Эд Горман - Fools Rush In

“Right now it’s hard to say.”

He made a face. “That damned temper of his. I suppose I was just as bad when I was his age. But you didn’t have to kick him that hard.”

“He didn’t have to charge me, either.”

He took a drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the clean nuggets of stars. This was the air of privilege up here, the warmth and safety of the lights in the wide windows of the ranch house, the expensive cars on the drive, and again the swagger of rich-people laughter fluttering up into the sky like sleek golden birds.

“I’ll talk to him. Do I need a lawyer yet?”

“See what Nick says first.”

He arced his cigarette into the air with all the finesse of a street-corner punk. A meteor shower erupted when cigarette met lawn.

He put his hand to his head and sighed. “A white girl who comes from a good family going out with a colored boy. It had to be trouble. It had to be.”

He didn’t shake my hand but he chucked me on the arm and said, “Thanks for being honest with me, McCain.”

Then he went back inside with his own class of people.

There’s a small cafe half a block from the courthouse that, at night anyway, resembles the cafe made famous by Edward Hopper. You rarely see more than two people at the counter and I don’t recall ever seeing anybody occupy any of the four booths. The man in the white T-shirt and apron behind the counter speaks a language nobody’s ever quite been able to identify. And the faded posters on the walls advertise obscure singers from the ’30s who appeared at a dance hall closed down in the late ’40s.

I go there sometimes when I can’t sleep and I can’t even tell you why. The old songs on the jukebox, the silent people sipping coffee at the counter, the counterman talking angrily on the phone in that strange language — it’s our own little corner of the Twilight Zone.

Tonight, though, I got a surprise. Not only were there at least six people at the counter, there was also somebody occupying one of the booths. And that was the second surprise. The occupant was none other than the new district attorney, Jane Sykes.

She wore a white silk blouse and a navy blue suit. With her golden hair swept back into a chignon and a cigarette burning in the ashtray, she had a certain chic that didn’t get in the way of her melancholy aura.

And there was yet another surprise. When I got to her booth, carrying the cup of coffee I’d bought, I saw the title of the book she was reading: The Stranger by Albert Camus.

“Miss Sykes.”

An expression of irritation drew her chic face tight. She’d been engrossed in the book.

“Yes?” Then: “Oh.” Then a long and silken hand angled up toward me. I took it and we shook. “You’re Sam McCain.”

“Yes.”

“Please. Sit down.”

“Looks as if I’ve dragged you away from your reading.”

“You did.” The smile was a beam that brought peace and wisdom to the entire universe. “But sit down and we’ll talk lawyer stuff.”

“You always work this late?” I said as I sat down.

“My first eight years were in the Cook County office. You’ve heard of Chicago? Seven days of twelve hours a day sometimes. This is nice so far. Only a couple of those twelve-hour days.” She raised her cup as if in a toast. “Plus the coffee’s better here.”

“You actually like this place?”

“You know who Edward Hopper is?”

I laughed. “That’s who I think of every time I walk in here.”

“I don’t know much about art but I had a husband who did. And there was a traveling Hopper show at the Art Institute for a month. I went every day. It was like a religious experience.”

“Same way here.”

“He explained something to me — about myself.” She smiled that smile again. “The trouble is I can’t articulate it, what he explained to me. Not even to myself.”

I must have looked transfixed. I sure felt that way.

“Want me to read your mind, Sam?”

“My mind?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you have one.” She tapped a long, red-tipped finger against her perfect forehead. “Want me to read it?”

“Uh, sure.”

“You’re thinking how could anybody with the name Sykes know anything about Edward Hopper.”

“Hey, c’mon.” But I knew I was flushing. Of course I’d had that thought two or three times since sitting down here. “Why would I think anything like that?”

“Because my family has its share of dim bulbs, as I’ll admit. Not to mention criminals. But they’re not stupid, they’re just uneducated. And they’re uneducated because they’re too lazy to learn. They look at ‘book learning,’ as they call it, as effete and dull. The women as well as the men, unfortunately.” She stubbed out a Viceroy and tamped another one from her pack. “So let’s be clear about this. I’m well aware of my family’s faults. That’s why my dad fled to Chicago as soon as he could. He wanted to be educated. But the big war got in his way and he got wounded in such a way that he has these terrible memory lapses. But he made sure that I did everything he couldn’t do.”

“You must be something in court. You just spoke everything in perfect sentences.”

“I wasn’t trying to dazzle you, Sam. I was trying to make a point. You and I will be bumping up against each other in a lot of different situations. I know you work for the judge and you know I’m a Sykes, but that’s no reason we can’t be friends. You know, in Chicago, lawyers for the prosecution and lawyers for the defense can actually be friends.” She had an easy touch with wry comments.

“And in a small town, I like the idea of having a friend who knows who Edward Hopper is. But—” She folded her hands on the table and looked at me directly. This particular gray-eyed gaze had to be a killer in court. “But whatever your feelings about any of the Sykeses, including Clifford, I want you to keep them to yourself. I’m well aware of his shortcomings, and one of my first priorities is to straighten out the police department. But he’s my flesh and blood and I know a side of him you don’t. So, no Cliff jokes, no Cliff jibes. If he does something that conflicts with the law, let me know and I’ll take care of it. Otherwise, the subject of Clifford is off-limits. All right?”

“Breathtaking. God, I’m afraid to go up against you in court.”

“I’m serious about it, Sam.”

“I know you are. But that didn’t take anything away from the presentation.”

She sat back in the booth. Yawned. Covered her mouth with that long, graceful hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Ancient.”

“Thirty-one next month.” Thank God the smile came back. “That’s almost five years older than you.”

“How’d you know that?”

“You think I didn’t research every attorney in the county when I came out here?”

“Do I get to research you?”

“Be my guest. You know how old I am. My husband divorced me four years ago because of all the hours I put in and because I didn’t want children. Now I think maybe I would like to have a child, but the problem is I haven’t met anybody I’d like to get serious with, let alone get married to. As for my time in the DA’s office, I held the highest position ever held by a woman in the Cook County legal establishment. I’m slim but it’s becoming a battle to stay that way. And of all the lawyers in town, you’re the one most interesting to me.”

She tapped the finger where a wedding ring had once resided. “You’re single. That means you can show me the town.”

“Such as it is.”

“Such as it is.”

Then, without warning, she was gathering up her materials and sweeping herself out of the booth. “Want to walk me to my hotel? I haven’t found a place yet.”