Recoil Read Free

circumstances.” He laughed and gave my shoulder a pat.
    “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” said Doc. “I was afraid you might leave before I had a chance to see you. Pat needs a job.”
    “I thought you were going to give him a job. I’ve done enough.”
    “I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Doc. “I wonder if there isn’t something I could say to change your mind.”
    He stared at Burkman thoughtfully, the three protruding teeth resting on his lower lip, and Burkman reddened.
    “I’d like to, Doc. It’s just that I need every job I’ve got for my own district. I’ve got a tight race coming up, man! Why not try Flanders, or Dorsey, or Milligan?”
    “They have tight races, too.”
    “Well”—Burkman hesitated, scowling. “Oh, hell. I’ll do it. Send him around to the Highway Commission tomorrow.”
    “Shall I mention your name to Fleming?”
    “Yes—no. I’ll talk to him myself.”
    He closed the door quickly, as if he was afraid of being asked for something else. Doc and I went back down the stairs.
    He picked up his hat from the bench, inserted a key in the door next to the entrance and waved me inside.
    “Dear,” he called. “Oh, Lila!” Then, leaving me standing, he strode into the adjoining room, and through the rest of the apartment.
    I looked around. To my mind, the room was a little too crowded to be in good taste. There were well-filled bookcases, a piano, and a combination radio-phonograph-television set. There was a long window seat at the front, a longer divan at the opposite side of the room, a chaise longue, and three over-stuffed chairs. In the approximate center of the room was a mirrored coffee table with a built-in flower pot.
    Doc returned, slamming the connecting door.
    “Mrs. Luther isn’t around,” he said, harshly. “Not, I suppose, that I really expected her to be. Well—”
    A knock on the outer door interrupted him. He flung it open.
    “And where,” he demanded of the white-jacketed Negro before him, “have you been?”
    “With the north suite party, sir.” The Negro, a slender, clean-featured youth, smiled placatingly. “One of the gentlemen was a little ill.”
    “Mrs. Luther leave any message for me?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Huh!” said Doc. “I suppose you have that south rear room ready? Or did you forget about it?”
    “I believe it’s ready, sir. I mean to say—”
    “Come along. You too, Pat.”
    We went down the hall, Doc striding ahead and the Negro and I following. At the last door to the right, the Negro stepped swiftly to the front, took a brass-tagged key from his pocket and turned the lock. He snapped on the light, and Doc brushed past him.
    It was a room such as you might find in any first-class hotel. The few touches of individuality consisted of a small two-bottle bar, with the bottles; a cigarette humidor on a revolving stand, with three kinds of cigarettes; and a magazine rack with a variety of magazines.
    Doc switched on the bathroom light and turned on the Negro again.
    “Everything all ready, eh?” he said. “What about pajamas, tooth brush, comb, shaving articles? What about socks and underwear and shirts—all that stuff I told you to get?”
    “I have them, sir. Everything. I just haven’t had time to…”
    “Well, get on it! And get that telephone out of here! I—” Doc shot me a look of curt apology, “I didn’t think you’d want one, Pat.”
    “Not at all,” I said.
    He slumped down into a chair and let his head loll back. He removed his glasses, and began wiping them thoughtfully. I felt sorry and embarrassed for him. It is always a little saddening to see a man upset over a woman who, obviously, cares nothing about his feelings.
    The Negro unplugged the handset telephone and went out. He returned in a minute or two and began stowing various articles away in the chest of drawers and in the bathroom. Doc had him fix us a drink when he had finished.
    “I’m pretty tired tonight, Willie,” he said, as he took