Recoil by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

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 tight-lipped 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