by Horace McCoy
'Quiet, quiet, stop fighting,' Bishop was saying.
For a moment Dolan thought he had gone crazy. The sun was shining in the window, a perfectly visible rectangle of heat. A minute ago it was dark and now it was light.
'Lie down,' Bishop was saying, pushing him gently back against the pillow, him
fighting
fighting
fighting
to figure out what the hell was going on. He touched the pillow with the back of his head and groaned, feeling as if a kettle of hot water had been turned over on his forehead. But now that he was below the rectangle of sunlight, and was no longer blinded by it, he could see he was in his own room. And there was Bishop, looking haggard and worn, and Myra, standing beside him, looking a little haggard and worn, too. My God, he thought vaguely, I've been hurt, and then bang! the wall in his mind that was keeping him from remembering broke and shattered, and it was all very plain: he had taken Jean Christie back to her hotel after getting the deposition, and was just getting out of his car in the garage when three mugs ...
'Jesus!' Dolan said. 'How badly am I hurt?'
'Not as badly as you might have been,' Bishop said, sitting down on the bed, smiling. 'You're a lucky Mick—my God, what a skull you must have!'
'It hurts like hell,' Dolan said, running his hand over the heavy bandage. 'Hell, I never had a chance. They slugged me before I could turn around.'
'I can't understand why the hell you didn't yell,' Myra said. 'We didn't know anything about it until we heard the struggle. When we got down they were running across the lot—'
'I took six shots at 'em,' Bishop said. 'I was so goddam excited I didn't even come close—'
'Carlisle, hunh?' Dolan said, biting his lip.
'Well, it certainly wasn't any pal—that's a cinch. What happened? Feel like talking?'
'I'm all right. What's the matter with my head?'
'Nothing but a couple of gashes. They took a few stitches. What happened with the Christie girl?'
'Marvellous. Harry Carlisle had even operated on her. With her as a witness we can send him up for life. I got her deposition—'
'You did? Where is it?'
'Crammed down behind the seat of my car. Run down and get it—'
'I'll say I will!' Bishop said, walking out rapidly.
'How'd you happen not to have it in your pocket?' Myra asked.
'A hunch—a pure hunch.'
'It's a good thing. Those bastards took everything you had. They must have been experts at their trade. We got down there within a minute or two after we saw what was going on, and there you were on the ground, your pockets wrong-side out. I wonder if Carlisle knew you were with that girl—'
'I don't think so. Those guys didn't go through my pockets looking for anything in particular. They were just making sure—How badly is my head hurt? Hand me a mirror—'
'Just a few stitches, that's all—'
'It can't be hurt much, because I can think and talk and remember everything that happened. It's sore as hell, though—'
'Naturally. Be quiet, Mike—'
'I'm all right. What the hell, can't I talk? I'm all right.'
'Stop acting and be still—'
'I'm not acting. Goddam it, why do you always think I'm acting? Why do you think I'm always being heroic? Goddam it,' he said, sitting up, swinging his feet to the floor, standing up. 'See there, wise guy? I'm not even wobbly.'
'Go ahead and fall and break your goddam neck and see if I care—'
Dolan snorted, walking across to the mirror over the bureau. There was a long scratch on his face and his head was heavily bandaged. He cocked his head from side to side, looking in the mirror, and then turned around, smiling.
'Even in this turban I'm still the best-looking guy in this town, and what do you think of that?'
'Not in that rig, you're not. Mike, will you please get back into bed?'
He looked down and discovered he had on his pajama coat but not the pants.
'Who undressed me?'
'Ed and I—'
'And as usual you got it backwards. I sleep in pants but no coat. Remember that in the future. Throw me that robe.'
Myra threw him the bathrobe and he put it on.
'Didn't you ever get anything right?' he asked.
'For God's sake, get back into bed,' Bishop said, disgusted, coming into the room.
'Find it?' Dolan asked.
'I've been reading it on the way up. Fine addenda for your collection of erotica.'
