"shoesmaketheman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Harold A)

Then, slowly, his big mouth split in a wry grin. The shoe clerk had been such a
little fellow, and had been so obviously trying hard to please. It had seemed a small,
good-natured act to buy the shoes, even when it had been apparent that they were too
tight.

But maybe it wasn't right to be good-natured, maybe Police Commissioner Pike had been
right in saying everyone took advantage of a big, good-humored giant.

A slow, sullen anger started to burn inside Joe McCarthy's stevedore-sized chest. He
looked around him quickly.

Without surprise, he realized that he'd walked from the business district, that uncon-
sciously he'd been moving toward the apartment house where Zeke Francisco had his
headquarters. Ever since he'd left city hall, he'd known he would have to go talk to
Zeke, have to see if he could show that he could be tough. But he'd known Zeke ever
since the other had been a skinny kid; he couldn't be hard with him.

He started forward rapidly. Once more his feet slipped, again he hit that aching corn.

A whole torrent of words came from Joe McCarthy's lips, words that he didn't even
remember that he knew.

A shoe clerk would take advantage of him, would he? Zeke Francisco was a tough guy
was he?

Giant fists reached down, yanked the offending shoes from his feet, hurled them over
a nearby fence. In his stocking feet, Joe McCarthy plunged onward.

Afterward, Joe knew that it was all a mistake, that he just couldn't keep on being
mad at anyone. He'd known that before. It had just slipped his mind for a moment.

Once the offending shoes were off, his feet felt easier. The cold rain eased the
aching sore of that corn. He hadn't walked a block before he was feeling sheepish.

When he was eighteen, a shrewd manager had seen him sparring with some friends.
That manager had tried to make a fighter out of him, had assured him that with his
build and speed, he could become a world's champion.

Joe had learned to box, had learned all the tricks of the ring. But the manager had
gotten him only one fight.

"You ain't got kilter instinct," he had raged, after Joe had won a scrap on points,
without letting himself get hit. But he should have put the opponent away in the
first round.

The manager was right, Joe agreed dolefully. He didn't have the killer instinct. He
never would have it. Commissioner Pike was right, too. He'd never make a cop. It was
true that cops had to be tough once in a while.