Heed the Thunder (13 page)

He shuddered as he thought of the money in the grip. Suppose he had got in a real row and they had searched him! Jeff would have told them that he was a bank cashier, and with that twenty-five thousand dollars…!

A doctor, that was what he needed. He had been needing one for a long time. When he got to Omaha—

Omaha? Why, particularly, was it necessary to go there? Lincoln was a big town, too, and it would serve his purpose as well as Omaha. There would be good doctors in the capital city.

A ghost of a smile returned to his well-bred face. Grand Island was a division point. Jeff would have to change trains there to go to Lincoln, and he would get off, too. He’d make him listen to an apology, and ride on to Lincoln with him. He’d show him the ropes, as Jeff had hoped he would do, and they would be friends again.

Sighing with relief, he straightened on the straw cushions.

Unconsciously, he lifted the bottle from his pocket and took a drink.

Realization of what he had done came to him at almost the same moment, and he choked and strangled. But to his gratification, he still felt friendly toward Jeff and impelled to apologize. He felt better inside, too. More steady. He took another drink—just to test himself—and his decision to make amends to the attorney was only strengthened.

By the time the train pulled into Grand Island, the bottle was empty.

The vestibules of the cars were open on both sides (there was no facility for closing them), and Courtland, in his haste to get off, alighted on the side opposite the station. He looked around, befuddled, at the expanse of tracks and freight cars, unable to decide what had happened. When he did, the train had begun to switch and he could not go back through the vestibule to the other side.

Cursing, he snatched up the grip and started running down the cinder right-of-way toward the rear of the train. He had almost reached it, when the train stopped abruptly, humped, and began to back up. And Courtland, panting, angry, ran toward the locomotive. Finally, he got around it to the wide bricked station platform, and he was just in time to see a man who he thought was Parker enter the depot.

“Jeff!” he shouted, beginning to run again. “I say, Jeff!”

The man did not stop or look around, and Courtland ran on, shouting and cursing.

He reached the station, now quite crowded, and looked around. His coat was buttoned wrong. His derby sat at a crazy angle on his head. He was wild-eyed.

“Jeff!” he roared, as the people stared at him. “Dammit, man, where are you?”

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he found himself looking into the beefy face of a blue-coated, gray-helmeted policeman. Angrily, he tried to pull away.

“Get your hand off of me, you idiot! I’m trying to—”

“Oh, I’m an idiot, am I?”

The policeman’s grip shifted, tightened. Courtland was shaken until his teeth rattled, then, choking incoherently, he was dragged through the station.

He remembered little of what happened after that. It was like a nightmare that becomes exhausted and expunged by its sheer hideousness. He was jolting over the pavement in some kind of closed cage, with the policeman peering in at him from the end. He was in a room with more policemen, and there was one who did not wear a hat and who did most of the talking.

“You stole that money!”

“I did not! There’s a letter there—”

“You wrote that yourself.”

“I tell you I didn’t!”

“Jerry, get this man Barkley on the phone. We’ll soon see what’s what.”

J
eff Parker did not see Alfred Courtland at the station nor did he learn of his arrest. Immediately upon arriving in Grand Island, he got off the train and walked up the street a few blocks until he reached a saloon that suited his eye. His train to Lincoln did not leave until late that night, and he had some time to kill. Moreover, feeling greatly dejected, he wanted to get as far as he could from anyone who might have heard what Courtland had said to him.

He entered the saloon, had the bartender put his carpetbag beneath the bar, and paid a nickel for a huge glass of beer. Stepping down to the free lunch, he built himself a huge sandwich of rye bread, bologna, tongue, ham, pickles, and mustard. He began to munch contentedly, sipping at the beer.

This was a lot better, he thought, than going in one of those swank restaurants around the depot where they charged a fellow fifteen or twenty cents for a meal. That was another reason for going to a saloon: he had to save as much money as he could.

The bartender frowned as the little fellow laid the foundation for another sandwich; then, unaccountably, he smiled.

“Hungry there, old scout?” he said bluffly.

“Me?” Jeff’s eyes widened, and he appeared to deliberate. “Well, kind of. I passed a dead horse on the way up here and my teeth snapped so loud it got up and ran off.”

The bartender roared, his belly trembling.

“Did you fellers hear that?” he called. “This gent said he was so hungry—he said his teeth snapped so loud a dead horse got up and run off.”

The habitués of the place grinned, and began drifting up to the bar. They looked at Jeff expectantly, and he obliged with another joke. There was another roar of laughter. The bartender declared it was the funniest damned thing he had ever heard, and bought a round on the house. Someone else bought one. And a third party. Jeff suddenly found a half-dozen beers sitting in front of him, and when he extended a hand toward the free lunch, the bartender only smiled and nodded.

He began to expand. He was someone. Alf was just mean, by golly, and he wouldn’t forget it. He’d pay him back, all right. But he didn’t have that hurt, uncertain feeling in his stomach any more. He felt just as good as he had when he got on the train at Verdon. Gol-lee, he felt better, even!

He was someone!

“What’s your line, mister?”

“I’m a lawyer. I’ve just been elected to the legislature.”