'Every word of it's the truth—'
'That doesn't keep it from being erotic. Listen to this, Myra—'
'You needn't. I can imagine,' Myra said. 'Don't you think we ought to put that affidavit in a safe place?' she asked Mike. 'Don't you think it ought to go in your safety deposit vault?'
'I guess so. Hell, I hate to go to town with this mess on my head. I'll have to answer a million goofy questions—'
'You're not going to town. You're staying here,' Bishop said.
'The hell I am! Scram, and let me get dressed.'
Bishop looked at Myra.
'No use trying to argue with him. He wouldn't miss this opportunity for the world. He delights in being the superman, you know...'
'What happened to you?' Grissom asked Dolan, as the three of them walked in.
'I got man-handled—'
'They even swiped his pistol and badge,' Myra said.
'Carlisle?' Grissom asked, not paying any attention to her.
'I suppose so—'
'Certainly. Who else?' Bishop said.
'You bounce when you hit,' Grissom said, shaking his head. 'You've got guts, Dolan—'
'Go on, Dolan—admit it. Just once,' Myra said.
Dolan glared at her.
'Where'd it happen?' Grissom asked.
'At my garage. Three or four mugs slugged me when I was getting out of the car.'
'Well, don't you think you should stay home and take it easy?'
'I wouldn't give the sonofabitch that much satisfaction—'
'I can see right now you don't know our hero very well, Mr. Grissom,' Myra said.
Dolan suddenly swung his foot, trying to kick her. Myra got her fanny out of the way by an inch.
'What's new here?' Bishop asked.
'Nothing but six or seven re-orders.'
'From where?'
'Drug-stores around Weston Park—'
'Right in the doctor's own back yard,' Dolan said. 'We'll send them out right away.'
'They've already gone. The kid, my apprentice, took them out.'
'You shouldn't have done that,' Dolan said. 'You should have waited. I wouldn't want to see the kid run into anything he couldn't handle—'
'I don't think he will,' Grissom said.
'Well...' Dolan said, walking on back to the balcony steps, going up to his office.
'I'm glad we put that deposition in the safety deposit vault, anyway,' Myra said. 'At least we know nothing can happen to it.'
'What do we do for next week?' Bishop asked.
'The first thing I'm going to do is write an editorial about the Little Theatre situation. It's not a Little Theatre at all any more. It's an exclusive stock company'
'There's more to it than that,' Myra said from where she was sitting. 'What about it being a rendezvous for homosexuals and lesbians? What about the homes it has broken up? The people it's ruined—'
'I'll give you an argument there,' Dolan said. 'It's helped a lot of people, too. Things have been a hell of a lot better since the Major came in.'
'Oh, you want to straddle the fence where the dear Little Theatre is concerned—'
'Will you stop trying to tell me what goes on there? I helped build it. I've practically lived there for seven or eight years—'
'That's what I'm getting at. You're too close to it. You're straddling the fence. I'll write the Little Theatre editorial—'
'Well, for God's sake go on and write it then, you know so much.'
&nb
sp; 'Nobody gives a damn about that anyway,' Bishop said. 'Who's going to be our lead story? Carson?'
'Carson's little stuff—'
'Yeah? He makes fifty thousand a year on the purchase of city trucks alone.'
'Nobody gives a damn about that, either. People nowadays expect their city commissioners to be grafters, they'd probably be disappointed if they weren't. No—it's not Carson—'
'Nestor?'
'I don't know. He's a bigger crook than Carson, because he's hooked up with the underworld. He looks and talks like a farmer in spite of his Deusenberg, but he's a damn slick egg. I'm just wondering if we should start at the bottom and gradually work our way up to Mussohitler Carlisle.'
'There, of course, is something. Carlisle. If we could topple him I'd say we were in the bag for the Pulitzer award for the most meritorious public service—'
'Only they don't give it to magazines. Or should we bang away at Carlisle next? The only bad thing about that is that we're a weekly, and we've got to come out next week. If we were a monthly it would be simple. We'd have time to get our facts. I don't believe we could nail Carlisle in a week.'
