the county courthouse. Dusty climbed the worn stairs to the second floor, and proceeded past a series of doors with the legend:
McTeague & Kossmeyer
Attorneys at Law
Entrance 200
Room 200 was at the end of the corridor, uncarpeted, high-ceiling barren of everything – it seemed to Dusty – except spittoons and people. A low wooden rail with a swinging gate enclosed one corner of the room. Dusty made his way to the barrier, and gave his name to a graying, harried looking woman.
"McTeague?" she said. "Something personal? You a friend of his? Well, you don't see Mac then. Kossy does all the seeing in this firm."
"Well…" Dusty hesitated. He didn't want to see Kossmeyer – "Caustic" Kossmeyer, as the newspapers called him. From what he had observed of the attorney, it would not be easy to say the things to him that he had come to say.
"Well," the woman said. "Kossmeyer?"
"You're sure I can't -?"
"Kossmeyer," she said grimly. With finality. And jabbed a plug into her switchboard. "Now sit down and stay put, will you? Don't go wandering off someplace where I can't find you."
She kept her eyes on him until he sat down – on a bench between a middle-aged Mexican in soiled khakis and a middle-aged matron in crisp cretonne. Dusty started to light a cigarette, then noting the sidelong glance the matron gave him, dropped it into one of the ubiquitous spittoons. Uncomfortably, he looked around the room.
A young, scared-looking couple sat in one of the windows, holding hands. A few feet away from them, a paunchy man in an expensive suit talked earnestly to a bosomy, flashily dressed blonde. Two men with zoot coats and snapbrimmed hats were playing the match game. Three Negroes, obviously mother, father and son, huddled in a corner and conversed in whispers… It was as though a cross-section of the city's population had been swept up and set down in the room.
Dusty stood up, casually. The receptionist wasn't looking at him. He'd just saunter on out. Tomorrow he'd write a letter to the firm. A letter would do just as well as a personal talk – almost as well, anyway – and…
The door inside the barrier opened, and Kossmeyer came out. Rather, he lunged out, pushing a sharp-faced oldish young man ahead of him. His voice rasped stridently through the suddenly stilled room.
"All right," he was saying. "Suit yourself. Be your own lawyer. But don't come crying to me afterwards. You want to go to the jug, it's your funeral, but I ain't sending any flowers."
"Now, look, Kossy" – the man's eyes darted around the room. "I didn't mean-"
"You look,' said Kossmeyer. "You ever see yourself in a mirror? Well, take a good gander…"
Dusty watched, fascinated.
Kossmeyer didn't look anything like the other man; he was barely five feet tall and he couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. But now, despite their facial and physical dissimilarity, he looked strikingly like him. In an instant, he had made himself into a hideous caricature of the other. His eyes had become shifting and beady, his face sinisterly slack-jawed. He had called in his chest, simultaneously squaring his shoulders so that his elbows were forced out from his sides. His pants were drawn high beneath his armpits. He wore no coat, but he seemed to, a coat that hung almost to the knees like the other man's. Eyes darting he slowly revolved, not moving a muscle of his dead-pan face…
He was preposterous. Preposterous yet some how frightening. A cartoon labelled CRIME. And, then, suddenly, he was himself again.
"You seen Ace? You got three strikes called the minute they look at you. Just handing it to 'em straight ain't good enough. We got to knock 'em over, know what I mean? Pile it around 'em so high they can't see over it."
The man nodded. "You got me sold. Now, how about-"
"Beat it. Come back tomorrow." Kossmeyer gave him a shove through the gate, and bent over the receptionist. He said, "Yeah? Where?" and glanced up. Then Dusty heard him say, "Oh…
McTeague & Kossmeyer
Attorneys at Law
Entrance 200
Room 200 was at the end of the corridor, uncarpeted, high-ceiling barren of everything – it seemed to Dusty – except spittoons and people. A low wooden rail with a swinging gate enclosed one corner of the room. Dusty made his way to the barrier, and gave his name to a graying, harried looking woman.
"McTeague?" she said. "Something personal? You a friend of his? Well, you don't see Mac then. Kossy does all the seeing in this firm."
"Well…" Dusty hesitated. He didn't want to see Kossmeyer – "Caustic" Kossmeyer, as the newspapers called him. From what he had observed of the attorney, it would not be easy to say the things to him that he had come to say.
"Well," the woman said. "Kossmeyer?"
"You're sure I can't -?"
"Kossmeyer," she said grimly. With finality. And jabbed a plug into her switchboard. "Now sit down and stay put, will you? Don't go wandering off someplace where I can't find you."
She kept her eyes on him until he sat down – on a bench between a middle-aged Mexican in soiled khakis and a middle-aged matron in crisp cretonne. Dusty started to light a cigarette, then noting the sidelong glance the matron gave him, dropped it into one of the ubiquitous spittoons. Uncomfortably, he looked around the room.
A young, scared-looking couple sat in one of the windows, holding hands. A few feet away from them, a paunchy man in an expensive suit talked earnestly to a bosomy, flashily dressed blonde. Two men with zoot coats and snapbrimmed hats were playing the match game. Three Negroes, obviously mother, father and son, huddled in a corner and conversed in whispers… It was as though a cross-section of the city's population had been swept up and set down in the room.
Dusty stood up, casually. The receptionist wasn't looking at him. He'd just saunter on out. Tomorrow he'd write a letter to the firm. A letter would do just as well as a personal talk – almost as well, anyway – and…
The door inside the barrier opened, and Kossmeyer came out. Rather, he lunged out, pushing a sharp-faced oldish young man ahead of him. His voice rasped stridently through the suddenly stilled room.
"All right," he was saying. "Suit yourself. Be your own lawyer. But don't come crying to me afterwards. You want to go to the jug, it's your funeral, but I ain't sending any flowers."
"Now, look, Kossy" – the man's eyes darted around the room. "I didn't mean-"
"You look,' said Kossmeyer. "You ever see yourself in a mirror? Well, take a good gander…"
Dusty watched, fascinated.
Kossmeyer didn't look anything like the other man; he was barely five feet tall and he couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. But now, despite their facial and physical dissimilarity, he looked strikingly like him. In an instant, he had made himself into a hideous caricature of the other. His eyes had become shifting and beady, his face sinisterly slack-jawed. He had called in his chest, simultaneously squaring his shoulders so that his elbows were forced out from his sides. His pants were drawn high beneath his armpits. He wore no coat, but he seemed to, a coat that hung almost to the knees like the other man's. Eyes darting he slowly revolved, not moving a muscle of his dead-pan face…
He was preposterous. Preposterous yet some how frightening. A cartoon labelled CRIME. And, then, suddenly, he was himself again.
"You seen Ace? You got three strikes called the minute they look at you. Just handing it to 'em straight ain't good enough. We got to knock 'em over, know what I mean? Pile it around 'em so high they can't see over it."
The man nodded. "You got me sold. Now, how about-"
"Beat it. Come back tomorrow." Kossmeyer gave him a shove through the gate, and bent over the receptionist. He said, "Yeah? Where?" and glanced up. Then Dusty heard him say, "Oh…
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