The Just And The Unjust (28 page)

'Or rather —' Abner said. But before he told anyone else, he ought to tell Marty; and before he told Marty he had still to work out a way of managing his withdrawal so that it would not upset all Marty's plans. If Jesse picked another candidate to run in November, Marty could — in fifth class counties the district attorney had the power to appoint 'not more than two' assistants, if he needed or wanted them — bring him into the office right away and teach him his duties by letting him see how the Commonwealth prepared for and conducted September Sessions. There would probably be a squawk from the county treasurer over having to pay two assistants, so Abner, as a decent gesture, and to spare Marty that almost certain wrangle, could offer to serve without pay. The gesture would not be likely to make Marty any less mad; but it would at least make Abner feel better.

Bonnie said, 'I don't think I want a ring, Ab. I mean it. It's such a waste of money.'

'Now, don't worry about that,' Abner said, rousing himself. 'If I don't —'

He was forced to stop again. If he didn't worry about money, it was high time he started to! He must have lost his mind! So he was going to make a splendid gesture and do without his salary, was he? Where, then, did he think money was coming from? He was going to get married; he was going to take over the support of Cousin Mary and her brats —

Abner could not answer. He bothered very little about money; but that was because his wants were simple and his expenses few. When Harry mentioned Paul Bonbright at noon, and what Paul was probably getting, Abner considered it with complete indifference. Perhaps he was even a little proud of his indifference, and a little contemptuous of Harry's uncovered envy. Abner's experience had been that if you applied yourself to your work, the money end of it would more or less take care of itself — unless, like Harry, you had to spend a couple of thousand dollars for a car to knock people's eyes out. Not having the desire for such a car, Abner had always found it easy not to buy one; but getting married was more expensive than any new car. Without going so far as definitely to plan it that way, Abner supposed that he had always assumed that when he came to get married he would have Marty's job, which meant enough more money to make it easy. He could plan not to marry until he could afford to; for it seemed to him that he was beyond the stage of infatuation, of the mental and physical excitements or impatiences that made for marrying in haste.

He hesitated. 'We aren't going to be rich,' he said. 'Maybe you ought to reconsider Mr. Harper's offer.' The joke, he saw, was not a success. His impulse, a natural forthrightness, was to tell her how things stood; but that was a job for somebody better with words than he was. He could not think of any way to explain his situation which would not amount to qualifying his proposal, now that she had accepted it.

'Don't tease me,' Bonnie said. She spoke with constraint, and the insight of long acquaintance told Abner what the tone meant. She had felt the hesitation, and her spirits fell again. Her feeling for him was strong enough to survive, and even to encompass, what to her must seem his hopeless, his maddening ineptitude. She had made her choice; she had made it with the knowledge that he had none of those gifts of intuition by which her feelings would be conveyed to him and — how wonderful a pleasure, how enchanting a release! — her wish could hardly form before he was doing or saying the thing she longed for. She sadly accepted the fact that he would always manage to disappoint her a little; and could put against it only the poor consolation of knowing that when he did he probably wouldn't mean to.

Abner was so sure that these were her thoughts that he felt like telling her, describing them to her, giving her proof that he was not so dumb as he looked, that he understood perfectly. To comfort her, he would like her to know that he was not, with inept naiveté, showing alarm when he realized that he had committed himself ('Poor Ab!' she was probably thinking, 'Poor Ab! But why does he have to let me see it?'). If she only knew, what he was trying not to show was his consternation, a sort of anger and dismay, that marrying her, now that he had made up his mind that he wanted to at once, not some time in the future, was going to be, through his own act, difficult to manage. Instead of that vaguely counted on increase in salary, he had arranged to lose the too-little he already had.

No explanation offered any way out; and, this time, Abner did remember that when you don't know what to say, you'd better keep still. 'I'm sorry,' he said to Bonnie; and that was the truth.

3

Abner turned in at the end of the line of cars parked on the dreary stretch of cinders before the Black Cat, a sprawling frame building meant to simulate a Swiss chalet. Jutting up, a little brighter than the clear evening sky above the roof, a neon sign showed in vermilion outline the figure of a cat playing a violin. Through the tree trunks beyond, sunset coloured the still water of the creek.

