Recoil by Jim Thompson Page A

wouldn’t bring an umbrella.”
    “I’ve got my car here,” I said. “The state car, that is. If you’d care to have me…”
    “I would,” she said instantly. “Get down my coat while I’m locking my desk. I want to get out of here.”
    I helped her on with her coat, and she gave my arm a little squeeze as we went out the door. She held onto my arm all the way down the corridor and out to the car. And she didn’t exactly lean away from me.
    “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you for some time, Pat,” she said, as I pulled the car away from the curb. “Can you talk while you’re driving?”
    “Why, yes,” I said.
    “Perhaps I’d better not have you. This traffic makes me nervous, and the rain makes it worse. We’ll wait until we get to my apartment.”
    “Fine,” I said.
    “You don’t have to hurry home for any reason?”
    “Not at all.”
    “We’ll wait, then. I won’t keep you long.”
    “It’ll be all right if you do,” I said.
    “I won’t. Don’t talk any more, please.”
    She gave me her address, and I kept quiet all the way. I stopped in front of a large apartment house, and a doorman with an umbrella ushered us to the door. An elevator shot us up to some floor near the top.
    I don’t know how many rooms there were in the apartment. But I know it must have been large and expensive. It was the kind of place you have when you like good things and have had the money to buy them for a long time.
    A Negro maid in a white cap took our wraps, and Rita asked me what I’d like to drink.
    “Scotch will do me fine.”
    “I’ll have the same…Sit down there by the fire, Pat.”
    I took a chair in front of the fireplace, and Rita came over and stood by the mantel, pausing on the way to arrange a vase on the grand piano. When the drinks came she nodded to me over her glass, lifted it, and set it down almost empty.
    “Something tells me that’s quite a bit better than they serve in Sandstone.”
    “Yes,” I said, “it is.”
    “Don’t be so sensitive about it,” she said. “We went into your background thoroughly, Pat. Believe it or not, we’re extremely careful about whom we hire in the highway department.”
    “You must be,” I said; and she chuckled.
    “I think you’ll get along all right, Pat. If you’ll come to your senses. Have you found yourself a new sponsor, yet? Burkman’s out, you know.”
    “No,” I said. “I didn’t know he was out.”
    “Oh, yes. Losing the election is only a formality. We weren’t positive when we took you on, and we never put the lid on until we are positive. Fortunately for you, and a lot of others.”
    I said, “Well—”
    “We’re the largest of all the departments; we have the most jobs. That enables us—the top handful—to perpetuate ourselves. If we see a likely looking candidate we may start handing him patronage, even though the election is a year off. When we see a man on the downgrade we shake him. We kick his jobholders out. We lick him with his own people, and let the new man in. We’ve shaken Burkman.”
    “And you’re…kicking his people out?”
    “We’ve kicked them out. All except you. I thought we might make a trade with you.”
    “What kind of a trade?” I said.
    “A job for some information.”
    “I don’t have any information you could use.”
    “I’m probably a better judge of that than you are. We’re curious. We think there may be straws in the wind that we can’t see. Doc’s taken a lot of trouble with you. He’s pretty good at playing both ends against the middle, himself. What’s the answer?”
    I shook my head; I hardly knew her. This was going too far too fast.
    “I don’t know the answer,” I said. “And I couldn’t tell you if I did. Doc took me out of Sandstone.”
    “And he could send you back?”
    “Yes. But I don’t need threats to keep me from double-crossing my friends.”
    She nodded, smiling a little, as if she’d expected me to say that.
    “I think a stretch in