“Is that right, now! What county?”

“Verdon.”

“Why, hell,” said the bartender, chuckling again and pawing in a drawer. “Why, hell yes, I knew I’d saw you somewhere! Look, gents. I got his picture right here, and that clipping. He’s the man that sued God!”

They looked at him in amazement, and Jeff’s small chest expanded. The bartender put on his glasses and read the clipping aloud. And the barroom shook with laughter. People began drifting in from the street, attracted by the commotion. The place became packed.

A dude in a derby hat thrust his way into the front ranks.

“Senator, I’d be honored to shake your hand!”

“Why certainly,” said Jeff.

“Put ’er there for me, too, Senator!”

They crowded around him, slapping his shoulders (but gently), trying to shake his hand, and Jeff swelled with such happiness that he thought he would burst.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” said the bartender officiously, while he tried to serve the unaccustomed tide of patrons. “Let’s not wear the senator out!”

“Leave ’em alone,” Jeff called merrily. “I like it!”

He polished off one beer after another, eating so much that it gave him nothing but a light glowing feeling. He kept the room crackling with jokes. For their edification, he invented a case in which he supposedly had been the defense attorney. And he had the bartender act as judge and the hangers-on as jury.

They howled until the tears ran down their cheeks, as he pranced and clowned and raved in his surprisingly sonorous voice. Then when he dropped his voice to a whisper and spoke of mother love and home at dusk and the little one on his father’s knee, there were real tears on their seamed, unholy faces.

The bartender, his jowls streaming, abruptly slammed the overflowing cash drawer and locked it.

“By God, gents, I’m closing up on that!”

“Aw, naw, Jack!” There was a chorus of protests.

“Wait a minute!” The bartender held up his hand. “It ain’t right to keep the senator cooped up here in one place all day! What kind o’ hospitality is that to show a man like the senator? I say I’m going to show him the town!”

There was silence for a moment. Then:

“We’ll all go!”

The cry spread.

Shouting and laughing, yet still wiping their reddened eyes, they hustled Jeff out to the street. As if by magic, a half-dozen horse-drawn cabs appeared. Jeff was pushed into one of them, and the dude, the bartender, and a hard-faced commission man squeezed in with him. Their hack led the noisy procession. The others clattered along behind them.

They took him to a beer hall where, much to their delight and his, the lady entertainers kissed him and made over him.

They took him to a flashy restaurant where he obligingly ate a huge steak dinner, not to mention a dozen raw oysters and several other delicacies.

They took him to one saloon after another, and in every place he was cheered and made much of.

Lastly, they took him to the train and saw that he was properly seated, giving the conductor and every other trainman they could buttonhole many solemn injunctions to take care of him properly. And as the train pulled out, they stood beneath his window or ran along the platform, shouting, laughing, tearfully drunken, wishing him good luck and begging him to come back.

He fell asleep sobbing over their goodness.

He was awakened at Lincoln, early the next morning, by the gentle shaking of the conductor.

“Had kind of a big one, eh, Senator?”

“I’ll say,” moaned Jeff.

“Well, get you some coffee and you’ll feel a lot better.”

The mention of coffee, which immediately reminded him of money, threw the attorney into a panic. Gingerly he drew out his long money purse with the snap-top, and opened it. Hands shaking, he counted the small store of bills.

It was all there. He sighed, then frowned as he noticed the bulge of his vest. He dug into that pocket and produced another tight roll of bills. There was a note under the rubber band:

“You get you some coffee,” the conductor repeated. “You’ll—”

“Coffee?” said Jeff blankly. “Gol-lee! I don’t need any coffee!”

Whistling, he picked up his carpetbag and strutted off the train.

He was ravenous, again, as he started off up O Street, but he decided to pass up the many restaurants that lined that thoroughfare. After all, he’d be checking into a hotel right away. He was a lot better fixed than he had expected to be, but there wasn’t any use in throwing money away. They’d have breakfast waiting at the hotel, and as long as it went with the room, he might as well eat it.

A few blocks up the street he found a hotel which seemed suitably magnificent for his new station in life. He entered, allowed the bellboy to take the bag from his hand, and signed the register with a flourish.

“I plan on being here for some time,” he announced. “What kind of rate can you give me?”

“Well…” The room clerk gave him a swift sizing-up. The young fellow didn’t look like much as to dress, but he had a manner about him; and in this country you couldn’t always tell a man by his clothes.

“Something about three dollars?” he suggested.

“Why that’ll be fine,” declared Jeff, delighted.

He had expected to pay all of four or five dollars a week for room and board. Maybe even seven. He certainly couldn’t kick on three.

The room clerk pulled a key from the rack and slid it across the counter to the bellboy.

“Show Mr. Parker to 914.”

“What time will breakfast be ready?” Jeff inquired.

“Why—uh—why it’s ready any time, Mr. Parker.”

“Well,” said the attorney brashly, “be sure and tell ’em to set a place for me.”

The room clerk laughed, and Jeff laughed, too; he had never got into trouble yet by laughing with someone else.

“Ha, ha. Very good, Mr. Parker. I’ll tell them.”

