"When will Mr. Fleming be in?" I asked.
"I'm not sure that he can see you when he does come in. Oh, well, drop back in an hour or so if you like. I'll see what I can do."
I thanked her and left, far from happy with the situation. I thought I'd better talk things over with Doc before I went back to Fleming's office, and I went down to the restaurant, hoping to catch him there.
He wasn't there and neither was Burkman. I was on the point of leaving when Hardesty hailed me. He was alone at his table.
"How are you, Pat?" He arose beaming, and shook hands. "Sit right down. Out pretty early, aren't you? Are you by yourself?"
"I didn't think it was early," I said. "But I guess it is. I was looking for Doc."
"He's tied up. Anything I can do?"
"It's about the job I was supposed to have. I thought I had one with the highway department, but I'm not sure now."
"Well, now," he smiled reassuringly. "That won't do at all. Tell me about it."
"Mr. Fleming wasn't in his office, and his secretary practically threw me out. She told me I could come back later, but I got the impression that it wouldn't do me much good."
"Let's see-Burkman was sponsoring you, wasn't he? Hmm, that's not so good."
"You don't think I'll get a job?"
"Oh, yes. You'll get your job. I was just thinking of the matter, uh, objectively." He nodded his head. "Fleming's over there a few tables. We'll tag him when he starts out."
"Thanks very much," I said. "I was getting pretty worried."
"Glad to do it. No trouble at all." He stirred his coffee, thoughtfully, smiling his warm, confident smile. "Quite a little fracas we had yesterday, eh, Pat?"
"I'm sorry about that," I said. "I'll see that nothing of the kind happens again."
"Oh, I'm not blaming you for it. But I couldn't help feeling a little annoyed with Doc. After all, I did just about as much work on your parole as he did. He should have told you about me beforehand."
"I suppose you're right," I said carefully.
"One serious misstep, something of the kind that happened yesterday, for example, and Doc or no one else could save you from going back to Sandstone. For that matter, Doc himself…"
"Yes?" I said.
"Oh, well, I probably shouldn't say anything like that."
He might as well have said it: that Doc himself might take a notion to have me returned to prison.
"Why don't you drop up to my office sometime, Pat? I think you and I have a great many things to talk about."
"I'll be glad to come," I said.
"Good!" he smiled. "Well, here comes your man. Fleming! Just a moment."
A tall fat man turned slowly away from a group that was starting for the door, and looked at us sourly. Hardesty took me by the elbow and drew me forward.
"Mr. Fleming, I want you to shake hands with Pat Cosgrove," he said, heartily. "Pat's supposed to go to work in your department, you know."
"Work?" Fleming took the cigar out of his mouth, and barely touched my hand with fat, hard fingers. "Don't you ever look at the calendar, Hardesty?"
Hardesty laughed. "Pat's a good friend of Burkman's. The senator spoke to you about him."
"Burkman's a goddam nuisance," said Fleming, and annoyed remembrance flickered in his small eyes.
"Pat's all set and rarin' to go," said Hardesty jovially. "Would you like to talk to him here or up in your office?"
The fat man grunted. "Office. See Rita." Without another word, he turned and rolled slowly away.
"That's his secretary," Hardesty explained. "Rita Kennedy. Fleming will have called her by the time you get there."
"It's all settled?" I said.
"Sure, she'll fix you up." He slapped me on the back. "I'll have to run, now. Don't forget that other matter."
"I'll remember," I said.
I went back to Fleming's office, not feeling any too sure of myself. But the moment I stepped through the door I knew the job was mine. Rita Kennedy was hardly effusive, but she gave me one of her tightlipped smiles and motioned for me to draw a chair up to the desk.
"All right, Pat," she said briskly, drawing a heavy manila folder from her desk. "I believe we're all organized, now. Here are your gasoline mileage books, and these are your daily-expense blanks-you're allowed one dollar per meal-and this is your car requisition card. You know where the state garage is-just two blocks south?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said. "But-"
"Oh, yes. I knew there was something I'd forgotten. Excuse me a moment."
She got up, locked the drawer of the desk, and bustled into the main offices. In a minute or two she was back with a thick stack of mimeographed sheets covered with writing and figures.
"These are the survey forms, Pat. You use one for each day. You can turn them in, as many as you complete, every three or four days."
"I see," I nodded. "But what am I supposed to do with them, Miss Kennedy?"
"Keep your mouth shut and don't leave your car parked too long in front of beer joints. The newspapers have given us some awful ridings about stuff of that kind."
"But… oh," I said.
"You should kick." She smiled faintly, easing me toward the door. "Don't forget what I said about the beer joints."
"I'll remember," I said.
I left the capitol and started south, thinking; wondering why I should feel ashamed of myself.
A little more than fifteen years before on a day like this, I'd walked into the First State Bank of Selby and pointed my sixteen gauge shotgun at the cashier. I can't tell you why I did it. I only know it wasn't planned. I'd started for the river to go hunting when I discovered I only had two shells. And all I'd intended when I entered the bank was to draw a dollar out of my savings account.
It was around noon and old Briggs, the cashier, was by himself. I was carrying my gun because I didn't want to leave it in my stripped-down Model-T.
Briggs gave me a funny, tearing look, and half raised his hands.
And then his hands were going higher, and his look was frightened, and I was stuttering something that sounded like:“N-Now- I’m not-I-I don’t mean-I-I-I won’t h-hurt you, Mr. Briggs.”
He toppled down to the floor inside the cage, and his look was frightened and I started to run out on the street and call for help. Instead of that, I scooped up half a dozen packets of bills and shoved them down inside my sweater, and most of them fell out as I ran out the door.
My car was parked around the corner and Sheriff Nick Nickerson was sitting on the running board.
“Been wanting to see you, boy. Think I got ‘er fixed so you can go the U next fall.”
“Gosh,” I said, “thanks, Mr. Nickerson.”
"Writ my nephew up there an' he says you want to make yourself handy around his garage he can swing your board and room an' a little spendin' money."
"That's swell," I said. "I can get enough for the tuition and books." "Glad to do it. There ain't nothing around here for a bright young fellow. Seems like the brighter they are the quicker they go to rot." I thanked him again, and got in the car. And then the alarm in the bank began to clatter and he started running and I drove off. Slowly, dazed. Then faster. As fast as I could go.