Chapter 10
"Would" is a part of speech implying a condition, projected in future possibility or past probability; at any rate, it presupposes. Thus it was that while Farley Brock thought in terms of 'would', Sue was now thinking 'never'.
She'd never make it. She'd never go back again, now that she'd been somewhere where hardly anyone goes. Never, never, never. Then too, for her, it hardly approached the philosophic realm of thought-it was as simple as 'I'll never walk again, I'll never sit again'-Even with the memory fresh in her mind, the reality of it was inconceivable. It hadn't happened, couldn't have happened.
But it had.
Damn right it had!
She had held out for something like seven months, and then folded. Like a slow-motion dream sequence, she knew she'd fold last night, when Big Bert had come to her cell. She sensed the end of the battle, the be ginning of the defeat. It was too late. She could never go back.
Her thoughts were jarred by a distant voice somewhere in the background: the voice became louder and louder and she realized that Cindy had been yelling
"Sue! Hey! Sue!"
"Huh?' She snapped out of her daze. Cindy lay beneath her in the lower bunk, as always-"I'm sorry, I was sleeping."
"Sure," Cindy said. "Sure you were. How'd it go?'
"I don't want to talk about it," Sue said abruptly.
"Okay, okay. Keep it inside you. Be cool like Martha, baby. Be real polite and bury your head in the sand."
"It was-horrible!" she cried. It all poured out of her, and even as she talked, she was aware of the nightmarish, fantastic quality of the events. No one Out There would ever believe such things.
"Okay," Cindy said softly. She had risen from her bunk, and was now sitting on the edge of Sue's, patting her shoulder. "I know. I don't hate you for it."
She felt a pulsation of guilt. She remembered her judgement of Cindy when she had fallen. How could anyone judge anyone else? People were so filthy, such depraved animals. How could one beast judge another beast?
She spend the rest of the night crying, while Cindy stroked her back idly, knowing how very helpless she was to share that private Hell.
Brock had a splitting headache. His nerves were jumpy and he didn't know whether to swallow aspirin or bourbon. Knowing he couldn't take both simultaneously constituted a major decision. If he drank, his headache would undoubtedly become worse. If he took the aspirin, his nerves would go jet-propelled through his skin.
He took the drink.
He, too, had a sharp feeling of the unreal; talking to the big-wig himself, the kingmaker, people-breaker in the way he had. But he knew that he had broken that tin god into a rubble of scared, insecure fragments. He took another drink.
It was late, and his secretary had left, and when he picked up the receiver from the phone, he thought, This is stupid, the man's gone home. Everybody's gone home except me.
But the man hadn't gone home. Like Brock's, his secretary had gone, and he himself answered the phone.
"Bently."
"John. Farley Brock."
"Hi, Brock. What lion of justice you gonna throw my way this late?"
"A very savage one, friend," Farley said, ignoring the sarcasm. He knew his reputation: punk kid with ideals that'd be knocked out of him in ten years, if he waited that long before he went into tax law.
"Sills. Appeal."
"That, and more. It's much bigger now, John. I have got to talk to you. Like soon."
"Tomorrow morning?" Brock knew the man was busy. What State's Attorney wasn't?
"Too late."
"God, Farley, I do have a home life, you know. I haven't seen my wife and kids in six months!"
"Tonight, John. Later. About nine or so." Farley again felt in strange command, as he had earlier that day with Harris.
"Okay, okay, nine-but don't expect a smile and a kiss, boy."
"You won't be smiling when it's over-" Farley promised, "And I know damn well you won't be kissing babies, either. You'll be damn sorry people ever get away from babyhood." He hung up, and took another drink. His headache had subsided slightly, and his nerves had retreated under his skin where they belonged.
He dialed Lil's number.
"Lil, I'll be over in a little while. Have a big, fat drink waiting and a lot of womanly comfort."
"How about some food?" she asked, without questioning anything else. He remembered he hadn't eaten a thing all day. His headache returned at the mere suggestion, and his nerves began to overact again.
"A big, fat sandwich."
"A big, fat drink, a big fat sandwich; don't you like anything that isn't big and fat?' she asked with mock sorrow.
"I like little, slender women with invisible curves," he grinned into the mouthpiece. "Invisible until-"
"Okay, your phone might be bugged. Come over as soon as you can, beloved. I'll have it all ready."
The word beloved stuck long after the others. She had never called him that before, and now that he'd heard it, it had a nice ring to it. Hell, why not, Farley? he asked himself. You're a big boy, you're right for each other and-well, why not?
But he wouldn't pursue it. God only knew what would come out of this whole mess before It was over. Maybe after he was through dragging Howard through the mud, she would be too upset to give him the time of day. People changed drastically in crises, he knew from experience.
