He looked around the bar; he had never been in the place before. He didn't even know where he was; he'd found himself wandering through the Ay-rab section of town, footsore. He had turned back and this place had been there, new and shiny and attractive. It looked like a nice place. Someday he might bring Arnie here, if Arnie would still——
He squelched that thought before it was properly formed. Certainly he would bring Arnie here! Arnie wasn't the kind of friend to look the other way when you were a little down on your luck—not even that, really, just temporarily in a little bit of a rough time due to a professional misunderstanding and a doublecross. Good old Arnie, Norvell thought sentimentally.
He caught a glimpse of the time.
Better face the music and get it over with. Maybe he could have it out with Virginia, and then go over and spend a little time with Arnie. The thought bucked him.
He swallowed his drink and slipped his wallet into the bar slot. Having it out with Virginia might not be so tough at that. In a way, he thought, the fact that she had been born in Belly Rave was an advantage, if he could only make her see it that way. She would know the ropes. She'd have friends there; she'd have some ideas about pleasant, useful work he could do to supplement the allotment until he got on his feet again. She could save him plenty of time in making contacts, getting—
Something crushed his shoulder and spun him around. "Whaddya think you're up to, Buster?" the policeman demanded in a bass snarl. He shook Norvell's wallet under his nose. "You know the penalty for passing a bum credit card? You Belly Ravers are all alike; get a lapsed card and a front, and try to get a free load. Come along, Buster. The Captain wants to talk to you."
It was all quite horrible.
Of course Candella had canceled his card at once—but it was a simple-enough oversight. Norvell spent a long time trying to make them believe him down at the precinct, before he realized that they did believe him—believed him, and just didn't care.
It was close to dinner time, and they put him in something they called "the Tank" to think things over until the desk sergeant got back from his meal. Norvell didn't like the Tank, and he didn't like the looks of the half-dozen other persons who occupied it with him. But still, he reminded himself, it could have been worse. It was only a question of his lapsed credit card; they could easily have added drunk and disorderly to the charge. And Norvell could have found himself logged for being without visible means of support, which meant getting a job, instanter, or getting jugged for quite a while. And there was only one kind of a job a man in police trouble could pick up a phone and get, every time. Usually you didn't have to phone. The cops would drive you down to the Stadium's service entrance themselves; Norvell knew the process, having seen enough "volunteers" delivered.
"Hey, Bligh."
Norvell said, "Yes, sir?"
The cop opened the door. "This way." They came, to a dingy room. There was an embarrasing process of holding your hands over your head while someone ran his hands over you; you couldn't blame them for searching you, Norvell told himself, there must be plenty of times they had desperate criminals here. There was a curiously interesting process of inking the fingers and rolling them across a piece of paper. There was a mildly painful process of looking into what seemed to be a binocular microscope; a light flashed, photographing the retina of his eyes, and Norvell had a little trouble seeing for some time afterward.
While Norvell was blinking at the halo in his field of vision the cop said something. Norvell said, "What?"
"I said do you want to call your lawyer?"
Norvell shook his head automatically. Then he remembered: He had a lawyer. "Why, yes," he said. He found Mundin's phone number in the book with some difficulty; it was after hours, but he was lucky enough to get an answer—though Mundin himself wasn't there, and the person who answered seemed, Norvell thought, to be drunk or something. But he left a message, and then there was nothing to do but wait.
Curiously, the waiting was not unpleasant. Even the thought of what Virginia would say or do about this was not particularly terrifying; what could happen worse than had already happened?
So he waited. Past six o'clock, past seven; and for a couple of hours more before he began to worry.
It was almost ten o'clock; if he didn't get out pretty soon, it would be too late to try to see good old Arnie.
Chapter Nine
"Thank you very much, Mr. Mundin," Norvell said. He looked back at the precinct house and shuddered.
Mundin said, "Don't thank me. I just put in a word with Del Dworcas, and he put in a word with the precinct. Thank him."
Norvell brightened. "Oh, I want to! I've wanted to meet Mr. Dworcas for a long time. Arnie—you know his brother Arnie is a very close friend of mine—has told me so much about him."
Mundin shrugged. "Come on, then," he said. "I'm going to the Hall anyhow."
It was only a short walk to the Hall, and the rain discouraged conversation. Mundin stalked sourly ahead of his client, his mind on G.M.L. Homes. The hope kept hammering at his good sense: Maybe he could pull it off—maybe. . . .
Norvell followed contentedly enough. Every thing was being ordered for him; he was out of a job, he had been in jail, he was hours and hours late for Virginia without a word of explanation—but none of it had been his own decision.
Decisions would come later. That would be the hard part.
Norvell stared around the Hall curiously. It wasn't as impressive as one might expect—though maybe, he thought, you had to admire the Regular Republicans for their common touch. There was certainly nothing showy about Republican Hall.
Norvell stopped, politely out of earshot, as Mundin spoke to a dark, sharp-featured man in shirtsleeves. Some kind of janitor, he guessed; he was astonished when Mundin called him over and introduced him to Del Dworcas.
Norvell said with a certain pride, "I'm really delighted to meet you, Mr. Dworcas. Your brother, Arnie, is very proud of you; we're very good friends."
Dworcas studied him thoughtfully. He asked irrelevantly, "Live around here?"
"Oh, no. Quite some distance away, but——" Dworcas seemed to lose interest. "Glad to meet you," he said, turning away. "You want to see Arnie, he's in Hussein's across the street. Now, Charles, what was it you wanted to see me about?"
Norvell was left standing with his hand extended. He blinked a little, but—after all, he reminded himself, Mr. Dworcas was a busy man. And Arnie—lucky day!—was in some place called Hussein's across the street.
On the way downstairs he caught a glimpse of the time. After eleven!
Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he told himself recklessly. He turned his coat collar up and plunged out into the rain, almost into the arms of a policeman escorting a scrawny young girl into the Hall. His heart pounded, but the policeman paid him no attention; he crossed the street to the coffee shop.
Arnie was at a table by himself, reading. He looked up as Norvell came close, and hastily put the magazine away. He said nothing, except with his incredulous eyes.
Norvell slipped into a vacant seat, smiling at his little joke on Arnie. "Surprised to see me?"
Arnie frowned. "What are you doing here?"
Norvell lost his smile. "Can—can I have some coffee, Arnie?" he asked. "I came out without any money." Arnie looked mildly outraged, but beckoned the grinning waiter.
Then Norvell told him—about the jail, and Mundin, and Del Dworcas. Arnie took it in without emotion—until Norvell stopped for breath, when Arnie permitted himself a smile.
"You've had a busy day," he said humorously! "I'm glad you met Del, though; he's a prince. Incidentally, I've taken the liberty of asking a couple of his associates to the Field Day. So when you get the tickets—"