Some Faces in the Crowd by Budd Schulberg Read Free Book Online Page B

my head examined for marrying that little baton-twirler from North Little Rock. The kid sure could twirl, though. One in each hand and play the harmonica at the same time. She could even do it on her toes. But I need someone worthy of me. Someone with a brain who I c’n talk to.” He reached for the bottle and I could see how his hand was trembling. “Damn it, nobody hates war more’n I do. But they got me mad now. Why do I have to have all the responsibility? But if Washington is too lily-livered to act …”
    He gulped the whiskey and staggered to his desk, pushing a jumble of papers, clippings and letters aside to find something he was looking for.
    “I woulda jumped,” he said. “You didn’ believe me. Here—here’s the note I wrote to leave behind.” He picked it up and read it to me in a hoarse, maudlin voice. It told of his grief for the fine American boys having to sacrifice themselves in foreign lands. He said he was sorrowing for all his American neighbors threatened with extinction in another terrible war. “For me this whole great country of ours is just Riddle, Arkansas, multiplied,” he wound it up. “Every one of you is my Cousin Abernathy, my Aunt Lucybelle, my Grandpaw Bascom. God bless you and keep you all, my beloved kinfolk and neighbors.”
    “But you told me you were going out the window for my sake,” I protested. “Why do you drag in this other routine?”
    He gave me one of those slow, inebriated winks. “My public,” he said. “This is high-level BK stuff. The highest possible level. They gotta believe I love ’em to the end. Get it?”
    “Yes,” I said. “I think I get it.”
    “Smart girl,” he said. “Why don’t we have one more drink and then you crawl into the sack with me? The hell with everybody.”
    “That’s not what I came back for,” I said.
    “Hell with everybody,” he shouted. “Hell with you too if you don’t be a good little girl and play house with Poppa.”
    His face was flushed and his eyes were crazy.
    I said, “Larry, get into bed and I’ll get you some sleeping pills. And for God’s sake, stop drinking. I’ll have the doctor come and give you a shot if you won’t stop.”
    “Gotta put on a show at nine o’clock,” he said. “Gotta declare war. War!” he shouted. “This means war!”
    “Shhhh,” I said, “you’ve got to lie down. You’ve got to be quiet for a while. I’ll get Bert Wheeler or someone to take your place tonight. You need some sleep. Rest. Peace. Shhhhh.”
    He reached out his arm for me and almost lost his balance. I put my hand on his elbow to steady him. He grabbed me and we tottered together. He tried to force his mouth against mine. “Larry, for God’s sake, let me go,” I said. I broke away and ran down the hall. Lonesome came running heavily after me. “Hey Marshy, quit runnin’. Let’s roll in the hay together.” His big voice was right behind me. I had reached the marble steps leading down to the entrance hallway of the duplex suite. I ran down two steps at a time.
    “Hey Marshy, let’s …”
    Then an ugly sound of hopeless protest came out of him. The staggering bulk of him had lost its balance on the top step and was floundering, hurling, thudding down. I could feel the back of his head striking the marble ledge of each step as he lurched to the bottom landing.
    He made a low, broken moan and lay still. I was afraid to move him. I ran to the phone and called Tommy de Palma. When I told him what had happened, Tommy took the name of our Lord in vain, but quite solemnly. Then he said, “Listen, Marcia. You get the hell out of there. I’ll be right over and take care of everything. And never tell anybody—I mean anybody —how it happened.”
    A few hours later it was all over for Lonesome Rhodes, at least the corporeal part. A compound fracture of the skull had removed his name from the Nielsen ratings. He had become a living legend even before he lost his balance on that top step and now Tommy