The set went black and the sound stopped all at once.
From his chair Pat Harris said, “Welcome, Boss. I figured you’d be along.” He laid the remote control I on the coffee table and jumped up out of the chair, “Drink?” There was faint hostility behind the words.
“I think a drink would be a good idea,” Paul said. He sat down and looked around.
There was a bar and a full-size pool table, a large Naugahyde-covered sofa and matching chair, a card table with cards and poker chips set out, a dart board on one wall, three darts in the bull’s-eye.
“Nice place you have here,” Paul said. He accepted his drink, nodded his thanks, tasted the mellow Scotch—Chivas Regal, at a guess, he thought. “Very nice,” he said.
“Yeah.” Pat Harris was a small quick man. His restless eyes watched Paul’s face carefully. “Man works hard, he ‘ likes to live it up a little.” Harris paused. “Just a working stiff,” he said. “I do what I’m told.”
Paul ignored the dark and silent television set, and concentrated on the man. “Do you intend to keep on the same way?” He said. He paused. “Doing what you’re told?”
Harris lighted a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. With the cigarette still hanging from his lip, he tore the match into small pieces; his movements were sudden and jerky. “I been thinking about that.” He smiled quickly, without meaning. “Funny, I was just thinking about it when you come down the stairs.”
Paul said slowly, carefully, “And what conclusion had * you come to?”
Another huge cloud of smoke. Harris leaned forward to tap ashes into the coffee-table ashtray. He leaned back again. “Like this, you know what I mean, let’s say, you know, work for a guy. He’s a good Joe, treats you right, so you owe him, you know, something better than a kick in the teeth, don’t you?”
“I think that is a reasonable viewpoint,” Paul said. “A friendly view,” he added.
“On the other hand,” Harris said, “you know what I mean? a guy has to, you know, look out for himself. This is a dog-eat-dog world. You get yours or you get nothing.” He paused, waiting.
“I think there is some cogency in that view too,” Paul said.
“Big word.”
And big words are a mistake, Paul told himself, because they seem to talk down. But it was too late to do anything but ignore the slip. “Go on,” he said.
“The way I see it,” Harris ‘ said, “you know, balance one against the other and try to see what’s—right.” Paul nodded and sipped his Scotch. All at once it tasted foul and there was a burning sensation in his chest. Pure and simple tension, he told himself. “And,” he said calmly enough, “how did you decide?”
Harris took the cigarette from the ashtray, inhaled deeply, and blew four large smoke rings in rapid succession before he spoke. “I hear Bert McGraw’s in the hospital. Heart attack. I hear he may not make it.” The restless eyes searched Paul’s face.
“I can’t say,” Paul said. “He had a heart attack, yes.” He waved one hand. “We were talking about your thought. Bert doesn’t matter at the moment.”
“That,” Harris said, “is crap. If I thought I’d have that old man looking for me with blood in his eye—” He shook his head.
“Bert,” Paul said, “showed me some change orders.” His voice was wholly calm. “He asked me if we made the changes. I said yes, of course we made them, why should we not?”
Harris wiped his mouth. “Jesus! Now I know you’ve flipped.”
Paul shook his head. Never mind the burning sensation. Never mind anything but this. “The change orders had surfaced,” he said. “I don’t know how, but Will Giddings found them. No matter what I said to Bert, they were going to tear into the walls to see for them-j selves. So the only thing I could say was, yes, of course—we made the changes. Look at the signature: Nat Wilson, Caldwell’s bright-haired boy. Should we question word from on high?” His voice underscored the last four words.
Harris stubbed out his cigarette carefully. Then he looked up again’. “I don’t know,” he said. “You use big words and you make it sound okay, but I don’t know.” He stood up and walked across the room, turned and walked back to his chair. He dropped into it with an almost audible thud. “I’ll level with you,” he said. “You been a good Joe. I’ve worked for some crummy bastards, I’d just like the chance to kick their teeth in, but you’re okay.”
“Thank you,” Paul said, and meant it.
“I’ll tell you how it is,” Harris said. “I got two things I can, you know, do. Two ways I can go. First”—he held up one finger—“I can go down to City Hall when this is over.” He gestured toward the television set. “I can say, ‘Jesus, if I’d of even guessed, I’d of told him to shove it.’ I You, I mean. ‘But,’ I can say, ‘what the hell, he’s the boss, and he’s an engineer and he says the changes are okay and the change orders are signed by the architect I and who the hell am I to argue any more than I did?’” There was silence. Paul said without expression, ‘Your only argument, Pat, was about how much it was worth not to argue.”
“That’s what you say,” Harris said. “But that isn’t, you know, what I say. I say I did argue, and I can come up with three, four guys who’ll say sure I did, but you told me everything was okay, so I went ahead. And Harry, the inspector, signed the work off, so why should I even wonder about it?”
Easy, Paul told himself, easy. “And what is the—other way you can go? ’
Harris was unable to sit still. He jumped up, crossed the room again, and then turned but did not come back to his chair. “You told McGraw we made the changes because we had the orders with Wilson’s signature on them. Okay, I can say the same. I can say you and I talked about them, wondered about them, but, goddammit, when Caldwell’s office says you do something, that’s fucking well what you do. That Caldwell, he don’t mess around, the cold little bastard.” Harris paused. “That’s the other way.”
“A very good way,” Paul said.
Harris walked slowly back to his chair. He lowered himself into it carefully. “A couple things,” he said. “Harry the inspector for one.”
“Harry won’t cause any trouble,” Simmons said. “Or if he does, it will only be for himself.” He paused. “You said a couple of things. What else?”
Harris’s face was expressionless, the face of a poker player studying his opponent. “You remember a kid named Jimmy?”
“No.”
Harris smiled faintly, scornfully. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. He was just a kid, worked in one of my crews, went to engineering school at night.” He paused and lighted a fresh cigarette. “He didn’t like the changes that were coming through. Especially, he didn’t like the change order taking out that primary-power safety-ground circuit. He said it was dangerous and he was going to talk to Nat Wilson about it.” He paused again. “He wouldn’t listen to me or Harry.”
“I see,” Paul said, and that was all.
“He didn’t get to talk to Wilson,” Harris said. “He had an accident instead. He fell in front of an IRT express at rush hour.”
In the silence, “I see,” Paul said again. “But why tell me? Is your conscience bothering you?”
Harris’s smile-this time was real and meaningful. “You might stand up at that,” he said. “And if I back you up, I got to gamble that you won’t fold and try to put it all on me.”
“I’m not going to fold,” Paul said. He sipped his whiskey. It tasted better.
“Just one more thing,” Harris said. “What’s in it for me?”
“You’ve already had yours.”
Harris shook his head. “Uh-uh. I got paid for doing a job. I did it. This is something else.”