Gladiator-At-Law

Chapter Nine

"Thank you very much, Mr. Mundin," Norvell said. He looked back at the precinct house and shuddered.

Mundin said, "Don't thank me. I just put in a word with Del Dworcas, and he put in a word with the precinct. Thank him."

Norvell brightened. "Oh, I want to! I've wanted to meet Mr. Dworcas for a long time. Arnie—you know his brother Arnie is a very close friend of mine—has told me so much about him."

Mundin shrugged. "Come on, then," he said. "I'm going to the Hall anyhow."

It was only a short walk to the Hall, and the rain discouraged conversation. Mundin stalked sourly ahead of his client, his mind on G.M.L. Homes. The hope kept hammering at his good sense: Maybe he could pull it off—maybe. . . .

Norvell followed contentedly enough. Every thing was being ordered for him; he was out of a job, he had been in jail, he was hours and hours late for Virginia without a word of explanation—but none of it had been his own decision.

Decisions would come later. That would be the hard part.

Norvell stared around the Hall curiously. It wasn't as impressive as one might expect—though maybe, he thought, you had to admire the Regular Republicans for their common touch. There was certainly nothing showy about Republican Hall.

Norvell stopped, politely out of earshot, as Mundin spoke to a dark, sharp-featured man in shirtsleeves. Some kind of janitor, he guessed; he was astonished when Mundin called him over and introduced him to Del Dworcas.

Norvell said with a certain pride, "I'm really delighted to meet you, Mr. Dworcas. Your brother, Arnie, is very proud of you; we're very good friends."

Dworcas studied him thoughtfully. He asked irrelevantly, "Live around here?"

"Oh, no. Quite some distance away, but——" Dworcas seemed to lose interest. "Glad to meet you," he said, turning away. "You want to see Arnie, he's in Hussein's across the street. Now, Charles, what was it you wanted to see me about?"

Norvell was left standing with his hand extended. He blinked a little, but—after all, he reminded himself, Mr. Dworcas was a busy man. And Arnie—lucky day!—was in some place called Hussein's across the street.

On the way downstairs he caught a glimpse of the time. After eleven!

Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he told himself recklessly. He turned his coat collar up and plunged out into the rain, almost into the arms of a policeman escorting a scrawny young girl into the Hall. His heart pounded, but the policeman paid him no attention; he crossed the street to the coffee shop.

Arnie was at a table by himself, reading. He looked up as Norvell came close, and hastily put the magazine away. He said nothing, except with his incredulous eyes.

Norvell slipped into a vacant seat, smiling at his little joke on Arnie. "Surprised to see me?"

Arnie frowned. "What are you doing here?"

Norvell lost his smile. "Can—can I have some coffee, Arnie?" he asked. "I came out without any money." Arnie looked mildly outraged, but beckoned the grinning waiter.

Then Norvell told him—about the jail, and Mundin, and Del Dworcas. Arnie took it in without emotion—until Norvell stopped for breath, when Arnie permitted himself a smile.

"You've had a busy day," he said humorously! "I'm glad you met Del, though; he's a prince. Incidentally, I've taken the liberty of asking a couple of his associates to the Field Day. So when you get the tickets—"

Norvell licked his lips. "Arnie—"

"When you get the tickets, will you get three extras?"

Norvell shook his head. "Arnie, listen to me. I can't get the tickets."

Arnie's chin went up. "You what?"

"I got fired today. That's why I didn't have any money." There was a pause. Dworcas began looking through his pockets for a cigarette. He found the pack and put it absently on the table in front of him without lighting one. He said nothing.

Norvell said apologetically, "It—it wasn't my fault, Arnie. This rat Stimmens—" He told the story from beginning to end. He said, "It's going to be all right, Arnie. Don't worry about me. It's like you said. Maybe I should have canceled long ago. I'll make a fresh start in Belly Rave. Virginia can help me; she knows her way around. We'll find some place that isn't too bad, you know, and get it fixed up. Some of those old houses are pretty interesting. And it's only a question of time until—"

Dworcas nodded. "I see. You've taken an important step, Norvell. Naturally, I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks, Arnie," Norvell said eagerly. "I don't think it'll be so bad. I——"

"Of course," Arnie went on meditatively, "it does put me in kind of a spot."

"You, Arnie?" Norvell cried, aghast.

Dworcas shrugged. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. It's just that the fellows at the shop warned me. They said you were probably stringing me along about the tickets. I don't know what I'll tell them that won't make you look pretty bad, Norvell."

Norvell squeezed his eyes shut in an agony of self-flagellation. Loyal Arnie! Concerned about his status in the eyes of the other engineers, when it would have been so easy simply to let them think the worst.