From the running board of the last car — there were about a dozen, including Harry Wurts' red one — a Negro boy got up. His old chauffeur's cap showed that he was allowed the office of harassing patrons as they left with intimations that he had somehow served them and should be rewarded; but he had other uses. He looked carefully at Abner; and then, with an unconvincing, casual walk, crossed to the side door under the electric sign : Bar.

Watching him go, Abner thought, amused, yet somewhat put out, too, 'The tip-off!' Howard Bessie was going to be warned to look out, the assistant district attorney had just arrived. Abner said, 'Well, we'll spare Howard some anxiety. We can get you a drink out on the porch just as well.'

'What's he anxious about?' Bonnie said.

'You'd have to ask him,' Abner said. The pressure of his own anxieties made Howard Bessie's seem of little interest or importance. 'Maybe, nothing. On the other hand, he may have something in the bar. I mean, what we describe as gambling devices.'

'Those pin ball machines?' Bonnie was making a great effort. She could not feel much interest in the matter, either; but she was doing all she could to act as though nothing had happened.

Abner responded to the effort. He said, 'It has been held that those aren't gambling devices, per se. But the customers might be using them to gamble. Then, there are several syndicates that distribute real slot machines. Marty's pretty well cleaned them out; but Fosher's Creek, there, is the county line; and they may have slipped one or two across.'

He shrugged. 'If they have, I don't want to know it. Not to-night'

Bonnie looked at him curiously. 'What would you have to do if you did know it?'

'Oh, well, I suppose I'd have to take steps.' They went up on the long screened porch over the water and he drew out a chair for her at the table in the corner. 'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'I get pretty tired of having to take steps. What do I care if people want to lose their money? Marty doesn't care either, really. He just doesn't like Howard —'

Through the big room, empty now and shadowed; where, later, they had dancing and the supposedly scandalous floor shows, Howard Bessie himself moved quickly, coming to the wide doors and stepping out on the porch. He nodded to some of the other guests — several couples at tables along the rail — and came right down toward Abner. He was a quiet, sober, round-headed little man neatly dressed in white linen.

'How you, Abner? Miss Drummond?' he said, bowing. His full face was grave and polite, but he did not smile, nor speak with any false warmth of cordiality or conviction. Though he doubtless wished that Abner would not come around, a certain saving matter-of-factness, a sort of infinite disillusion about human motives and purposes, often seen in those who cater as a matter of business to the dissipations of the public, made him perfectly reconciled not only to the advisability of being civil, but to the inadvisability of trying to be friendly.

Abner nodded. He had known Howard for a number of years; and, in fact, Howard happened to be either the first, or very close to the first, person who came to consult Abner when Abner began practise. Appropriately enough, Howard's trouble was with the Liquor Control Board, which had discovered a misstatement in Howard's licence application. To the question whether he was ever arrested, indicted, or convicted for violation of the Volstead Act when it was in effect, Howard had answered no. He had not realized that they meant, as well as convicted, indicted or arrested. Why Howard did not understand that they meant what they said was hard to explain; but Abner thought it possible that Howard really didn't. The hitch was that the Board, checking up, had found a case in which Howard was arrested and indicted. It had been nolle prossed; and Howard seemed to think that his release cancelled the whole proceeding. Abner explained to him what nolle prossed meant, and told him that even if he had been acquitted, he should have answered yes: a piece of legal advice Abner made no charge for. The next time they met over a matter of law, the Commonwealth was trying to have Quarter Sessions revoke Howard's licence; and though they failed on a technicality, Howard could hardly have considered the attempt a friendly one.

Thinking perhaps of this, and of some subsequent brushes, Howard said remotely, his voice tired, 'Your order taken yet?' He beckoned a waiter who had followed him through the doors. 'Nice lobster? Nice steak? Nice young duckling? Something to drink first? Yes, sir. Dominic, you take good care of Mr. Coates and the lady.' He dropped his chin, bowed faintly, and moved away.

When the waiter had gone, Bonnie said, 'He's such a funny little man! I don't see what you have against him.'

Abner said, 'Oh, we call it keeping a disorderly house —'

Steps had been approaching from behind, and now a voice said over Abner's head, 'But not, I hope, a bawdy house, Mr. Coates! Perish the thought!'

Abner did not have to turn to know who that was, and exasperation filled him. By not going into the bar he had hoped to avoid (as well as any sight of new slot machines) an encounter with Harry. It seemed to Abner that he had troubles enough.