'I don't either,' Bishop said. 'I think we better take Nestor. I know all there is to know about him. I can write that story without ever leaving the office—'
'That's your favorite kind of story, isn't it?' Myra said.
'Look,' Bishop said. 'This is the guy you're riding. Not me. Will you lay off?'
'Well—maybe we'd better take Nestor... Oh, Mr. Grissom,' he called, leaning over the rail.
Grissom walked to the foot of the stairs, looking up.
'You know any advertising solicitors who might be interested in getting some business for the magazine?'
'I don't know anybody I'd recommend,' Grissom said. 'Why don't you call Jerges at the Courier! He might know somebody—'
'I think I will,' Dolan said, going down the steps to the telephone. 'Could we have an extension run up there? We use the telephone a lot, you know.'
'Yes, I'll order one. There's the Courier number on that calendar—'
Dolan dialed the Courier and got Jerges, explaining what he wanted. Jerges said he was pretty sure he could dig up somebody, but that he was afraid anybody he sent over would want a small weekly salary and a percentage of the business he got. Dolan said that would be all right, to send him over, and gave him Grissom's address.
'Send one of your own men, too. I want to take a half-page in the Courier. A personal ad.—'
Jerges said it probably would be sometime in the afternoon before he could get hold of anybody, thanked him, and hung up. Dolan went back to the foot of the stairs.
'Hey, Ed,' he called. 'You want to take a look around the news-stands with me?'
'Sure—'
'All right,' Myra said, sticking her head over the railing. 'Go ahead and overdo it—'
'You check with those women's clubs on the society calendar for next week, that's all you've got to do. You're on salary now, don't forget that—'
'We'll be back in an hour,' Bishop said.
'If an advertising solicitor comes looking for me, tell him to wait,' Dolan said.
'Better take it easy,' Myra said. 'You may be hurt worse than you think you are—'
Dolan didn't answer, walking towards the door with Bishop.
'I want to go across the street to the telephone first,' Dolan said.
'Use this one—'
'I don't want Myra to hear me. I'm going to phone McGonagill to get me another badge and a pistol. Next time I won't be so careless—'
* * * * *
DR HARRY CARLISLE FOUND DEAD
BODY OF SOCIETY DOCTOR DISCOVERED IN BATHROOM
REVOLVER BESIDE HAND
the headlines read.
'“Revolver beside hand—“' Dolan said. 'These lousy newspapers. They didn't even have nerve enough to say he committed suicide—'
'“Doctor Harry Carlisle, thirty-five-year-old surgeon and popular social leader, was found dead in the bathroom of his Weston Park mansion shortly after eleven o'clock this morning,”' Bishop read. '“A single bullet had penetrated his right temple. A revolver was found by his outstretched right hand. Doctor Carlisle was the target for a furious attack unleashed yesterday by a new Colton periodical, but none of his intimate friends would indicate whether or not he had seen it. Jack Carlisle, his brother, well known in local political circles, was too upset by the tragedy to make any statement for publication—“'
'That all one paragraph?' Dolan asked.
'No, it's several paragraphs. The way I read it made it sound like one.'
'I was going to say it was pretty bad writing ...'
They didn't say anything for a block or two, Bishop holding the newspaper, staring at the headlines; Dolan looking straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the traffic.
... 'I guess we better go back to the office,' Dolan said.
'I guess we had—'
Dolan drove into the parking lot on the corner, and he and Bishop went to the office, a couple of doors away. When they entered, Grissom and Myra were in Grissom's office in front, reading the paper. They looked up and saw that Bishop also had a paper.
'Tough, hunh?' Grissom said.
'Well, I never thought he'd do that, of course,' Dolan said.
'What'd you expect him to do?' Myra asked.
'Now, for God's sake, don't tell me you anticipated this,' Dolan said roughly.
