Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Post followed him over into the bunkhouse. He helped Drake lift the small man down from the high bunk. The man was blue around the eyes and his clothing stank. Drake put him on the floor and slapped him on both cheeks. The man didn’t open his eyes.

“Good. He’ll last until I’m ready for him.”

Post noticed that Drake was excited. His dark eyes were wide and he walked around nervously. He was dressed in a yellow-orange sports shirt and trim gray gabardine trousers. The orange shirt made his skin look more sallow than it had before.

Post wondered who the small man could be. He asked.

“This, Post, is that unique man, the man who has nobody and nothing. He has no home, no relatives, no friends and no money. He’s the essence of anonymity.”

Drake hurried out of the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson was coming down the alleyway between the two buildings. He walked carefully. It was the first time Post had seen him. He was a tall, frail old man with a gray hairless skull. He wore rimless glasses over his faded blue eyes. The gray folds of his cheeks sagged over the bone structure. Even though he was slightly stooped, he had an air of pride and authority.

He glanced up as they stepped out to meet him. “Ah, Mr. Drake! Your man said you’d like to talk to me.” When he smiled his eyes were young.

“Yes, Mr. Benderson. This is Mr. Post, another of my men. Mr. Post is going to sit in on this little conference — that is, if you don’t mind.”

“How do you do, Mr. Post. Why should I mind? I’m feeling excellent, sir. Excellent. This air, this quiet, it’s worked wonders for me. And for Nan too.”

“Post, you better sit over there out of the way. Lean against the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson and I will have our little... discussion out in this cleared space. Are you certain you’re not too tired to stand, Mr. Benderson?”

The old man tapped himself on the chest. “Sound as a nut. Now, what is all this about?”

They stood in the middle of the alleyway, the early sun slanting across them, throwing their shadows in long strips toward the woods. Drake stepped closer to the old man and looked up into his face.

“You know, Benderson, in addition to running this place, I’m a philosopher. Did you know that?” There was something secret and dangerous in Drake’s tone.

The older man looked puzzled and stepped back. Drake’s face was so close to his own that Post could see that it made him uncomfortable.

“Yes, I’m a philosopher. This is a country where we value human dignity, Benderson. We bow deeply to the rights of the individual... I don’t think the individual has any rights.”

“But what has that got to do with...”

“Don’t be hasty, Benderson. Let me finish. You’re treated with what amounts to reverence because you stink with money. Money that was handed to you. I don’t think I’ll give you any reverent attention, Mr. Benderson.”

The gray cheeks flushed and Benderson coughed. “Look, Drake, I didn’t come down here to listen to any silly theories. I didn’t come to be insulted. Now get to the point. I believe that I may leave here today. Yes, I’m certain of it.”

Drake stepped forward again, slightly crouched, his head tilted sharply upward. “You’re quite right, Benderson,” he said, his voice soft and strangely warm. “Neither of us is interested in theory. We’re men who like to see theory in practice.”

His thin hand flashed up and the smack of hard palm on flesh resounded in the narrow space between the buildings. Benderson staggered back, bewildered, and stared in silent appeal at Post. Post could see that he felt he was dealing with a man who had gone suddenly mad. The red mark on Benderson’s cheek reminded Post of the mark he had made on Drake.

He glanced over and saw Frick leaning against the end of the building, watching Drake. Frick’s face seemed masked as usual. His heavy arms were folded.

“Now, Benderson, we start the practice. Now tell me. What did that do to you? How did it affect your immortal dignity? Tell me.”

“You’re mad,” Benderson gasped.

“Not mad. Just curious. Let’s try it again.” Benderson tried to duck but he was old and stiff. The force of the blow staggered him and he held his hand against his cheek. He looked as though he wanted to run. Drake darted around him and blocked one exit. Frick stood at the other exit. Benderson turned and faced Drake.

“You still seem to retain your dignity, Benderson. How about this?” Drake stabbed the old man in the diaphragm with a rigid forefinger. He gasped and doubled up, holding his stomach. Drake slapped him across the eyes. The glasses splintered and fell into the grass. A bit of glass cut the gray cheek and a trickle of blood started slowly down, following the line of a deep fold in the flesh. Before the old man was breathing properly again, Drake slapped him hard on the cheek for the third time. It knocked him down. He scrambled to his feet and looked again at Post and Frick. He seemed to Post to look like an old gray horse being worried by a yapping terrier.

Drake stepped toward him again and the old man put his hands up to ward off the blow. Then, he seemed to remember, to reach deep into his past and call up the forgotten motions of youth. He clenched his fists and held them rigidly in front of him. It was pathetic and as brave as banners in the wind.

Drake stepped to the side and hooked a short left into the old man’s stomach. As he slowly fell, Drake slapped him twice. The man lay on his back, gasping. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed against the ground. He stood up and staggered against the building for support. Then he rushed at Drake, stumbling, his thin arms flaying the air. Drake stepped aside and he rushed into the side of the building. Drake laughed at him.

“The dignity is leaving, Benderson? Where could it be going? Where is that charming calm?”

He walked up to the old man and grasped the loose clothes under the old man’s chin with his left hand. With his right hand he slapped, firmly, in monotonous tempo, forehand and backhand across the sagging cheeks and mouth. Blood came on the lips and was sprayed across the lower half of his face with each slap.

“Any dignity left, Benderson? Any guts left?” He stepped toward the old man again. Benderson covered his face with his hands.

His voice was more of a bleat than a moan. “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me again.” Drake dragged him to his feet and turned him around so that Drake’s back was toward the building. He shut his fist and released Benderson. The old man swayed but stood erect. Drake swung with all the power in his wiry back and shoulders. The small hard fist cracked against the lean jaw and Benderson fell with his gray bloody face against the green grass.

“Too hard, boss,” Frick said quietly.

Drake grinned and made a dusting motion with his hands. “Nonsense, Sam. He’s a tough old citizen, and he’s got to be sore as hell when he comes to.” He stopped smiling and stared at Post. “You look a little green. What’s wrong? This one isn’t dead. Don’t tell me a little rough stuff gets you down. Maybe I figured you wrong.” He stood and thought for a minute.

Then he turned to Frick. “Samuel, you better take Sister Ann away for the next act. There’s such a thing as knowing too much. Bring him back in an hour. Take him up the trail a ways.”

Frick stirred and pushed himself away from the building. He waited until Post got up and walked ahead of him. Then he followed along.

They walked across the clearing and entered the mouth of the trail. Post slowed and stopped.

“Move along. Get up the hill a little further.”

“Relax, Sam. This is good enough. Why climb that damn hill?”

Frick shrugged. “Okay. It’s hot. How’d you like the way the boss worked on the old gent?”