and a long blade was thrust in that Germanic puss, like this patient might give the doc an impromptu nose job.
“Suppose I cuts you? I’m jes’ a crazy nigger, right, doc? They puts me in Bellevue and the old man can’t touch me!”
The kid didn’t know I was alive, or anyway he didn’t before I latched onto his wrist, from behind, and yanked down his arm and twisted, hard, until the switchblade clattered to the linoleum.
I heard Sylvia gasp as the kid whirled and glared at me with eyes and nostrils flared, but that slowed down his punch, and I doubled him over with a right hand to the gut that kept his punch from even landing.
When he came back upright, faster than I thought he would, he shoved me, pushed past Sylvia, and rushed into the night.
The room was abuzz, but Frederick said nothing. He knelt, picked up the switchblade, which he knew enough about to retract the blade, and dropped it in his lab coat pocket, as if a candy wrapper he’d discard later.
He looked more disappointed than shaken or afraid. “Thank you, Mr. Starr.”
“Patient of yours, doc?”
He nodded gravely. “Very troubled boy.” He frowned at me. “Would you be surprised to learn he’s a comic book reader?”
No, and I wasn’t surprised the doc had brought it up, either.
I said, “Where’s the phone? I got a cop friend I can call.”
“No! No. Let it go.”
“Let it go? Are you kidding? He’d have cut you if I hadn’t taken that blade away from him.”
“We can’t know that.”
I glanced at Sylvia. She looked dazed and said nothing. I wondered if she might not be having second thoughts about helping out here.
“Well,” I said, shrugging, “it’s your clinic, and your life. See you tomorrow morning, I guess.”
He nodded, preoccupied. Dr. Tweed was coming over to consult with his boss when I took Sylvia by the arm and ushered her into the darkness of the alley.
As rats scuttled by us into the garbage, I said, “Yeah. Comic books.”
“Huh?”
“All those kids, Syl. Living in poverty and violence and despair, that’s where all their problems come from, right? Comic books.”
I drove her back to the Village.
Sylvia was set to drop by the Starr Syndicate office to briefly meet with Maggie at ten o’clock before we went over to Dr. Frederick’s suite at the Waldorf at eleven. Fifteen minutes early, I came up the rear private elevator, which took me to the gym behind Maggie’s office. As I walked across the padded-mat floor, straightening my tie, smoothing my Botany 500 suit coat, I heard a male voice, the door to Maggie’s inner chamber ajar.
It took just a moment to recognize Garson Lehman’s thin, nasal tones, and since I couldn’t imagine I’d be interrupting anything important, I went on in.
Maggie swivelled in her chair, nodded good morning to me, my presence cutting Lehman off in mid-sentence.
“Join us, Jack,” she said. Her hair was up, her makeup limited to mostly just bright red lipstick that jarred nicely with her gray suit and white blouse ruffled at the throat. “Mr. Lehman dropped by without an appointment.”
That was a dig, but I doubted the Village’s Resident Expert on Everything Artistic (and Sexual) would pick up on it. His long dark hair had seen a trim and a comb, his mustache too, and he wore a brown-and-black herringbone sport jacket with a charcoal tie—the look of a man hoping to make a good impression.
Little late for that.
“Good morning, Jack,” he said too eagerly. He was sitting in my chair, so I went around him and took the other one.
“Mr. Lehman,” Maggie said, “was just wondering if we’d had a chance to consider his offer to write a column for us, on the popular arts?”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting forward, eyes bright, “something rather more intellectual than you might find in most newspapers these days, but still accessible to the average man. Challenging but with a lot of zip.”
If he wrote such a column for anybody, I hoped
“Suppose I cuts you? I’m jes’ a crazy nigger, right, doc? They puts me in Bellevue and the old man can’t touch me!”
The kid didn’t know I was alive, or anyway he didn’t before I latched onto his wrist, from behind, and yanked down his arm and twisted, hard, until the switchblade clattered to the linoleum.
I heard Sylvia gasp as the kid whirled and glared at me with eyes and nostrils flared, but that slowed down his punch, and I doubled him over with a right hand to the gut that kept his punch from even landing.
When he came back upright, faster than I thought he would, he shoved me, pushed past Sylvia, and rushed into the night.
The room was abuzz, but Frederick said nothing. He knelt, picked up the switchblade, which he knew enough about to retract the blade, and dropped it in his lab coat pocket, as if a candy wrapper he’d discard later.
He looked more disappointed than shaken or afraid. “Thank you, Mr. Starr.”
“Patient of yours, doc?”
He nodded gravely. “Very troubled boy.” He frowned at me. “Would you be surprised to learn he’s a comic book reader?”
No, and I wasn’t surprised the doc had brought it up, either.
I said, “Where’s the phone? I got a cop friend I can call.”
“No! No. Let it go.”
“Let it go? Are you kidding? He’d have cut you if I hadn’t taken that blade away from him.”
“We can’t know that.”
I glanced at Sylvia. She looked dazed and said nothing. I wondered if she might not be having second thoughts about helping out here.
“Well,” I said, shrugging, “it’s your clinic, and your life. See you tomorrow morning, I guess.”
He nodded, preoccupied. Dr. Tweed was coming over to consult with his boss when I took Sylvia by the arm and ushered her into the darkness of the alley.
As rats scuttled by us into the garbage, I said, “Yeah. Comic books.”
“Huh?”
“All those kids, Syl. Living in poverty and violence and despair, that’s where all their problems come from, right? Comic books.”
I drove her back to the Village.
Sylvia was set to drop by the Starr Syndicate office to briefly meet with Maggie at ten o’clock before we went over to Dr. Frederick’s suite at the Waldorf at eleven. Fifteen minutes early, I came up the rear private elevator, which took me to the gym behind Maggie’s office. As I walked across the padded-mat floor, straightening my tie, smoothing my Botany 500 suit coat, I heard a male voice, the door to Maggie’s inner chamber ajar.
It took just a moment to recognize Garson Lehman’s thin, nasal tones, and since I couldn’t imagine I’d be interrupting anything important, I went on in.
Maggie swivelled in her chair, nodded good morning to me, my presence cutting Lehman off in mid-sentence.
“Join us, Jack,” she said. Her hair was up, her makeup limited to mostly just bright red lipstick that jarred nicely with her gray suit and white blouse ruffled at the throat. “Mr. Lehman dropped by without an appointment.”
That was a dig, but I doubted the Village’s Resident Expert on Everything Artistic (and Sexual) would pick up on it. His long dark hair had seen a trim and a comb, his mustache too, and he wore a brown-and-black herringbone sport jacket with a charcoal tie—the look of a man hoping to make a good impression.
Little late for that.
“Good morning, Jack,” he said too eagerly. He was sitting in my chair, so I went around him and took the other one.
“Mr. Lehman,” Maggie said, “was just wondering if we’d had a chance to consider his offer to write a column for us, on the popular arts?”
“That’s right,” he said, sitting forward, eyes bright, “something rather more intellectual than you might find in most newspapers these days, but still accessible to the average man. Challenging but with a lot of zip.”
If he wrote such a column for anybody, I hoped
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