He looked, smiling, after the lawyer as he swaggered away behind the bellboy.

Jeff managed the ride upward on the elevator, being too astonished by it to be frightened. Nonchalantly he entered room 914, wiping his face with his handkerchief to conceal his amazement. He had been afraid that, for three dollars a week, they might put him up in the attic some place or give him a room with someone else. But this—gol-lee!

He turned importantly to the bellboy, determined to show him that he was a man of the world and used to the nicer things of life.

“Now, where’s the bathroom?” he demanded.

“Right here, sir!” The bellboy ceased fumbling with the window shades and hurried over to a door. He flung it open with a gesture that invited Jeff to inspect it.

Jeff did so. He looked at the immaculate tub and toilet, the tiled floors and walls, and he went back into the room, frowning. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like it a bit. Still, it didn’t look well to start complaining the first day you moved into a place.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“It’ll have to do, I guess,” said Jeff, airily.

“Uh—was there anything else, sir?”

“I guess not,” Jeff began. Then, casting a quick glance at the servant and being quick to feel the moods of others, he saw that something was expected of him.

“Oh,” he said genially, “I expect you could use a little money, couldn’t you?”

“Well…” The boy smirked.

“You should speak up!” the attorney declared. And digging into his pocket, he brought out a fifty-cent piece and tossed it to him.

“Thank you, sir!” said the boy, bowing out.

“Well…uh…that’s all right,” said Jeff, somewhat discomfited.

He had expected some change, since three dollars a week did not cipher out to fifty cents a day. But perhaps the boy didn’t have any or would bring it up later.

The bellboy went back downstairs avowing that Mr. Parker was a spender. The room clerk added his comment that Mr. Parker was a card. Throughout the hotel the news spread quickly, and with it, his description.

Meanwhile, Jeff was again examining the bathroom with distaste.

It was not very considerate of the management, he felt, to put the bath in one of the boarder’s rooms. It should have been in the hall. Now, people would be running in to use it at all hours of the day and night. He wouldn’t be able to lock his door, since they, doubtless, would not be equipped with a key. He’d have to be careful about changing clothes, too.

Very much put out, he opened the carpetbag and took out a clean pair of socks and a bar of strong yellow soap. He sat down on the bed, took off his shoes and socks, and, bending, sniffed his feet. Yep. They could stand washing all right. Maybe even…

Watching the door apprehensively, he took off his coat and shirt and slid the underwear off his frail shoulders. He sniffed again. Shaking his head, regretfully, he came to a decision. He would have to take a bath. He smelled vastly of beer and sweat and tobacco. He would have to.

But how could he manage it?

Suppose someone wanted in while he was in there?

After some moments of worried pondering, he stepped to the writing desk and scrawled a sign on the reverse side of a sheet of stationery:

He held the legend out in front of him, studied it, then inked out the bottom line. It was unnecessary and it crowded the main part of the message. Going to the door, he attached the paper to the exterior by means of the little clip which held the number plate.

He left the door open a hospitable two inches, hastily threw off his clothes, and ran into the bathroom. A moment later he dashed out, grabbed his trousers and underwear, and ran back in again.

Although he kept an ear cocked, he heard no one come in, and he spent a full half-hour in the tub. It was a much better tub than they had at the Verdon hotel or barber shop. In Verdon the water was heated by means of a flame beneath the tub itself, and a man kind of had to swing himself on the sides and dance around all the time he was washing. But the water came right out of the pipes here.

At last he stepped out upon the tile floor, pulled on the underwear and pants, and entered the bedroom whistling.

He stopped, the shrill notes dying on his lips. He gulped.

“Gosh,” he said, apologetically, “have you been waiting very long?”

“Oh, a few minutes.”

His guest was the fattest man Jeff Parker had ever seen. He was fatter, even, than Josephine Fargo. The hat, perched on his massive head, reminded Jeff of the old saw about a peanut on an elephant. But he did not smile, for the man was obviously one of substance. He shifted his cigar between his stubby fingers, and, without arising, extended a hand.

“I’m Cassidy, Senator. Most of the boys call me Jiggs.”

Jeff stepped forward and gripped the hand. “Glad to know you, Jiggs,” he said airily. “Go right on in.”

“Go right in where?” Cassidy’s eyes blinked.

“Don’t you want to use the bathroom?”

“Well, not right now,” the fat man said. “Maybe later.” His eyes blinked again, and he looked down at his cigar. “This is the damnedest hotel I ever saw, Senator. They’ve got baths in every room.”

“Oh,” said Jeff. “I just thought—”

“That’s what I thought the first time I stopped here…I hear you had quite a time for yourself in Grand Island yesterday.”

Jeff blushed. “Golly! I was hoping no one would hear about that.”

“You ought to be proud of it. A man that can make friends as readily as that has got a lot to him.”

“Yes, but—uh—how did you happen to know about it, Jiggs?”

“Oh, it’s my business to know those things.” He motioned with his cigar, and Jeff somehow had the feeling that it was the fat man’s room instead of his own. “Just sit down and make yourself comfortable, Senator. I want to talk to you.”