“I reckon not,” Johnson said softly. He chewed his gum, his eyes half closed, unfocused. “Who else signed that so-called document?” he said.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask and they didn’t tell me.”
“Well find out.” Johnson slumped back in his chair, scratching his umbilicus, while the operator lowered his earphones and busied himself at the board. The inter-com telephone on his desk rang; slowly he picked it up. “Yes?”
His secretary answered: “Mrs. Johnson, sir.”
He scowled. “All right. Put her on.”
The receiver crackled a little, then a feminine voice sharp as a parakeet’s shot through it: “Morlin? Are you there, Morlin?”
“I’m here.” He compressed his lips and ejected the chewing gum violently into the wastebasket; the pellet rattled against the metal and dropped down among the discarded letters, cigarette butts, ashes, old gum wads, crushed paper cups. “What do you want?”
“You don’t sound right,” his wife said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. What do you want?”
“I want you to pick Elinor up after school. She’s staying late.”
“Why?”
“She’s got a part in a play. They’re having a rehearsal after school. Pick up her at five-thirty.”
“Why can’t she take a bus?”
“Why should she? It’s not very far out of your way. Besides, with these Anarchists and Indian sex-maniacs running around loose—”
“Sex maniacs?”
“Yes. And another thing: I need an extension cord.”
“A what?”
“Extension cord. You know. Pick one up on your way home.”
“All right.”
“Now Morlin, you won’t forget, will you? Remember: Elinor, five-thirty, school, extension cord. Repeat after—”
“Yes! Elinor, five-thirty, school, extension cord. Goodby!” Johnson hung up, muttering heavily. The phone rang again. “Jesus!”—he picked it up, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Johnson is still on the line, sir. She—”
“I’m not here.” He slammed the receiver down, swearing. After this interruption—he unwrapped a stick of gum, threw the paper at the wastebasket and missed—several minutes passed before he could recover his standard placidity. He scowled and grumbled, simmered down finally to a state of glum torpor, scratching listlessly at his belly.
“Morey…?” The radio operator was speaking to him. “Hey, Morey…”
He raised his head and looked at the operator.
The operator stared at him. “Here’s the poop on that document business,” he said, the notepad in his hand. Johnson made no answer. “You wanta hear it?”
Johnson nodded and turned his head back to his desk, his jaws moving ponderously over the gum.
While Deputy Glynn leafed through an old comic book and the sheriff, huge and relaxed in his swivel chair, gave no sign of attention, the operator read his report: “Document in question carried five signatures, to wit: Paul M. Bondi, Jack Burns, H. D. Thoreau, P. B. Shelley, Emiliano Zapata. Last three signatories suspected of being fictitious, as no students bearing such names were then registered at the University.”
Johnson smiled faintly; he reached forward and made a slight adjustment in the position of the ivory donkey.
“Now they’ve got all kinds of stuff on this Paul M. Bondi,” the operator went on. “Paul M Bondi, Box 424, R.D. 4, Duke City, New Mex. Born 1924, Montclair, New Jersey, son of Lewis P.—”
“Get him,” Johnson said.
“Get him?” the operator said. “Get who?”
“This Paul M. Bondi.”
The operator smiled. “Well hell Morey, we already got him. He’s in the county jail right now. He was one of the guys Gutierrez worked over this morning. He was in the same cell as Burns and the two Navajos when they broke out.”
“Gutierrez what—?”
The operator hesitated. “I said he was one of the guys Gutierrez questioned this morning.”
“What was Gutierrez doing there this morning?—his shift’s supposed to be from four in the afternoon to twelve. Where was Kirk?” Johnson scratched the side of his neck—not so indolently now.
“I don’t know, Morey.”
“I’m gonna have to have a talk with that fella,” Johnson said. He puttered around for a while with the donkey. “What did he find out?”
“I told you—nothin.” The operator waited in his chair. “Want me to tell em to bring this Bondi down?” he asked.
