"Thompson, Jim - Recoil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

"My pleasure entirely. I like the cut of your jib, Pat. I like to see a man who sticks up for his friends." His warm dark eyes traveled over me admiringly. "He looks like a million dollars, doesn't he, Doc?"
"Pat and I have got to be going," said Doc. "We've got to see the Commissioner of Corrections about Pat's parole."
"Mad Myrtle, huh?" Hardesty chuckled. "Can't say that I envy you. If she gives you too much trouble--"
"I think I can handle her," said Doc.
"If you can't, she can't be handled," Hardesty agreed. He grinned, nodded to me and strolled away whistling. I crawled in at Doc's side and headed the car toward the capitol.
He was silent for several blocks, seemingly absorbed in his newspaper. Finally, he repeated an action that was to become familiar to me--folded and tossed the newspaper over his shoulder--and spoke:
"What did you hear of my conversation with Hardesty?"
"Not very much," I said.
"I asked you what you heard."
"Well, I heard you tell him to keep away from Mrs. Luther, and he swore and said you were just jealous."
Doc turned in the seat and I felt the full power of the gaze that raged out through the thick-lensed glasses. Yet something--something I implausibly sensed as fear--held back the explosion.
"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, Pat," he said softly. "You've got an excellent memory; I've tested it on several occasions. Now! Give me a word for word account of what you heard."
I did it. I repeated it word for word.
"And what do you make of that, Pat? Any questions you'd like to ask?"
"I don't make anything of it," I said. "I haven't any questions."
Doc settled back in the seat. He laughed quietly.
"Hardesty's a nice fellow," he said, "but he's a little too quick to fly off the handle. You rather cooled him off."
"I'm sorry about that," I said. "I thought you might want him so I tried to stop him for you."
"And I appreciated it." He put his hand on my knee for a moment. "However, it wasn't necessary, as you know now. Hardesty and I are actually pretty good friends," he went on. "Mrs. Luther fell heir to a small estate some time ago and he's been handling it for her. He's the kind of man that can't talk to anyone, male or female, without getting personal; and I should have known he didn't mean anything by his attitude toward Mrs. Luther. But I'm afraid I'm not very reasonable where she's concerned."
"I understand."
"Well, let's forget it," he said. "You did an excellent job on your clothing, Pat. I had to look twice to recognize you."
"Williams should get the credit for that," I said.
"I'll give it to him." He smiled at me in the mirror. "I'll also give him credit for the bill--just in case you were worrying about it."
"It's nice to hear you say so," I said.
"Don't give it another thought," he said. "Well, here we are."
I parked in one of the drives on the capitol grounds proper, and we walked across a stretch of lawn, and started up the marble steps of the main entrance.
We pushed our way through the crowded corridors, Doc speaking and being spoken to occasionally, and took a jerkily-moving elevator to the fourth and top floor--"Renegades' Roost," Doc whispered, as we stepped off the car.
We turned off the central corridor, and wound through a series of narrow hallways. Just when I was beginning to believe Doc was lost, we came to a door marked:
DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
Myrtle Briscoe
Commissioner
Doc threw away his cigarette and removed his hat. Mine was already in my hand. He gave his tie a final pat, straightened his shoulders and opened the door.

6
A hatchet-faced girl with greasy hair and hornrimmed glasses was pecking away at a typewriter.
She looked up when we came in, started to smile-- and made a point of changing her mind. The nostrils of her oily nose quivered.
"Well!" she said.
"How do you do?" said Doc. "Will you please tell Miss Briscoe that Dr. Luther and Mr. Cosgrove are here."
"I certainly will!" snapped the girl. "And how!"
She got up, walked over to a door marked "Private" and knocked. She opened it and stuck her head inside.
"Miss Briscoe, _Doctor_ Luther and _Mister_ Cosgrove are here to--"
A roar cut her off. "So he showed up, did he? Well, lock the vault and send him in! Send 'em both in!"
The girl turned, flushed, smiling meanly.
"Come right in--_gentlemen_."
We went in, and the girl closed the door behind us.
I imagine every convict and ex-convict in the country has heard of Myrtle Briscoe. She'd held an elective office in a politicians' graveyard for thirty years, and remained honest.
She was about five feet tall, including the red discolored topknot of her hair. She wore a white shirtwaist with a high collar, high-topped button shoes, and a skirt that resembled a horse blanket.
She stood up, as we entered, but she didn't offer to shake hands. "Sit down there," she snapped. "No, no! Keep your chairs together. I want you birds where I can watch you!"
Doc said, "Really, Miss Briscoe. Is that--"
"Shut up!" she bellowed. "Shut your big bazoo and keep it shut until I tell you to open it! Cosgrove, where did you get those clothes? You look like a pawnshop salesman."