All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [154]
“That was a good deal,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, and moved past me toward the door. She put her hand to the knob, turned it, and drew the door ajar. She looked back at me, and said, “Yes, it was a good deal.”
And went out.
But she stood with her hand on the doorjamb. “One thing,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“A favor,” she said, “to me. Before you ever use those things, those papers, show them to Judge Irwin. Give him a chance. At least, a chance.”
I agreed to that.
The big black Cadillac, the hood glistening dully under the street lamps–as I could see even from the back seat–eased down the street, making its expensive whisper under the boughs which had new leaves on them, for it was early April now. Then we got to a street where there were not any nice trees arching over.
“Here,” I said, “that place on the right, just beyond that grocery.”
Sugar-Boy put the Cadillac up to the curb, like a mother laying Little Precious down with a last kiss. The he ran around to open the door for the Boss, but he boss already on the curb. I uncoiled myself and stood beside him. “This is the joint,” I remarked, and started in.
For we were going to see Adam Stanton.
When I told the Boss that Adam Stanton would take the job and that he had sent me a message to arrange things, the Boss had said, “Well.” Then he had looked at me from toe to crown, and said, “You must be Svengali.”
“Yeah,” I had said, “I am Svengali.”
“I want to see him,” the Boss had said.
“I’ll try to get him up here.”
“Get him up here?” the Boss had said. “I’ll go there. Hell, he’s doing me a favor.”
“Well, you’re the Governor, aren’t you?”
“You’re damned right I am,” the Boss had said, “but he is Doc Stanton. When do we go?”
I had told him it would have to be at night, that you never could catch him except at night.
So here we were, at night, entering the door of the crummy apartment house, climbing the dark stairs, stumbling over the kiddie car, inhaling the odor of cabbage and diapers. “He sure picked himself a place to live,” the Boss said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and lots of folks can’t figure out why.”
“I reckon I can,” the Boss said.
And as I wondered whether he could or not, we reached the door, and I knocked, entered, and confronted the level eyes of Adam Stanton.
For a half moment, while Sugar-Boy was easing in, and I was shutting the door, Adam and the Boss simply took each other in, without a word. Then I turned and said, “Governor Stark, this is Dr. Stanton.”
The Boss took a step forward and put out his right hand. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I noticed a shade of hesitation before Adam took it. And the Boss must have noticed it, too, for when Adam did put out his hand, the Boss, in the middle of the shake, before any other word had been spoken, grinned suddenly, and said, “See, boy, it’s not as bad as you thought, it won’t kill you.”
Then, by God, Adam grinned, too.
Then I said, “And this is Mr. O’Shean,” and Sugar-Boy lurched forward and put out one of his stubby arms with a hand hanging on the end of it like a stuffed glove, and twisted his face and began, “I’m pl-pl-pl-pl–”
“I’m glad to know you,” Adam said. Then I saw his glance pick up the bulge under Sugar-Boy’s left armpit. He turned to the Boss. “So this is one of your gunmen I’ve heard about?” he said, definitely not grinning now.
“Hell,” the Boss said, “Sugar-Boy just carries that for fun. Sugar-Boy is just a pal. Ain’t anybody can drive a car like Sugar-Boy.”
Sugar-Boy was looking at him like a dog you’ve just scratched on the head.
Adam stood there, and didn’t reply. For a second I thought the deal was about to blow up. The Adam said, very formally, “Won’t you gentlemen have seats?”
We did.
Sugar-Boy sneaked one of his lumps of sugar out of the side pocket of his coat, put it into his mouth, and began to suck it, with his fey Irish cheeks drawn in and his eyes blurred with bliss.