Johnson leaned far back in his squeaking chair; he hooked his thumbs in his belt, let his head hang loosely and closed his eyes. For two or three silent minutes he remained in this contrived but satisfying position. Then he said: “Is that address up to date?”
“What address?”
“This fella’s; Paul M.—whatever it is.”
“I’ll check.” The operator went to the filing cabinet, slid out a drawer and rummaged through an index of manila folders. Johnson waited, sleepily scratching his ear. “Yeah,” the operator said; “Paul M. Bondi, Box 424, R.D. 4, Duke City. That’s the address he had when he had when he was arraigned.”
Johnson sat forward, grunting, and eased himself up and out of his chair. He twiddled with the ivory donkey, then walked slowly to a window and looked out. A grimy newspaper, staggering, rising, collapsing like a dying man, went flopping and sliding by on the sidewalk, chased by a whirling twister of wind and sand and dust. The mountains were still visible beyond the city, but vague and remote, detached from the earth and floating on a yellow haze.
Another dirty day, thought Johnson. He watched a dog—small, tarnished, unlicensed—come trotting up to the courthouse steps, saw it cock one leg and piss on the municipal shrubbery; he watched it sniff eagerly at its own urine glistening on the leaves, then turn and make a second pass.
Good boy, said Johnson to himself, good boy. Now the dog trotted by on the sidewalk under his window with an earnest and purposive air, its ragged coat bristling before the wind. Not a care in the world, thought Johnson, just doesn’t give a good goddamn—He watched it disappear around the corner, headed south toward Mexico.
He faced about and spoke to Deputy Glynn. “Put that comic book away, Floyd, and button your fly. I want you to cruise out to 424, R.D. 4, and see what you can find.”
Glynn complained. “It’ll soon be lunchtime, Morey.”
“That’s all right, You’ve been fattening up all morning. Go on out there and when you get there radio me on the spot. You know how to find it?”
“Sure, Morey, I know. Who’s goin with me?”
“God’s love’ll go with you. Now run along.”
Glynn went out; the private telephone rang and Johnson picked it up. “Johnson speaking.”
“Hi, Morey, this is Ed.”
“Ed?”
“Ed Kimball.”
“Oh—how are you, Ed?”
“Fine, Morey. Say, we’re wondering if you can go out to Lead Hill next Saturday afternoon. The Democratic Club is holding a public picnic and benefit dance for the Miners’ Welfare Association. We want somebody out there to represent the County Committee. Will you go, make a little speech?”
“I don’t wanta make any more speeches.”
“We got to have somebody out there, Morey: you’re the only one on the Committee that’s not booked up for that day.”
“Why don’t you go?”
“Because I have to go to Santa Fe—I can’t be two places at once.”
“You can’t get anybody else?”
“Look, Morey, I told you—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go. What do you want me to talk about?”
“I don’t care. Anything but Truman.” There was a long pause; then the voice in the telephone said, quietly: “Morey?”
“Yes…?”
“We’re having a little poker game Friday night.”
“Is Cox gonna come?”
“No.”
 
; “I’ll be there.” Johnson hung up. Time again for meditations: he unfoiled more chewing gum and provided his mouth and jaw with meaningful activity; he rubbed his knee; slumping forward against the desk he lifted the October page of his illustrated calendar and took a peek at November—exaggerated breasts without visible means of support, the commercial smirk, long thighs leading nowhere. He dropped the leaf. Hell… There was another calendar on his desk, the memorandum type: he leafed through it until he came to Saturday, unclipped an automatic pencil—semi-automatic—from his jacket pocket and made a note: Lead Hill.
Outside in the street a car backfired; another spasm of wind swished by and dust pattered like rain against the windowglass.
“Gonna be another dirty day,” the radio operator said.
“Somebody’s trying to get you,” Johnson replied. A little red eye was flashing on the radio control board.
The operator pulled one earphone over an ear and flicked a switch on the panel; he spoke into the heavy radial microphone on his table. “This is CS-1,” he said, “this is CS-1. Come in, CS-4.”
