[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.She could imagine Irwin Saunders, a male chauvinist, thinking; The damn women stuck together, even if not saying it aloud.Saunders had not been one of Laura Bo’s supporters when she was a candidate for the Sequoia Club chairmanship; he had backed a male contender.Now Laura Bo, as the first woman to assume the club’s highest office, wanted to show that she could fill that post as well and impartially as any man, perhaps a good deal better.And yet … there was still her instinct that the Birdsong connection would be wrong.“We’re going in circles,” Saunders said.“I suggest we take a final vote.”Priscilla Quinn asserted, “My vote remains ‘no.’”Saunders growled, “Strongly—’yes.’”“Forgive me, Mrs.Quinn,” Pritchett said.“I vote ‘yes.’”The eyes of the other three were focused on Laura Bo.She hesitated, reviewing once more the implications and her doubts.Then she said decisively, “I will vote ‘yes.’”“That does it!” Irwin Saunders said.He rubbed his hands together.“Priscilla, why not be a good loser? Join the rest of us and make it unanimous.”Tight-lipped, Mrs.Quinn shook her head negatively.“I think you will all regret that vote.I wish my dissent to be recorded.”2While the Sequoia Club committee continued its discussion in his absence, Davey Birdsong left the club’s headquarters building humming a jaunty tune.He had not the least doubt what the outcome would be.The Quinn woman, he knew, would be against him; he was equally sure the other three—for individual reasons—would see the situation his way.The fifty thousand smackeroos was in the bag.He retrieved his car—a beat-up Chevrolet—from a nearby by parking lot and drove through the city’s center, then southeast for several miles.He stopped on a nondescript street where he had never been before but which was the sort of location where he could leave the car for several hours without attracting attention.Birdsong locked the car, memorized the street name, men walked several blocks to a busier thoroughfare where, he had observed en route, several bus lines operated.He took the first westbound bus which came along.On the way from the car he had donned a hat which he normally never wore and also put on horn-rimmed glasses which he didn’t need.The two additions changed his appearance surprisingly, so that anyone used to seeing him on TV or elsewhere would almost certainly fail to recognize him now.After riding the bus for ten minutes, Birdsong got off and hailed a cruising taxi which he directed to drive northward.Several times he glanced through the taxi’s rear window, inspecting other traffic following.The inspections seemed to satisfy him and he ordered the taxi to stop and paid it off.A few minutes later he boarded another bus, this time going east.By now his journey since parking the car had assumed the approximate shape of a square.As he left the second bus, Birdsong inspected the other passengers getting off, then began walking briskly, turning several corners and glancing back each time.After about five minutes of walking he stopped at a small row house, then ascended a half-dozen steps to a recessed front door.He depressed a bell push and stood where he could be seen from the other side of the door through a tiny oneway peephole.Almost at once the door opened and he went inside.In the small dark hallway of the Friends of Freedom hideaway Georgos Archambault asked, “Were you careful in coming here?”Birdsong growled, “Of course I was careful.I always am.” He said accusingly, “You botched the substation job.”“There were reasons,” Georgos said.“Let’s go below.” He led the way down a flight of cement stairs to the basement workroom with its usual clutter of explosives and accessories.On a makeshift couch against one wall a girl lay stretched out.She appeared to be in her twenties.Her small round face, which in other circumstances might have been pretty, was waxen pale.Stringy blonde hair, in need of combing, spilled over a grubby pillow.Her right hand was heavily bandaged, the bandage stained brown where blood had seeped through and dried.Birdsong exploded.“Why is she here?”“That’s what I was going to explain,” Georgos said.“She was helping me at the substation and a blasting cap went off.It took off two of her fingers and she was bleeding like a pig.It was dark; I wasn’t sure if we’d been heard.I did the rest of the job in a big hurry.”“And where you put the bomb was stupid and useless,” Birdsong said.“A firecracker would have done as much damage.”Georgos flushed.Before he could answer, the girl said, “I ought to go to a hospital.”“You can’t and you won’t.” Birdsong exhibited none of the affability which was his trademark.He told Georgos angrily, “You know our arrangement.Get her out of here!”Georgos motioned with his head and unhappily the girl got off the couch and went upstairs.He had made another mistake, Georgos knew, in allowing her to stay
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]