ to make him knuckle under to you like you tried to tonight. I was only doin’ what I had to do—couldn’t face myself in the mirror if I didn’t—and—”
“And I tried to stop you. I loved you that much.”
“Love? What kind of love is that?”
“My kind. And it isn’t the kind that you think it is, something that measures everything in terms of a bank balance and a full belly. If it was, I wouldn’t have tried to stop you, because I knew how you’d feel about me. I knew I’d probably lose you, and I loved you enough to do it anyway.”
“Well, now…” Lord hesitated uncomfortably. “I—uh—”
“I tried to protect you. When I couldn’t do it one way, I did it another. I took the rifle that I wouldn’t let you take, and I went out there where I didn’t want you to go. And—a—and”—her voice broke briefly; became firm again. “But that was very wrong of me, wasn’t it, Tom? That was very selfish of me. It proved that all I was looking for was a meal ticket and a place to sleep.”
Lord couldn’t think of much to say to that. He couldn’t think of much, period.
Donna arose suddenly, snatching up the plates from the table and carrying them over to the corner washstand. After a moment, her back still turned, she said she’d change clothes as soon as she’d done up the dishes.
“I think you’re right, Tom. We couldn’t make a go of it. It’s best that you take me into town tonight.”
“Well,” Lord said. “I ain’t so sure about that.”
“I think you must be. You couldn’t have said the things you did unless—”
“Dagnabbit!” Lord yelled, smashing his fist down on the table. “Why didn’t you stop me from sayin’ ’em, then? Gonna stop me from doin’ things, why didn’t you do that?”
“B-but.…” She faced him timidly, the beginning of hope in her eyes. “But, Tom—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me! You wasn’t on the job, was you? Wasn’t lookin’ after me like you’re supposed to?”
“No, Tom,” she nodded meekly. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Well, you ought to be! Lettin’ all sorts of things slip by you. Why”—he pointed to the bunk—“just look at that bolster there! You let me put that up, didn’t you? Wouldn’t bother you a bit if I got bolster bumps, one o’ the most insidious diseases known to man.”
Donna assumed an expression of horror. She said something would have to be done about the bolster right way, and she would be glad to assist.
“I’ll run out and get the hammer, Tom.”
“I’ll get the hammer. You just get them dishes cleared up, and make a big pot of strong coffee.”
“C-coffee? But I thought—won’t it keep us awake?”
“You’re doggone right it will,” said Lord enthusiastically. And as Donna blushed to her hair roots, he went out for the hammer.
He knocked the bolster loose.
She made coffee.
He threw the bolster out the door.
She poured coffee.
They drank the coffee together, and they blew out the lamp together.…
And in the far-west Texas night, in the incredible, heartbreaking beauty of the night, peace came to Tom Lord and Donna McBride.
About the Author
James Meyers Thompson was born in Anadarko, Oklahoma, in 1906. In all, Jim Thompson wrote twenty-nine novels and two screenplays (for the Stanley Kubrick films The Killing and Paths of Glory). Films based on his novels include The Getaway, The Killer Inside Me, The Grifters, and After Dark, My Sweet.
…and Recoil
In July 2012, Mulholland Books will publish Jim Thompson’s Recoil. Following is an excerpt from the novel’s opening pages.
Recoil
Quietly he tested the door of Lila’s bedroom and saw that it was locked; and then he went into his own room, leaving the door open to hear any movement of hers, and opened his briefcase.
He took the insurance policies from the briefcase, scanned them perfunctorily and slipped them into his inside coat pocket. They would go into the safety deposit box tomorrow.
He dipped into the briefcase again and drew out other papers. He studied them, frowning, with much of the disturbing feeling that he had for the insurance policies. With a grunt of irritation, he shuffled them into a kind of chronological order and began to read:
SANDSTONE STATE REFORMATORY
Luther Psychological Clinic
Capital & Lee Sts.