“The speaker,” Johnson said.
The operator flipped a second switch and the black round screen on the receiver began to rasp and crackle. “This is Glynn,” the screen said; “where the hell is R.D. 4? Repeat: Where the hell is R.D. 4? Over.”
“Let me talk to him,” Johnson said, as the operator hesitated. He heaved himself out of his chair, lumbered over to the radio and grabbed the microphone by the neck as if he were strangling a chicken. “That Glynn,” he mutteerd, “—so dumb he doesn’t know whether Christ was crucified or kicked by a mule.” He growled into the microphone: “This is Johnson. Where are you now, Floyd? Get me?—where are you now? Over.”
“I’m on North Guadalupe Road,” the voice in the speaker said. “North Guadalupe. Over.”
“Listen, Floyd: go north to Coral Street, then east till you hit Highland Road. Follow Highland Road on north. Understand? When you get past the city limits start watching the numbers on the mailboxes until you come to 424. Do you get me? Repeat my message. Over.”
The voice from the screen said: “Okay, Morey, I get you. North to Coral Street, east to Highland Road, north on Highland to Box 424. Am I right? Over.”
“That’s right, you simple Mick. Now get going. Over and out.” Johnson returned to his desk and sat down, scratching at his armpit. “Did you notify Socorro?” he said to the operator.
“Socorro?”
“Give them the information on this fella Burns; tell them he may be coming their way.” Johnson thought for a moment. “Tell them to check on Mr. Henry Vogelin this evening. Explain why.”
“Okay, Moray.” The operator reached for his clipboard and notepad.
Johnson put his feet on a desk drawer and allowed himself about five minutes of complete relaxation. Then, idly and without interest, he glanced through his morning mail. There was a letter from the National Sheriffs’ Association containing an invitation to a national convention of county sheriffs in Orlando, Florida; also, a wistful reminder to Sheriff Johnson that he was four years behind in his dues; Johnson filed the letter in his wastepaper basket. A letter from the Peerless Prison Equipment Company of Providence, R.I., announcing a revolutionary new device for the immediate detection of prison break-out attempts: an electronic seismograph which, when properly installed, registers, measures and announces, with appropriate alarms and lighting effects, any effort to tamper with any metallic part of the structure of a standard cell-block, or any effort to tamper with the seismograph apparatus itself; at a price any progressive community can afford: $795.50 plus delivery charges. Johnston flipped the letter into his wastebasket. Then there were letters from his public, mostly unsigned, containing accusations and suspicions directed against their neighbors—wife-beating, the starving of children, disturbances of peace. Among the other anonymous letters was one composed in shaky but unequivocal English with words cut out of a newspaper and pasted to a sheet of brown butcher paper: I AM GONE TO KILL YOU SHERIFF JOHNSON. Johnson examined the envelope of this communication, found it addressed with the same technique; he looked for the postmark; there was no postmark.
This letter and the complaints that were signed he placed in a box of papers and letters destined for the desk of his Deputy Sheriff, Richard Hernandez. His official correspondence—requests, reports and inquiries from state and county functionaries, all of it-he filed away in a drawer containing in addition to a confusion of other letters, a U.S. Forest Service canteen, a box of twelve-gauge shotgun shells, a pair of dirty tennis shoes stuffed with dirty socks, a Smith & Wesson .38 with holster and belt, several small chunks of carnotite, chewing gum wrappers, apple cores, little photo magazines, crumbs, pennies and sand. Johnson leaned back, closing his eyes and clasping his hands together behind his head.
The office phone rang. He let it ring a second time, then leaned forward and picked it up. “Yeah?” he said.
The voice of his secretary in the outer office: “Mr. Hassler would like to see you, sir.”
Johnson scowled and swung slowly around in his chair, turning his face to the wall. I’m busy,” he said; “don’t let him in.”
