made any difference whether I believed it or not. Brown looked sick and kept shaking his head, fingering his broken nose.
A man with a press card finally pushed out past the cops guarding the door. People rushed at him, knocking the press card from his lapel and I heard him say, “There's a doctor with Anthony. He's suffered a heart attack but the doc says it isn't serious.”
While I was trying to get closer to the reporter—and being bounced around on the fringe of the crowd, I saw the newsman Jackson introduced me to come out. I grabbed his arm as he headed down the steps, probably making for a phone. “Remember me? From Mr. Anthony's publishing house? How serious is his attack?”
“I think he merely fainted. How about that jury! The doctor says he'll be okay. Second degree, I never figured on that...”
“Are you sure Matt's all right?”
“That's the doctor's statement They have Anthony on a cot, waiting for an ambulance. They gave him a shot of something. He's able to sit up and talk.”
Brown and I hung around for another ten minutes. Finally I said, “We might as well go. I'll pick you up in front of your rooming house.”
We left Riverside a half-hour later, and at first we didn't talk at all. Then I said, “How in the hell did the jury ever arrive at that verdict? What is 2nd degree?”
“Killing without premeditation, but with intent to kill. I suppose it means if there's a gun around, you suddenly pick it up and shoot. 20 years to life. Poor Matt, he'll never come out alive.”
“I don't understand it. I thought they'd let him go. Wagner's summing up didn't impress me. Saying,
“Isn't repetition the secret of advertising?”
“Cut it out, Hank. That was a lot of crap.”
“To you, but you weren't on the jury. Wagner's clever, he pulled out all the stops with that stuff about 'hick' cops and 'yokels.' And tying in all that violent trash Matt has written. When you come down to it, a man thinking of violence for any length of time probably would turn violent.”
“You think Matt really meant to kill her?”
“I still think he had nothing to do with it. But that's my little opinion.”
“Jackson will probably do something on appeal, a new trial.”
Brown was silent, staring at the dash board. Then he said softly, “Seems so damn wasteful. The fruits of ten years of writing summed up by a kick in the nuts and slapping breasts.”
“What the devil, it was merely a way of making a living.”
“Matt should have done something else for pork chops.”
“Why? What difference would it have made if he'd been writing copy? Or if he spent 8 hours a day driving a bus, or standing behind a counter? Don't tell me you think he would have written the great American novel in his spare time. That's a crock.”
“No, Matt would probably have never written a line then. That isn't the point, he betrayed his talent, prostituted it. It would have been better if he had let it die.”
“Look, Hank, as long as we do anything we don't want to do, for money, security, or whatever you wish to call it... I mean, you're working at a job you don't especially like now. Advertising is just a way of earning a buck for me... aren't we being whores? I think Matt knew exactly what he was doing: knew he could only be a good hack writer and nothing more.”
Brown shrugged. “He told me something like that, the last time we talked. I still think it's a tragic waste of time and ability. He should have—”
“Let's drop it,” I cut in, angry. It seemed to me we were kicking Matt when he was down. “Let's get off the pious soapbox.”
He slapped me on the leg. “Sure, Norm. We're both a little on edge.”
We talked, or rather Brown did, about a number of things on the drive to New York. Brown had a theory about the popularity of wrestling—people liked to see violence but at the same time because they knew the bouts were acts, were secretly relieved and could go on believing there wasn't any violence about them. Somehow, Brown even got around to the life of cats, debunking the idea cats are shrewd and have an easier time surviving than dogs. I wasn't listening. I was still shocked by the verdict. Also I wondered if I had left Riverside too hastily: Bill Long might expect me to see what happened to Matt's manuscript.
As I stopped to pay the toll at the Triborough Bridge the radio in an auto on the next toll line was on. We heard a newscaster saying: ”... and out in Riverside, the trial of Matt Anthony took a fateful twist a few minutes ago when the noted author died of a heart attack after being found guilty of murder in the second degree, in connection with the death of his wife. Mr. Anthony collapsed upon hearing the jury's verdict. Although he seemingly recovered under a doctor's care, Mr. Anthony suffered a second and fatal attack while in an ambulance on his way to the prison hospital. When he first heard the verdict, Mr. Anthony actually laughed, as if the verdict were a great joke.
“In foreign news, the....”
I stared at Brown, my mouth dry. The old guy seemed on the verge of tears. It took me a second to say, “Well, perhaps it's for the best. Matt wasn't meant for prison.”
Brown fingered his nose and didn't speak.
The cars behind me began blowing their horns. I drove up, handed the attendant a quarter. As I drove on I told Brown, “At least we'll never know, now, if he killed Fran-cine or not.”
Brown merely shrugged. When I let him off at a subway station he just waved and disappeared down the steps. I put the car in the garage and decided to phone Bill Long. He would be home by now. But when I called his house I was told he was still at the office. I called him there and he said, “I've been waiting for your call, Norm.”
