All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [220]
I could see Duffy’s face at the moment of contact, the big pie face of surprise which reminded me of the time years before when the Boss had scared Duffy off the platform at Upton at the barbecue, and Duffy had fallen over the edge. Now, after the surprise, there was the flash of fury, then the merely humble and aggrieved expression and the placating whine, “What made you go and do that now, Boss, what made you go and do that?”
And the Boss, who had passed him, turned at that, looked at Duffy, and said, “I ought to done it long ago. I ought to done it long ago.”
Then he moved to Larson, who, unperturbed by the goings-on, had picked up his coat and hat and stood waiting for the dust to settle. The Boss stood directly in front of him, the bodies almost touching. Then he seized Larson by the lapels and thrust his own flushed face down to the gray one. “Arranged,” he said, “yeah, it’s arranged, but you–you leave one window latch off, you leave one piece of iron out of the concrete, you put in one extra teaspoon of sand, you chip one piece of marble, and by God–by God–I’ll rip you open, I’ll–” And still clutching the lapels, he jerked his hands apart sideways. A button from Larson’s coat, which had been buttoned up, spun across the room and bounced on the hearth with a little click.
“For it’s mine,” the Boss said, “you hear–that’s my hospital–it’s mine!”
Then there wasn’t any other sound, but the Boss breathing.
Duffy, the damp handkerchief with which he had sponged himself still clutched in his hand, regarded the scene, with awe and horror on his face. Sugar-Boy wasn’t paying the slightest attention
Meanwhile, Larson stood there, the Boss’s hands still gripping the lapels, and didn’t blink an eye. I had to hand it to Gummy. He didn’t quiver. He had ice water in his veins. Nothing fazed him, not insult or anger or violence or getting his face beat into a hamburger. He was a true businessman. He knew the value of everything.
He stood there under the heavy, flushed face, no doubt feeling the hot, alcoholic breath rasp on his own face, and waited. Then the Boss released his hold. He simply opened his hands in mid-air, fingers spread, and stepped back. He turned his back and walked away from the spot as though it were vacant. His sock-feet made no sound, and his head swayed ever so little as he moved.
He sat on the couch and leaned forward with his elbows on his spread knees, the forearms hanging forward, and stared into the embers on the hearth as though he were absolutely alone.
Larson, without a word, walked to the door, opened it, and went out, leaving it ajar. Tiny Duffy, with the peculiar impression of lightness, the lightness of a drowned bloated body swaying slowly upward on the ninth day, which a fat man can give when he tiptoes, moved toward the door, too. Once there, with his hand on the knob, he looked back. As his eyes rested on the unregarding Boss, the fury flashed again into the face, and just for that instant I thought, By God, he’s human. Then he caught my gaze on him, and looked back at me with a kind of suffering, mute appeal which asked to be forgiven for everything, asked for my understanding and sympathy, asked for everybody to think well of poor old Tiny Duffy, who had done what he could according to his lights and then they threw stuff in his face. Didn’t he have his rights? Didn’t poor old Tiny have his feelings?
The he followed Larson off into the night. He managed to close the door without a sound.
I looked at the Boss, who hadn’t stirred. “Glad I got here for the last act,” I said, “but I got to toddle now.” There certainly wouldn’t be any talk about the tax bill.
“Wait,” he said.
He reached down for the bottle and took a drag out of it. He was down to essentials now.