The door opened and a young man slipped in smoothly, hardly making a sound. “What’s the matter, Morey?” he said; “you got secrets?” He wore an inconspicuous tan suit, shell-rimmed glasses and a complexion like fried liver. “I’ll only take a minute. I gotta make a living too, you know.” He came forward and sat on a corner of the sheriff’s desk, pushing the In-Out box aside. Johnson remained in his averted position, eyes half-closed facing the wall. “About these three jokers that walked out of your jail this morning,” Hastier began; “—is it true that one of them is an Anarchist?”
Johnson growled. “They didn’t walk out, they worked their way out.” he said.
“Is it true,” Hassler said, “that the two Indians are sex offenders?”
“No. Who the be-jesus told you that?”
“They attacked a woman on a bus.”
“They didn’t attack anybody. They were drunk and they made this old lady a proposition.”
“An indecent proposition?”
“Yes, considering her age.”
Hassler scribbled in shorthand in his notebook. “About this man Burns,” he said: “What kind of an Anarchist is he?”
“How many kinds are there?” Johnson said.
“Is it true he belonged to a secret Anarchist society at the State University?”
“I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
“The FBI says he did.”
“You’d better check with them before you print that.”
“How about this manifesto advocating civil disobedience? Did Burns sign that?”
“Who told you all this?”
Hassler smiled. “Just guessing,” he said. “Burns did sign it, didn’t he?”
“It seems so,” said Johnson, still facing the wall. He proceeded to unwrap a stick of chewing gum.
Hassler added to his notations. “Do you think these three men are dangerous, Sheriff?”
“No.”
“Do you expect any difficulty in re-capturing them?”
“No.”
“Where do you think they’re probably hiding now?”
“In New Mexico.” Johnson put the chewing gum in his mouth and started to chew.
Hassler smiled again. Then he said: “Is it true that this man Burns is kind of a character?”
“Never met him.”
“I mean, that he’s kind of… eccentric?, Offbeat? Queer?”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“For instance,” Hassler said, “we found out that he rides a horse everywhere he goes. Doesn’t own a car. Rides horseback all the time.”
Johnson stopped chewing his gum for a moment; after the pause he said: “Who told you that?”
Hassler laughed. “I told you, Morey: I’m telepathic I got powers. Isn’t it true what I said?”
Johnson was silent. After a while he said: “I can’t understand why you boys are so curious about this Burns fella—as far as I can make out he’s just another dumb cowhand that’s fell on his head too often.”
“Why?” said Hassler; he closed his notebook and stood up. He grinned. “Human interest,” he said. And then he turned and walked out.
Johnson remained facing the wall for several minutes, sombre and ponderous in his ruminations. Finally he swung around and toward the radio operator, who was now reading Glynn’s comic book. Johnson squeezed his nose thoughtfully; a faint belch escaped him. The operator looked up. “Any livery stables in this town?” Johnson asked.
“Livery stables?” said the operator; he turned his gaze slowly from Johnson to the window. “Livery stables… ”
“If you wanted to leave a horse somewhere overnight what would you do with him?”
“If I wanted to leave a horse somewhere I’d just leave him,” the operator said: “I can’t stand them brutes.” He saw Johnson begin to frown and added: “I don’t know, Morey… I guess I’d take him to one of the riding stables.”
“Okay,” said Johnson. “Call every riding stable in town or near town, find out if anybody’s left a horse there and if they have get the details.”
“Okay, Morey.” The operator went to work with his telephone.
Johnson sat for a spell chewing his gum, scratching at his belly, then got up and went into his private toilet and urinated. He was beginning to feel hungry; after he had buttoned up and attempted to hoist his trousers up to the height of what was once his waist line—they promptly sagged down again—he pulled out his old pocket watch and looked at it: three-twenty. He grunted and held it up to his ear and found it had run down; he wound the watch and put it back in his vest pocket. Then he washed his hands in cold water and gave his gray hair a quick inefficient combing—using his fingers; he couldn’t find the pocketcomb that his daughter had given him just two days before or the one that his wife had given him a few days before that He scratched briefly between his buttocks and went out.