Capital City
Gentlemen:
This is a rather unusual application for employment. I hope you will read it to the end, and give it your earnest consideration.
I am thirty-three years old, a high school graduate, and, through reading and study, possess the equivalent of at least two years of college. I weigh one hundred and seventy pounds and am five feet eleven inches tall. Despite serious handicaps, I have kept myself in good physical condition. I am not familiar with your business, and do not know what type of job you might have at your disposal. But I will welcome the chance for any kind of work—within the state—and at whatever wage you care to pay.
For the past fifteen years I have been an inmate of this institution, serving a sentence of ten years to life for bank robbery. The crime was not one to be taken lightly, and I have not. But, in all humility, I cannot see that any good purpose is served in detaining me here longer.
I became eligible for parole approximately five years ago. Unfortunately, my parents had died and my only other relative, a married sister, was not and is not in a position to act in my behalf. I was, of course, too young to have formed business associations at the time of my commitment. As you doubtless know, a prospective parolee must have a job before he can be released; he must establish his ability to support himself. I am asking that you help me to do this.
May I please hear from you? On second thought, will you simply take action on my case with the parole board in the normal way of an interested party for an inmate? You can find out anything you wish to know about me from the board, and this will obviate any misunderstanding that might arise here from my writing you.
Very truly yours,
Patrick M. Cosgrove (No. 11587)
Librarian, Sandstone State Reformatory
Sandstone…
Luther thought he’d become accustomed to rottenness. Yet Sandstone never failed to outrage him. It wasn’t a prison. It was a madhouse in which the keeper, and not the inmates, was mad. There was only one way to survive there: to become tougher and more tortuous-minded than that keeper. If you did that—if you amused the man with the preternaturally brilliant eyes and the unpredictable laughter—you not only survived, but did so in comparative comfort.
But there could be no letting down. You might tire of the game, but the man never did. And when you tired or became careless…
SANDSTONE STATE REFORMATORY
Office of the Warden
Dr. Roland Luther
Capital & Lee Sts.
Capital City
In re, Pat “Airplane Red” Cosgrove
Dear Doc:
Sure was good to hear from you and wish I was right there in the big town with you. I always say you was one perfect host and know how to entertain a man and that was sure some time the last time me and you and them other fellows got together. Well, I was pretty hot when I got your letter and I was going to go right in and give that sob something to think about. But since you ask otherwise why that’s the way it is and hands off, and anyway I could not help laughing when I got to thinking about it. You know the Chief, my secretary. Well I know Chief got that letter and probly a hundred others out for him but just try and make them say so. I bet we could hang them both and they wouldn’t. I am a great admirer of loyalty and mind your business and know you are too. So you fix things up anyway you want but let me know how and I will play with you as far as I can. Just give me a ring when you are coming. I will close now as I am writing this myself instead of that sob chief and we will give them both a hell of a surprise.
Yr. obdt. frnd. & servt.,
Yancey Fish
P.S. Doc you know it is against the rules to bring whiskey into the prison and if I find a case or two on you I will have to confiskate it. Ha ha. Y.F.
Well, Fish hadn’t hanged them, but he had threatened them with everything else; and, while each had faced the harangue in his own way, the results had been identical.
The Chief, a full-blooded Indian serving three life sentences, had merely grinned insolently and made non-committal replies. The red-haired, blue-eyed Cosgrove had talked at length: polite, mildly humorous, insistently grammatical—and without saying anything. He would not turn on the man, the Chief, who had obviously helped him. No threat or bribe could make him.
He, Luther, had been a little troubled by Cosgrove’s patent intelligence. But still, he fitted specifications in every other detail, and he would be given nothing for that intelligence to work on.
OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR
To Yancey L. Fish
Warden, Sandstone State Reformatory
GREETINGS:
Whereas it appears you now have in your keeping one Patrick M. Cosgrove, and
Whereas the said Patrick M. Cosgrove has served fifteen years of an indeterminate sentence and has met certain other conditions by which he becomes eligible for parole, and
Whereas one Roland T. Luther, Ph.D., a citizen in good standing, has guaranteed employment for the said Patrick M. Cosgrove during the two years succeeding the date of this instrument, pledging moreover that he will in every way assist the said Cosgrove to a righteous manner of living,
Therefore Let It Be Known that Patrick M. Cosgrove is hereby paroled in the custody of Roland T. Luther for a period of two years, or until and/or unless it should become necessary to remand the said Cosgrove to his present place of incarceration.
Let it further be known that upon satisfactory completion of the aforementioned term of parole, the said Patrick M. Cosgrove is to be restored to full citizenship and all rights and privileges accruing thereto.
WITNESS OUR HAND AND SEAL.
Louis Clements Clay
Governor, and President (pro tem)
Board of Parole
Well, there it was; the beginning and the end of everything. And now that he had examined it item by item, he could not dispel the thought that it was both foolish and dangerous. If Hardesty had not been positive that it would work—but Hardesty had been positive. He was certain that under the circumstances they were creating, the insurance companies would have to pay, and pay promptly. That was Hardesty’s best legal advice, and Hardesty had never yet been wrong about a legal matter.
Well—Luther sighed and began to undress—it was done now. He wished that Cosgrove wasn’t such a likeable person, but that, unfortunately or otherwise, was necessary. There had to be some reason for getting him out of Sandstone.
He heard Lila’s door open, and he paused in the act of removing a shoe. She stopped in the hall, her fur coat over her arm.
“Couldn’t sleep, eh?” he said. “Well, I trust you’ve got something arranged. It’s a little late at night for a pick-up.”
She smiled weakly, apologetically. “After all, Doc, I am human.”
“Interesting,” he said, letting the shoe drop to the floor. “An interesting if debatable statement.”
“You—you don’t mind my going out?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“I need some money, Doc.”
“I’ll get it for you in the morning.”
“I could take a check…”
“You,” he said, “can do exactly what you’re told. Exactly. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” she said, slowly. “Perfectly.”
Recently released e-books by Jim Thompson
The Killer Inside Me
The Grifters
A Swell-Looking Babe
The Nothing Man
After Dark, My Sweet
Pop. 1280
Wild Town
The Getaway
The Kill-Off
Nothing More than Murder
A Hell of a Woman
Bad Boy
Heed the Thunder
The Rip-Off
Roughneck
Cropper’s Cabin
Savage Night
The Alcoholics
Texas by the Tail
Now and On Earth
The Transgressors
Recoil
The Criminal
South of Heaven
The Golden Gizmo
Acclaim for Jim Thompson
“The best suspense writer going, bar none.”
—New York Times
“My favorite crime novelist—often imitated but never duplicated.”
—Stephen King
“If Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Cornell Woolrich would have joined together in some ungodly union and produced a literary offspring, Jim Thompson would be it.…His work casts a dazzling light on the human condition.”
—Washington Post
“Like Clint Eastwood’s pictures it’s the stuff for rednecks, truckers, failures, psychopaths and professors.…One of the finest American writers and the most frightening, Thompson is on best terms with the devil. Read Jim Thompson and take a tour of hell.”
—New Republic
“The master of the American groin-kick novel.”
—Vanity Fair
“The most hard-boiled of all the American writers of crime fiction.”
—Chicago Tribune
Contents
Title Page
Welcome Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
About the Author
Preview of Recoil
Books by Jim Thompson
Acclaim for Jim Thompson
Copyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 1961 by Jim Thompson
Copyright © renewed 1989 by Alberta Thompson
Excerpt from Recoil copyright © 1953 by Jim Thompson, copyright © renewed 1981 by Alberta H. Thompson
Author photograph by Sharon Thompson Reed
Cover design by Allison J. Warner; cover art: Getty Images
Cover copyright © 2012 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.