Harry said, 'Hello, Bonnie.' He gave her a kindly smirk. He held Margaret Coulter informally by the arm, and Abner was obliged to rise. 'Have tyre trouble on the way down?' Harry said archly.

'Hello, Bonnie,' Margaret said. 'Hello, Ab. Don't pay any attention to him. He's tight.' From her tone and appearance it was plain that if anyone were tight, it was she and not Harry.

Harry said, beaming, 'You weren't about to asseverate that this establishment is one that encourages idleness, gaming, and misbehaviour by dissolute persons contrary to law and subversive of public morals? Well, why don't they start? I'm ready!' Lifting a hand above his head, he brought it down dramatically, pointing over the rail, 'From that water there, my love,' he said to Margaret Coulter, 'was fished by Messrs. Coates, Bunting and their catchpoles the dilapidated cadaver of the late Frederick Zollicoffer. That ought to give your dinner a new taste thrill!'

'Oh, it was not!' said Margaret.

'Indeed, it was! A mere mile or two down. I call on Mr. Coates to bear me out. Zollicoffer is thicker than water.'

'Look, Harry,' said Abner. 'I don't know whether you're tight or not. But don't come out here and talk to me about a case the Commonwealth's prosecuting. I don't care if you are kidding. Everyone can hear you —'

Harry, flushed already with liquor and good humour, flushed deeper, wounded in his own particular way, and tightened his lips. The look on Harry's face reminded Abner suddenly of a falling-out like this in Cambridge and for almost exactly the same reason. He and Harry were leaving Langdell late one spring night, their coats off, their arms full of those thick law school notebooks marked in coloured inks. They were worn with work and anxiety; and Harry, by way of relaxation, was baiting Abner.

In the light that fell down from the reading room windows past the great Ionic columns, Abner, losing his temper, stopped short on the steps and answered back. Except for the armful of books, he would probably have punched Harry's jaw. He told Harry what he thought of him, and said it was an opinion everybody else shared; and Harry did not like it. Harry had been only fooling; he hadn't done a thing. Abner's stinging words caught him with his guard down, innocent and defenceless. His sensibilities smarting, the sulky colour coming up his cheeks, Harry turned on his heel and left. He did not speak to Abner again for some time.

Though no longer the loud but sensitive boy of those days, Harry had feelings as tender as ever. The change was in his tactics and in the degree of his self-control. Staggering back in ludicrous caricature of a man mortally stricken, Harry clasped his hands to his breast. 'Laws-a-mercy!' he cried, mingling a variety of low comedy accents, 'I plumb disrecollected you for a spell, Mr. Commonwealth, boss! You all ain't a-going to let that old devil Ethics Committee sell this poor nigger south? I asks your pardon. I craves your grace — get along, gal!' he said to Margaret. 'We-uns better make ourselves scarce!'

Abner had coloured, too; for those tactics were effective. The imbecile phrases, the grotesque gestures, successfully implied that the grotesque imbecile was really Abner; and that Harry was getting, as best he could, down to Abner's mental level. The attention of everyone on the porch had been attracted; but to Abner, rather than Harry. Harry, openly and blatantly attracting the attention, showed that he did not mind it. The stares of surprise and amusement went to Abner, who offered the always interesting spectacle of a man embarrassed by attention and seeking to avoid it. Left alone now, Bonnie looked at Abner a moment, about to say something, her expression generously indignant. Abner could guess the degree of confusion he must be showing by the tact with which she checked whatever she had thought of saying, and said instead, 'Where do you suppose that waiter's got to? I'm starved.'

'There he is,' said Abner.

His troubled mind, reverting to that long-ago row in front of Langell hall — there had been others; but for some reason that was hardest to forget — showed him that then, as now, he had really been the one to blame. He misled Harry by his ordinary stolidity or evenness of temper, Harry was right, not wrong, in expecting Abner to take any amount of raillery in good part. Those times Abner lost his temper with Harry in Cambridge had always been times when everything seemed wrong, his efforts vain, his brain no good, his chance of getting through about on a par with the snowball's in hell. To pretend to-night that an improper reference to the Zollicoffer case — Harry had actually said nothing to which he could except. Harry was too good a lawyer to have been about to say anything exceptionable, either—had made him angry, was absurd.