his way around the table until he was nose to nose with Corso. His skin was oily. His mean little eyes crawled over Corso like ants. “Turn around,” he bellowed. Corso stood still. “You’re under arrest for criminal trespass,” he said. “Now turn around, you son of a bitch.”
“Andy,” Kesey said. “Lighten up.”
“It’s not trespass,” Corso said. “I checked in downstairs.” He flicked the plastic badge clipped on his collar. “See—I’ve got a handy-dandy badge.”
The guy swung his hand, knocking the badge to the floor. Then poked Corso hard in the chest with his finger. “Didn’t I tell you to turn around?” He poked Corso again. Harder. “Densmore,” the chief said.
Corso kept his smile locked in place. “You poke me again, Andy, and you’re gonna need to wipe your ass with your other hand,” he said evenly.
Sharp intake of collective breath. Dead silence. Blue Suit fixed Corso with what he imagined to be his most baleful stare. Bobbed his narrow head up and down. Agreeing with himself. “I’ll remember you—you son of a bitch. Don’t you think I won’t.”
“It’s always nice to be remembered,” Corso said, still smiling.
Densmore balled one hand and used the other to grab Corso by the shirtfront.
“Andy,” cautioned the district attorney.
Reluctantly, he let go of Corso’s shirt and pointed to the guy in the gray suit. “Donald,” he growled, “get him out of here. I swear to God…Get him out of here before I…” He started back around the table, toward his chair.
Gray Suit got to his feet. Corso pulled out his notebook. “Should I take this to be a no comment, Chief?” he asked. Densmore turned on his heel and started back for Corso.
“Andy,” the district attorney said again. Louder this time. Dorothy Sheridan stepped between the cop and Corso. Her face was white. “Sergeant Densmore, please,” she said. He stopped one pace short of Sheridan. Stood there rocking on the balls of his feet. Donald grabbed Corso by the arm.
“Get him the hell out of here,” the chief shouted.
Corso let Donald steer him back out into the hall. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He had a deep, resonant voice reminiscent of a TV anchorman’s, and a first-class tan. Couldn’t have been much more than thirty. Young for a lieutenant, with one of those youthful faces that linger well past middle age. Thick, Hugh Grant hair. Very trendy. Hawes would have killed for the suit. Italian. Silk. At least a grand and a half, maybe two. Corso checked his feet. Three hundred bucks’ worth of Bally loafers. “Andy’s a bit testy today,” Corso commented.
“Lotta pressure,” the cop said. “Move. Let’s go.”
“You were the arresting officer on the Himes bust,” Corso tried.
“Come on,” Donald said, herding Corso down the hall and back toward the elevator. Luis and Carlotta were still yukking it up by the Coke machine.
“It’s a matter of public record,” Corso said. “What’s the big deal?”
Donald pushed the elevator button. “The big deal, Mr. Corso, is that you’re messing with something you don’t understand here.”
“What’s not to understand? The prime—the only—witness in the case against Walter Leroy Himes now says she lied. The guy’s six days from execution. All I want to know is what you guys are going to do about it.”
“She wasn’t the only witness,” Donald said a bit too quickly. Pushed the button again. Twice. Adjusted his tie. Pushed the button again.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Corso said. “You’re the one who supposedly heard Himes confess.” Donald didn’t answer. Just stood and watched the lighted indicator work its way up to eight. The door slid open. Corso stepped in first. Donald followed. Pushed one. “All you people care about is selling newspapers,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of what you print,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of
“Andy,” Kesey said. “Lighten up.”
“It’s not trespass,” Corso said. “I checked in downstairs.” He flicked the plastic badge clipped on his collar. “See—I’ve got a handy-dandy badge.”
The guy swung his hand, knocking the badge to the floor. Then poked Corso hard in the chest with his finger. “Didn’t I tell you to turn around?” He poked Corso again. Harder. “Densmore,” the chief said.
Corso kept his smile locked in place. “You poke me again, Andy, and you’re gonna need to wipe your ass with your other hand,” he said evenly.
Sharp intake of collective breath. Dead silence. Blue Suit fixed Corso with what he imagined to be his most baleful stare. Bobbed his narrow head up and down. Agreeing with himself. “I’ll remember you—you son of a bitch. Don’t you think I won’t.”
“It’s always nice to be remembered,” Corso said, still smiling.
Densmore balled one hand and used the other to grab Corso by the shirtfront.
“Andy,” cautioned the district attorney.
Reluctantly, he let go of Corso’s shirt and pointed to the guy in the gray suit. “Donald,” he growled, “get him out of here. I swear to God…Get him out of here before I…” He started back around the table, toward his chair.
Gray Suit got to his feet. Corso pulled out his notebook. “Should I take this to be a no comment, Chief?” he asked. Densmore turned on his heel and started back for Corso.
“Andy,” the district attorney said again. Louder this time. Dorothy Sheridan stepped between the cop and Corso. Her face was white. “Sergeant Densmore, please,” she said. He stopped one pace short of Sheridan. Stood there rocking on the balls of his feet. Donald grabbed Corso by the arm.
“Get him the hell out of here,” the chief shouted.
Corso let Donald steer him back out into the hall. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.” He had a deep, resonant voice reminiscent of a TV anchorman’s, and a first-class tan. Couldn’t have been much more than thirty. Young for a lieutenant, with one of those youthful faces that linger well past middle age. Thick, Hugh Grant hair. Very trendy. Hawes would have killed for the suit. Italian. Silk. At least a grand and a half, maybe two. Corso checked his feet. Three hundred bucks’ worth of Bally loafers. “Andy’s a bit testy today,” Corso commented.
“Lotta pressure,” the cop said. “Move. Let’s go.”
“You were the arresting officer on the Himes bust,” Corso tried.
“Come on,” Donald said, herding Corso down the hall and back toward the elevator. Luis and Carlotta were still yukking it up by the Coke machine.
“It’s a matter of public record,” Corso said. “What’s the big deal?”
Donald pushed the elevator button. “The big deal, Mr. Corso, is that you’re messing with something you don’t understand here.”
“What’s not to understand? The prime—the only—witness in the case against Walter Leroy Himes now says she lied. The guy’s six days from execution. All I want to know is what you guys are going to do about it.”
“She wasn’t the only witness,” Donald said a bit too quickly. Pushed the button again. Twice. Adjusted his tie. Pushed the button again.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Corso said. “You’re the one who supposedly heard Himes confess.” Donald didn’t answer. Just stood and watched the lighted indicator work its way up to eight. The door slid open. Corso stepped in first. Donald followed. Pushed one. “All you people care about is selling newspapers,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of what you print,” he said as the door closed. “You never think about the effects of
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