Jug goes about two hundred pounds. I figured about half of it was fat. I should have run along, as he said. But I walked over to him, and slapped his face. My name is Shea.
He drew his big right hand back, and I let him have it, right on the button.
I could feel the shock traveling up my arm, and I could see him go crashing backward into a desk. I saw the flash bulb go off again, and then the red went flashing through my brain, and I was moving in.
The next thing I knew, a couple of reporters from the Journal were holding my arms. Jug was getting up slowly, rubbing his chin. Bitsy was on his way out. The DA stood in his doorway, asking, “What the hell’s going on out here?”
One of the Journal reporters said, “Jug fell down, didn’t you, Jug? You all right, now?”
All the stenos, the cops, the help in the outer office were watching us. It had happened so quickly that none of the girls had had a chance to scream.
“I’m all right,” Jug said. He didn’t look at me. I’ll bet he didn’t even want to look at himself.
There was a murmur of voices from the spectators. The DA took one swift glance around the room, and then his door closed.
I went out with one of the Journal reporters. He said, “The Courier’ll print that picture. They’ll make some kind of a lousy story out of the whole thing.” He swore.
“They’ll probably print both pictures, now,” I said. “I wonder, you think there might be a libel angle—”
He shook his head. “Not the way they’ll write it. Avoiding libel suits is a business they understand. They’ve made an art out of that.”
He left me, there on the sidewalk, and I walked down to the coupé. I was thinking about June. I was remembering her hands, her pale, fluttering hands, always moving, always reaching. They’d repelled me, back in high school, repelled me and fascinated me. I remember, I could never take my eyes off them.
She had jet-black hair, this June Drexel, and her pale complexion was almost sickly in its whitness. But she’d done a lot with that contrast, that and the dark-blue eyes. That and the reaching, grasping hands.
As though she couldn’t get enough of whatever it was she wanted. A high-school kid wouldn’t know what it was. I wasn’t sure, even now, and high school was ten years behind me. There’d been a war and a wedding and a birth in my life since then.
To hell with her, I thought. To hell with her and her hands.
I drove back to the office. I went up to the city room and hammered out a couple of routine stories from the department.
Our local political man, Tom Alexander, was working at the machine next to mine. I asked him, “You think this Peckham was playing house with that Drexel dame? You think his wife’s got a case?”
He smiled cynically. “The Star thinks so, slave. The Star would like to nail Peckham any way they can.”
“But why?” I said. “Peckham’s no bigger than some of the other grafters in this burg. Why him?”
He shrugged. “Ours not to reason why, Johnny.” He lighted a cigarette and considered his next paragraph. Then he looked over at me. “Is this a professional or a personal interest?”
“Why should it be personal?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He pulled at an ear. “Your tone of voice, I guess.” He frowned, and went back to work.
To hell with June Drexel, I thought again. And to hell with the Courier. Just for good measure, I threw in the DA.
I went over to pick up Sammy Berg and we went out to lunch. I told him what had happened.
He shook his head sadly. “You know Cavanaugh, Johnny. Dignity, all the time; ethics, every minute. He’ll blow his stack.”
He didn’t, really. The early-afternoon edition of the Courier came off the press, and there was yours truly, in both poses. There was a story you could read any way your mind happened to run, though it would prove most interesting to a low mind.
I remember thinking, I hope Norah doesn’t see this, just before I got the summons from R.J.
I was nervous. I won’t say I was frightened, not at first, but the palms of my hands were wet, and I wanted a cigarette. In R.J.’s office, nobody smokes.
His desk is on a dais, sort of, and he’s looking down at you, even if you’re standing, which you usually are, in his office. I was standing now. It was very quiet in the room. He had the Courier spread out on his huge desk.
He’s a distinguished-looking gent, tall and beautifully tailored, and not quite fifty. He was looking more than a little troubled at the moment.
he looked down at me gravely. “Mr Shea, you . .. ah . . . appear to know this June Drexel rather well.”
“I knew her in high school,” I told him. “I haven’s seen her much since.”
“Much? How much, Mr Shea?”
I was still nervous, but the Shea temper was climbing, too. I could feel my neck get warm. I said, “I’ve seen her around from time to time, and said hello. In public places, you understand. It’s nothing like the Courier tried to suggest.”
His face was still very grave. That’s why I couldn’t understand his smile, just then. It was a small, cold smile. “And that’s all?”
“That’s all.”
He seemed to be trying to read my mind. He stared at me quietly for a moment. Then, “Do you think she’s Peckham’s girl?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “She isn’t working, and she isn’t married. She must be somebody’s girl.”
He ignored that. He said, “I’ve a complaint from the district attorney, on you, too. I got it at lunch, at the club.”
I said nothing.
“He seems to think you know more about this than you’re telling, too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
He had a letter opened in his hands which he kept sliding back and forth from one hand to the other. “You know, of course, that the Star put Gargan in office?”
Gargan was the DA. I nodded.
“You know that we are working with him and for him, all the time?”
I nodded again.
“Yet, you create a minor riot in his office. You lose your temper and strike a fellow worker. You embarrass not only this paper, but the district attorney.” He seemed to be working himself into a temper. “I hope you realize the gravity of all this. Mr Shea.”
“I lost my temper,” I said. “I wasn’t in my right mind. That Drexel dame brings out the worst in me.”
“Oh,” he said, and was silent a moment. “You haven’t seen her since high school, but she brings out the worst in you. Would you mind telling me, Mr Shea, just how long ago you went to high school?”
“Ten years ago,” I replied.
“I see.” He put the letter opener down on his desk. He was fumbling with a tiny jet elephant he wears on his watch chain, now. “Ten years ago.” He studied me. “You’re an extremely competent employee, Mr Shea, but still subject to discipline. Do you think a month’s leave of absence would be adequate punishment?”
I stared at him. Finally, I said, “I didn’t expect any punishment. I didn’t figure I had it coming.”
He smiled. “That would be for me to decide.”
I was trembling now. I said, “Whether I work here, or for some other paper would be for me to decide. I wouldn’t work for a paper that doesn’t back up its reporters.” I turned, and walked out.
I expected him to call me back, but he didn’t. Some of my anger held, but not enough to prevent me from realizing I’d been a fool for the second time that day.
Tom Alexander was still working on his column when I went back to clean up my desk. He watched me quietly for a full minute, then asked, “Leave of absence, huh? The Cavanaugh curse.”