“Boy, you aren’t built for the long commute,” Detweiller said. He laughed but there were spots of angry color in his cheeks. “You don’t have the nerves for it.”
Farrell said, “I’ve got to run along. Take it easy, Chicky.”
“Please don’t go on my account. How’s Barbara? Oh, I asked you, didn’t I?”
“She’s loyal, uncomplaining, industrious — a typical wife. Why don’t you try an aspirin or two with that drink?”
“Thanks, doctor.”
Farrell turned at the door and looked back at Malleck and Detweiller. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he said. “Particularly ones with Indian heads. They’re bad news.”
Malleck smiled. “You’ve got a real handy way with words, Mr. Farrell. I admire it.”
Detweiller stood at the bar with his back to Farrell. “Good night,” he said quietly.
Farrell waited an instant for him to turn around, but when he saw that Detweiller did not intend to he smiled a good-by to Chicky and walked out of the room.
Chapter Nine
Ат three-thirty the following afternoon Farrell was called out of an Atlas conference by his secretary. “It’s your wife, and she said it was urgent.” Farrell excused himself and walked down to his own office, his anxiety leavened by a certain amount of irritation; the conference was important, not only for itself, but because of what Colby had said to him at lunch. Casually and without preamble Colby had offered him a job as his assistant on Atlas. He had said: “All it means is less coolie labor at your typewriter and a chance to sit around with me and look wise. And some more dough, but that’s a detail. The thing is we need a guy with a little balance to look over Weinberg and Shipley’s shoulders. Weinberg is a nut on the idea that all consumers are sneaky, guilt-ridden bastards, buying things to pay off their old men or to justify a low-amp sex drive. And Shipley, well the poor guy thinks a recording of Boola Boola affects everybody like the siren song. They’re both pretty sharp, but they’re inbred or something. I think you might loosen them up a bit.”
Farrell picked up his phone. “Hello, honey, what is it?” The connection was not clear and he said impatiently, “Hello — I can’t hear what you’re saying.” And then he realized that she was crying.
“Barbara! What is it? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Angey. She was hit by a car on the way home from school. I’m at Memorial Hospital with her now. Please hurry, John.”
The words struck him like blows. “Is she all right? How bad is it, Barbara? Tell me, for God’s sake!”
“She’s in the accident ward now. It’s her legs. She isn’t conscious.”
“I’ll get there as fast as I can. Look, calm down. It’s going to be all right.” He was gripping the receiver so tightly his hand hurt. “Do you hear me? I’ll be there right away.”
“Please hurry, please.”
Farrell dropped the phone and grabbed his suit coat hanging on the back of his chair. His secretary was holding his topcoat and hat.
“My daughter was in an accident,” he said. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. Tell Colby, will you?”
“Yes, of course. Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Poor, poor thing. Is — she badly hurt?”
“Mrs. Farrell said something about her legs.” He pulled on his topcoat. “I’ll call you when I find out.”
“Dear God, I hope she’s all right.”
It took Farrell an hour by cab to reach the hospital. A nurse at the reception desk directed him to a room on the sixth floor. Barbara was standing in the rubber-tiled corridor talking with a doctor. Farrell held her tightly against him and felt the tremors shaking her body.
“How is she?” he said. “Is she all right?”
“Her left leg is broken but there’s nothing else wrong, thank God.” The words were a muffled blur against his chest. “She’s all right, John, she’s all right.”
“What a hell of a thing for you to go through.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s all right, that’s all that counts.” She brushed tears from her cheeks and laughed shakily. “I’m behaving like a fool. This is Doctor Kaye, John. He took care of Angey.”
Dr. Kaye was balding and middle-aged, gravely courteous. After shaking hands he said, “The break is at the knee which, colloquially but accurately, is a bad break. But except for normal abrasions and contusions she’s in good shape. No concussion, which is usually an inevitable by-product of being struck by an automobile, and no internal damage so far as I can determine.”
“You say it’s a bad break.” Farrell hesitated, reluctant to put his fears into words. His mind was crowded with a thousand images of Angey dancing, running, skipping rope, hula-hooping, and charging everything she did with the excitement of her relentless energy. “You mean — well, that her leg might be stiff. Something like that?”
“There’s always that possibility,” Dr. Kaye said, and the measured statement sent a chill through Farrell. He tightened his arm around Barbara as Dr. Kaye added: “But her bones are still growing and that will be working for her if there’s no complication. I wouldn’t borrow trouble, Mr. and Mrs. Farrell; when the cast is off we’ll know what we’re up against. And I believe we can hope that her good angel will still be there looking after her.” He glanced at his watch. “Will you excuse me now? There’s nothing I can do until she comes out of the anesthetic. You can go in, if you like. It will be good for you to be there when she wakes up.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”
Angey’s body seemed pathetically tiny in the narrow hospital bed. She lay with her arms at her sides, the sheet pulled smoothly over her thin shoulders, and her long blonde hair shining against the starched and immaculate white pillow slip. The nurse smiled at them and said softly, “She’s such a sweet, brave child. Just before we put her to sleep she looked up at the doctor and said, ‘Don’t you worry, my daddy will be here soon.’ Imagine! Telling the doctor not to worry. I don’t think she’ll wake for ten or fifteen minutes. You can wait here if you wish, or there’s a reception room in the corridor — it’s for expectant fathers. The chairs are more comfortable, I think.”
“Oh, we’ll wait here,” Barbara said.
When the nurse left Farrell pulled two chairs close to the bed.
“Do you remember when she had her tonsils out?” Barbara sat down and smoothed the bangs on Angey’s pale forehead. “Remember what a foul temper she was in?”
“I sure do. She was reeking of ether and she wanted to have her hair shampooed on the spot.”
“She’s going to be all right, John. I know it.”
“How in God’s name did it happen? And where’s Jimmy?”
“The police took him home in a squad car. I got hold of Mrs. Simpson fortunately, and she was available. She’ll stay with him until you get home. They’re putting a cot in here for me. I thought I should stay.”
“Of course. Well go on: how did it happen?”
“I’ve just got the bare details. They were crossing Whiting Boulevard, it seems, when a car shot through the red light. Jimmy jumped out of the way but Angey dropped a book or something and stopped to pick it up.”
“She would,” Farrell said. “Who was driving the car?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean, they don’t know yet?”
“The car didn’t stop. Maybe whoever was driving didn’t realize he’d struck her.”
“Like hell,” Farrell said. The anger flowing through him was like an antidote to the poison of sick worry he felt for his child. “A jail sentence is a damned sight too mild for a bastard who’d drive off and leave an injured child in the street.” He rubbed her cold hands. “But weren’t there any witnesses? That intersection is crowded at that hour.”