Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

They drank. “What’s this book here?” He picked up a copy of Plato’s Phaedrus from the floor.

“That’s a book by Plato.”

“Terrific, keep to it. You’ve got the right idea—learn a few of the old ones, then when someone tries to make a fool of you, you can cut them down with a couple of lines from the ancients.” He put the book down. Then, later, he said, “Well, anyway, you just keep on with what you’re doing.”

From where July sat he could see outside. Franklin’s Cadillac pulled up across the street, stopping so abruptly that the tires gave a quick little squeal. In the frosted light he saw Mrs. Carroll jump from the car and walk fast over to “the building,” as July had come to think of it. The door downstairs opened and slammed.

“Franklin!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Franklin! I know you’re here somewhere.” Her voice seemed frightening to July, even coming up through the floor. It was so emotional. Franklin put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Sshhh,” turning off the overhead light while he did so.

They sat in the darkness and listened to her walking and yelling downstairs, listened while she went into the basement and for several minutes was panting and screaming right outside his room. July tried to keep hold of his memory of Carroll, without the least concern, putting his finger to his lips as though to say: Nevermind, there’s nothing to it. Just a little game she plays. And he told himself over again that Franklin knew more about the situation than he did. It was all he could do not to run out and call to her. It made him feel that he was partly to blame, sitting there hiding in the dark. The first feelings of resentment toward Franklin that he’d ever had began to show themselves, but the utter shame he felt in having them rolled them back up like a scroll.

They listened to her throwing things in the office, breaking windows and sobbing. Finally, she left, and July watched the Cadillac lunge away from the curb and roar out of his vision.

“Phew. She gone?” asked Carroll, half laughing.

July wanted to answer, but couldn’t. Franklin flipped on the light, and in amazement July noticed that he’d been drinking out of his glass during the whole time the light was out. It was nearly empty. He felt relief. Franklin was obviously right: there was nothing to be upset about, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sit there and lazily sip his wine—it would be impossible. So July was convinced that he’d been mistaken—it had all been for show, and they went downstairs to see what was broken.

Much of the furniture was toppled over. Window glass was everywhere. The heavy desk in the office was overturned, and one wooden chair had all four of its legs busted off. July began cleaning up, but Franklin, finding the spectacle very amusing, told him not to bother—they’d get to it in the morning—called a cab to come take them to a good place to drink, and they left. As they rode he asked if July wouldn’t be interested in taking the truck, just once more, up to Boston. July told him no.

After saying good night to Carroll and abandoning him to his friends at the private club, July walked back, and cleaned up as best he could, so that, except for there being no glass in the window frames, everything looked much as it had before. Only after he’d finished did he feel like going to bed.

The memory of the evening upset him, and he tried to think his way out of it, but with no success. Two days later he saw Mrs. Carroll and searched her face from across the room for signs of an explanation. But none appeared. Only a falling grimness that seemed to deny any ability on her part to pretend anything. She stayed five minutes and left without waiting for Franklin to come back from lunch. Franklin remained away from the store until almost five; when he came in, he opened the safe in his office, took something out and left.

When the police came a day later, July and Carroll were filling out an order form. They knocked on the door frame of the office. The door was wide open.

“Come in,” Carroll said, stretching out his hand. “Sit down. What can we do for you? My name’s Franklin Carroll. This is July Montgomery. If there’s—”

“We’ve got a warrant to search here,” said the one in uniform, very coldly, and produced a document to that effect. The cloth of his shirt rasped like starched canvas.

“Well, look wherever you like,” said Carroll, without the slightest trace of fear in his voice, but no longer trying to be pleasant.

“Do you know a man by the name of Bobby Thompson?”

“No.”

“From New York.”

“I’ve never been there. Look where you will. There are three floors here, and all of them are open. Help yourself.”

“We need the keys to the rooms in the basement,” said the plainclothesman. “That’s all we really care about.”

Franklin turned to face the wall. July watched as pale, thin waves of color washed across his face, one after another. He looked at his watch for a moment as though he were thinking about something.

“Sure, here,” said Franklin, and tossed them a ring of keys. “Go with them,” he told July. The words cut him. “I’ll be right down.”

July knew that the keys he’d given them didn’t fit the locks in the basement, but he went with them anyway and showed them downstairs. They made no attempt to talk to him. Go with them. The tone in which Carroll had said that had been the same tone he used with the policeman, as though he, July, were no closer to him than they were—as if he were a stranger. At the first lock they went through each key on the ring twice to make sure, then hurried on to