"Well, that's the way the ball bounces, Norvell," Arnie went on. "I don't blame you. Forget it. I can't blame you for putting your own problems first." He looked ostentatiously at his watch. "I don't want to keep you," he said. "I'd better be getting back to the Hall in any case; my brother has something he wants to consult with me about. Oh, nothing too special—but it's every citizen's duty, of course, to do what he can." He dropped a bill on the table and piloted Norvell to the door.

Under the dingy marquee, he patted Norvell's shoulder. "Drop me a line once in a while, won't you?" he urged. "I'm the world's worst letter-writer, but I'll always be glad to hear how you're getting along."

Norvell stopped dead and planted his feet; the rain spun in on them from the tempest outside. "Write you a letter, Arnie?" he demanded urgently. "I'll be seeing you, won't I?"

"Of course you will." Dworcas frowned at the rain. He said patiently, "It's just that, naturally, you won't want to make that long trip from Belly Rave too often. Hell, I can't blame you for that! And for that matter I'll be kind of tied up evenings myself until I get this thing for my brother over with. . . . Look, Norvell, no sense standing here. Drop me a line when you get a chance. And the best of luck, fellow!" And he was gone.

Norvell sloshed through the drowned streets. With his credit card canceled and no cash in his pockets, it was a long, wet way home. After the second block he thought of going back and borrowing cab fare from Arnie; but, after all, he told himself, you couldn't do a thing like that, when Arnie had been so nice about the tickets and all. . . .

He had plenty of time to rehearse what he was going to say to Virginia.

He said it.

When it was over, he stared at his wife less in relief than in wonder. His walk home in the gusty rain had been a hell of apprehension. She would scream at him. She might throw things. She would call him names—horrible, cutting, hit-below-the-belt names.

But she didn't.

Fortunately the daughter was asleep; it would have been harder with her around. He changed his clothes without a word came down, looked her in the eye and told her—directly and brutally.

Then he waited. The explosion didn't come. Virginia seemed almost not to have heard him. She sat there, blank-faced, and ran her fingers caressingly over the soft arms of the chair. She rose and wandered to the wall patterner wordlessly. Typical of her sloppy housework, the morning-cheer pattern was still on. With gentle fingers she reset the wall to a glowing old rose and dimmed the lights to a romantic, intimate amber. She drifted to a wall and mirrorized it, looking long at herself. Norvell looked too. Under the flattering lights her skin was gold-touched and flawless, the harsh scowl lines magicked away.

She sat on the warm, textured floor and began to sob. Norvell found himself squatting awkwardly beside her. "Please, honey," he said. "Please don't cry." She didn't stop. But she didn't push him away. He was cradling her shoulders uncomfortably in his arms, her head on his chest. He was talking to her in a way he had never been able to before. It would be hard, of course. But it would be real. It would be a life that people could stand—weren't thousands of people standing it right now? Maybe things had been physically too easy for them, maybe it took pressure to weld two personalities together, maybe their marriage would turn into shared toil and shared happiness and—Alexandra giggled from the head of the stairs. Norvell sat bolt upright. The girl tittered sleepily, "Well! Excuse me. I didn't dream there was anything intimate going on."

Virginia got quickly to her feet, bowling Norvell over. He felt his neck flaming a dull red as he got up.

He swallowed and made the effort. "Sandy," he said gently, using the almost-forgotten pet name that had seemed so much more appropriate when she was small and cuddly and not so much of a bi—hold on! "Sandy, please come down. I have something important to tell you."

Virginia stood blank-faced. Norvell knew she was trying, and loved her for it.

The child came untidily down the stairs, her much too sophisticated dressing gown fastened with a careless pin. Norvell said firmly, "Sandy——"

The child's face was ancient and haughty. "Please," she interrupted him. "You know how I feel about that humiliating nickname."

Norvell got a grip on himself. "I didn't mean—" he started, through clenched teeth.

"Of course you didn't mean anything. You didn't mean to wake me up with your drunken performance on the stairs, did you? You didn't mean to keep Virginia and me in terror when you didn't bother to let us know you'd be out late." She shot a sly glance at her mother, fishing for approbation. Virginia's hands were clenched.

Norvell said hopelessly, "I only wanted to tell you something."

"Nothing you can say now would help."

"No?" Norvell yelled at her, restraint gone. "Well, listen anyway, damn it! We're going to Belly Rave! All of us— tomorrow! Doesn't that mean something to you?"

Virginia said at last, with a wiry edge to her voice, "You don't have to shout at the child."

That was the ball game. He knew perfectly well that she had meant nothing of the kind, but his glands answered for him: "So I don't have to shout at her—because she isn't deaf like me, is that it? My loyal wife! My loving family!"

"I didn't mean that!" Virginia cried.

"You never do!" Norvell bellowed over Alexandra's shrill contribution. Virginia screamed:

"You know I didn't mean it, but I wish I had! You! Call yourself a husband! You can't even take care of a family!"

It went on almost until dawn.