But now wasn't the time to think of such things. He locked up the office and went downstairs to the parking lot. His was the only car left; it was well after five. By the time he got to Lil's, it would be close to six. He could only stay until eight-thirty at the very latest, if he expected to keep his appointment with John Benchly-which he damned well would, because appointments with that man weren't so easy to get.
"Your drink," she said, handing him a glass filled with bourbon and ice before he even was all the way through the door.
"Hey, how about a kiss first?' he exclaimed.
"You didn't say anything about a kiss, and besides, you've been drinking," she said, her lips close to his. "Bad day?'
"Atrocious." He kissed her. She kissed back. His headache disappeared, and her nerves retreated into the deep heat she stirred in his body with her warm, sensuous lips.
"Sit down, Farley," she said, pointing to the living room chair. It was the first time they'd ever sat in the living room. It had the appearance of never being lived in. "Now, what happened? You sounded terrible over the phone."
Funny how she knew his moods, he thought. He'd taken special pains to be off-hand, even bantering He told her.
Everything.
"God Almighty," she whispered when he paused for another sip of bourbon. "I can't believe it all."
"I have ironclad proof for every single charge, Lil." He looked at her intently. "I'm sorry Howard's going to have to be dragged into this thing-a lot of people, little people, are going to get hurt. It's too bad."
"I'm not especially concerned about that," she said, "but that poor girl!"
"You didn't used to think that way," he reminded her.
"That was before I knew you," she said softly. "I believe in what you're doing, Farley; I also know what an utter joke my life's been."
He said nothing.
"Farley, once upon a time, I was very impressed with the finer things in life. The important things. Now I know what the important things are; what a selfish little bitch I was!"
"No baby. You came through beautifully." He didn't want to hear her insulting herself that way-it hurt him to hear it; his arm went around her shoulder, and he drew her close and kissed her on the neck, then the mouth. ' 'No. But I just wanted you to know what I'm up against, and what a mess it's going to be. I have to see John Benchly at nine tonight."
"Will you come back afterward?'
"It'll be late."
"If I'm asleep, just come in. I'll give you a key." She looked at him. He looked at her, and nodded. "Okay. Hey, I'm hungry! What do you say we make some sandwiches?"
"No need. Everything's made." She got up and walked to the kitchen, and he watched the rhythmic, undulating movement of her buttocks under the cashmere skirt, which stopped an inch or so above her knees to reveal the fine, white legs.
He knew all about the thighs.
They were fine, too.
Dinner was cold roast beef sandwiches and Danish beer. It was a good dinner.
By the time they finished, it was seven-thirty. Farley grew restless and fidgety, and began to pace the room. Lil sat in a chair and watched him. She had put a Brahms record on the phonograph, but its soothing quality had no apparent effect on him. After what seemed an interminable length of time, it was eight-thirty, and time for him to leave.
He stood near her. She rose out of the chair, and put her arms around him.
"Don't be too late, Farley." Then she kissed him, and left a long, lingering taste of honey and warmth on his lips.
"I'll try not to," he said.
She put a key in his hand.
"The front door, Farley. And you know where the bedroom is." The fact was that he did not; he had never been upstairs. But he knew that he would find it easily enough, so her merely nodded.
On his way to Benchly's house, he thought, It's nice to have something to come home to.
Big Bert went into town that night and had herself a ball. She drank a lot of beer, picked up a girl to go to bed with in the hotel, and woke up the next morning feeling perfectly clear-headed. It was going to be clear sailing from how on, she decided. Everybody was in line. No dissenters, no wiseacres pulling in opposite directions.
She and the warden'd taken real good care of Sills.
There'd be no sweat. Strictly no sweat.
The memory of that night filled her with a warm glow. How Phineas had carried on! Who'd ever think that forty-five year old man was capable of such powers of endurance! The way he'd rammed her, drove her right down to her knees, screaming all the way. Yes, between Cindy and Sue, she was going to have a good time from now on. A very good time, now that they knew who their master was. You just had to keep hammering away until you had them on their knees. Then you had them.
Gladys Plane moved over to the other side of the bed when her husband crawled in, getting as far as possible from that odious man. It had been years since they'd had sex, and if she had her way about it, it would be forever and then some before they so much as touched one another.
She couldn't forget that evening.
It had been so long ago, yet it seemed like yesterday, when at a nightclub in Montgomery, he had asked her to go to the corridor with him. It was always deserted during performances, lined with potted palms and the whole schmere. He was giddily drunk, and so was she-his suggestion that they make love behind a palm, like newlyweds full of adventure, had struck her as an exciting thing to do that evening.
With the excitement of a school girl going into the woods with a boy for her first time, she walked out of the room with him into the distant corridor. It was empty. The sounds of the band were faint, as if they were from another world.
"Phineas, this is so exciting!" she tittered.
"Yes, dear." His voice was thick with desire; strangely, grotesquely so.
