All the King's Men - Robert Penn Warren [240]
I started to ask the Boss how the boy was, but thought better of it. It was just a question of the kind of badness, and there wasn’t any use asking about that. So we moved on through the corridor to the big lobby, where we would take an elevator up to his office. Some of the men lounging along the corridor stepped back a little and said, “Howdy-do, Governor,” or “”Hi, Boss,” but the Boss only bowed his response to the greetings. The other men, those who said nothing, turned their heads to watch the Boss as he passed. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about all that. He must have passed down that corridor a thousand times, or near that many, with men calling out to him, or saying nothing and following with their eyes his progress over the glittering marble.
We came out into the great lobby, under the dome, where there was a blaze of light over the statues which stood with statesmanlike dignity on pedestals to mark the quarters of the place, and over the people who moved about in the area. We walked along the east wall, toward the inset where the elevators were. Just as we approached the statue of General Moffat (a great Indian fighter, a successful land speculator, the first governor of the state), I noticed a figure leaning against the pedestal.
It was Adam Stanton. I saw that his clothes were soaked and that mud and filth were slopped up his trousers half to the knees. I understood the abandoned car. He had walked away from it, in the rain.
Just as I saw him, he looked in our direction. But his eyes were on the Boss, not on me. “Adam,” I said, “Adam!”
He took a step toward us, but still did not look at me.
Then the Boss veered toward Adam, and thrust out his hand in preparation for a handshake. “Howdy-do, Doctor,” he began, holding out his hand.
For an instant Adam stood there immobile, as though about to refuse to shake the hand of the man approaching him. Them he put out his hand, and as he did so I felt a surge of relief and thought: He’s shaking hands with him, he’s all right now, he’s all right.
Then I saw what was in his hand, and even as I recognized the object, but before the significance of the recognition had time to form itself in my mind and nerves, I saw the two little spurts of pale-orange flame from the muzzle of the weapon.
I did not hear the report, for it was lost and merged with the other more positive staccato series of reports, on my left. With his right arm still extended Adam reeled back a step, swung his reproachful and haggard gaze upon me and fixed it, even as a second burst of firing came and he spun to the floor.
In the astonishing silence, I rushed toward Adam as he fell. Then I heard somewhere in the lobby a woman begin screaming, then a great rush of feet and babble of voices. Adam was bleeding heavily. He was stitched across the chest. The chest was all knocked in. He was already dead.
I looked up to see Sugar-Boy standing there with the smoking automatic in his hand, and off to the right, near the elevator, a highway patrolman with a pistol in his hand.
I didn’t see the Boss. And thought: He didn’t hit him.
But I was wrong. Even as I thought that and looked around, Sugar-Boy dropped his automatic clattering to the marble, and uttering some strangled, animal-like sound, rushed back beyond the statue of Governor Moffat.
I laid Adam’s head back on the marble and went beyond the statue. I had to shove the people back now, they were crowding so. Somebody was yelling, “Stand back, stand back, give him air!” But they kept crowding up, running to the spot from all over the lobby and from the corridors.
When I broke through, I saw the Boss sitting on the floor, breathing heavily, staring straight ahead. He had both hands pressed to his body, low on the chest and toward the center. I could see no sign that he was hit. Then I saw a very little ooze of blood between two of the fingers, just a little.
Sugar-Boy was leaning above him, weeping and sputtering, trying to speak. He finally managed to get out the words: “D-d-d-d-does it hur-hur-hur-hurt much, Boss–does it hur-hur-hur-hurt?