'I didn't anticipate it—no,' Myra said. 'But, by God, we should have if we'd thought about it. There was no other out for him. It was the only way to keep it from going to the Grand Jury—'
'Well, suppose we had known he was going to do it. What then? That wouldn't have stopped us from printing the story, would it?'
'I suppose not,' Myra admitted.
'Hell, I'm not sorry. I'm not going to be hypocritical. He was my enemy ever since I can remember. I hated his guts and he hated mine. Besides, he was a public enemy. The town's damn well rid of him... I'm not concerned about any of those things. I'm wondering what effect this will have on the magazine—'
'I didn't know the gentleman,' Grissom said, 'but if you're asking me, I think this is the best advertisement you can have. The public may or may not think this is horrible, but what about his brother's thugs attacking you last night? That was horrible, too. They might just as easily have killed you.'
'God knows they tried to,' Dolan said. 'They failed because they didn't know much about the Irish. If you ever want to kill an Irishman, never start beating on his skull.'
'I'd suggest,' Bishop said mildly, 'that we tidy the place up a bit for Jack Carlisle's visit.'
'You don't think he's coming here, do you,' Dolan said, stating a fact, not asking a question.
'I don't see how he can avoid it,' Bishop said.
'I don't think he will—not now. I'm not so sure we'll ever hear from him.'
'I'd feel better if I thought that,' Bishop said.
Two men came in, two young men.
'We're looking for Mr. Dolan,' one of them said.
'I'm Dolan. What is it?'
'My name's Cook,' the man said. 'With the Courier. This is Mr. Gage. Jerges said something about an ad you wanted to take—'
'Yes.'
'Gage has come to talk to you about that solicitor's job. I think you said something to Jerges about that, too. Gage used to work for Jerges.'
'Come upstairs, gentlemen,' Dolan said, leading the way to the balcony.
'Looks like you got a pretty bad smack,' Cook said, as they went up the steps. 'Auto accident?'
'In a way. It's not quite as bad as it looks. Sit down—'
'Automobiles are death-traps these days,' Cook observed.
'Yes,' Dolan said. 'I want to run a half-page ad in the Courier tomorrow. I want it run where everybody can see it.'
'Well, anywhere in the first section is good, Mr. Dolan. I'm afraid I can't give you a specified spot at the moment on account of most of our space being contracted for.
But I'll get you in the first section somewhere.'
'How much would that be?'
'Is it a layout or just straight copy?'
'Straight copy.'
'Two hundred dollars. If you want it in tomorrow we must have the copy by three o'clock. Is it written yet?'
'It won't take long. I'll have it to you by three. Will you give me a receipt?' he asked, taking out a roll of money, counting off two hundred dollars.
Cook wrote the receipt and picked up the money.
'“This receipt in no way obligates the Cohort Courier to furnish the advertising space designated below,”' Dolan read in small type, at the bottom of the slip of paper. '“The Courier reserves the right to reject any copy it deems at variance with the policies and ideals of its tradition.”'
'—Just a formality,' Cook said.
'Good thing this is a personal ad.,' Dolan said. 'From the sound of this I might have trouble advertising the magazine—'
'You won't need much advertising for the magazine,' Cook said. 'The Cosmopolite was all I heard where I went this morning—'
'Really? Good or bad?'
'About fifty-fifty, I should say. But that doesn't matter as long as they talk about it... See you later, Gage. Thanks, Mr. Dolan,' he said, going down the stairs.
Dolan turned to Gage.
'Ever had any experience in soliciting?'
'That's all I've done since I got out of college. Four years of it. I used to work for Jerges—'
'What happened?'
'Nothing. Business got bad, and I was laid off six months ago. I got a couple of letters of recommendation here,' he said, reaching into his pocket.
'Never mind. Of course, you know I can't pay you anything like what the Courier did. How much did you make there?'
'Twenty a week.'
'Twenty! Lord, it's a wonder they don't go broke. I thought you guys made sixty or seventy—'