They didn't go into any preliminaries. It was to be a heated, perfect quickie, as couples attuned to one another's needs are often capable of pulling off with impressive success.
"From behind, all right?" Phineas breathed.
"Yes," she whispered, "oh, from behind!" Her excitement was dizzying, overwhelming. She got to her hands and knees, arching her bared buttocks with her dress lifted around her slender waist. She waited for her powerful, strong man of a husband to love her in the elemental animal posture. He punished her instead.
His hands cruelly, savagely splayed her buttocks apart, and then he forced his way inside, making her nauseous with pain and sense of unnatural abuse.
"Phineas!" she shrieked, trying to pull away.
His hand went over her mouth.
"Quiet, goddamn you!" he shouted hoarsely, as he drove against her with unbelievable force until she sank to the ground and fainted.
Their voices had attracted attention, and the manager, thinking they were a drunken couple, called the police, who arrived immediately and caught them red-handed. Several of the patrons had seen them, as well. There was a huge mess.
Everything could have been fine for him in the end; he could have claimed drunken excitement-but she had pressed charges, and to this day, they only lived together. It was really something of a wonder that they slept together in the same bed, but secretly, each hoped that they could "get together again," even though it was hopeless. The gulf was too wide, too vast. They had drifted too far apart.
And lately, Phineas had been behaving strangely. He had stayed late at the office more often than not, and it was common knowledge that he was hardly the conscientious reformer. Being warden was strictly a political handout given away by Harris. Everyone not in the know thought it was a governor's appointment, but Harris pulled the strings and called the shots, And he'd given that job to Phineas through the governor because of a friendship that went a long way back, She knew something was brewing with Phineas. Even though he hardly spoke or accounted for his time, she knew he was up to something he wanted to keep secret. Whatever it was, she hoped it wasn't illegal-being married to a pervert was bad enough; if the world ever found out about it, she'd die of mortification.
The Benchly home looked modest, and if you were to compare it to Harris's or Plane's, it was. John Benchly made eighteen thousand a year as State's Attorney, and strangely, lived on eighteen thousand a year. His ambitions had never included money; as a boy, he had seen what corruption could do to a state and its people. As a man, he had begun his work to eliminate-that corruption. Like Brock, he was a crusader out of step with society's cynicism; unlike Brock, he was a good deal older, a good deal more calloused. Yet, the idealism remained under that thick veneer of hard-bitten temperament.
He had kept his eye on Brock for a long time, and for the most part, liked what he saw. During the Sills trial, he had winced a hundred times as Brock had woven his case into tight, air-tight threads-only to be overruled by the judge. It had been a farce, admittedly.
Brock rang the doorbell, glancing nervously at his watch. It was exactly nine o' clock; Benchly was a bug for punctuality. In exactly five seconds, the door opened, and Farley was shaking hands with John Benchly.
"Brock, good to see you, even if you are invading my privacy. Come on in."
Farley followed the older man into the den, and sat down in a chair Benchly waved at. Benchly selected a pipe from the rack and stuffed it with tobacco.
"Now," he said between puffs, "what'sup?"
"Read." Farley had already snapped open his attache case and dumped the dossier in front of Benchly, along with the note from Martha, Benchly read.
At first he puffed furiously on his pipe, but then he stopped puffing, and held the dead piece of wood between his teeth, grunting, clearing his throat, keeping Farley in suspenseful agony.
"My God, Farley! Where in hell'd you get all this?"
"It took work," Farley answered grimly. "Every word can be substantiated, and I've already gotten permission from Judge Hammond to use a medical exam for evidence--provided I get an appeal, which you know I will."
"It won't be an appeal, exactly," Benchly told him, rustling through the papers. "It'll be a brand new trial with brand-new defendants, I think your client's as good as free, Farley. Why didn't you tell me all this over the phone this afternoon?"
"You didn't ask."
The older man smiled, "Twenty years I've watched Harris and his crew run this state, without anybody being able to touch them. And now you bring them all right to their knees in one fell swoop."
"I just wanted to get my client off the hook, And like you say, she will be, after Hardin, Harris, Plane and that Starr babe are uncovered."
"There'll be others," Benchly said, "lots of others. It'll be like a bomb explosion."
"Are you happy?" Farley asked the older man.
"Happy? You're never happy to wade through filth and muck, Farley. I just feel-relieved-yes, relieved that it'll soon be over, and that the people of this state'll wake up. Maybe they'll be more careful from now on."
"You'll get indictments in the morning?"
"By noon, every damned one of them'll be served,"
"Then I can visit my client and tell her she's on her way?"
"That might be a good idea, Farley. Yes, if I were a young lady in prison for something I didn't do, I might like that kind of news."
The two men said good-night.
For the first time, two men who had merely respected one another from a distance now respected one another from close quarters, Farley, that severe judge of character, glowed under the beaming eyes of John Benchly, his unacknowledged mentor.