DESIRE NO MORE-6
610 Words
MACKENZIE DIDN’T SEEM to be taking any notes, or paying any special attention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But the questions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish could see the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under the man’s lapel.
“Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven’t you?” MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.
Ish nodded.
“How’s that?”
The corners of Isherwood’s mouth twitched, and he said “Yes” for the recorder’s benefit.
“Odd jobs, first of all?”
“Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. After I was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.”
“Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn’t it?”
“Ahuh.”
“Took some of your pay in flying lessons.”
“Right.”
MacKenzie’s face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair, seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, his stubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—only a step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tired strand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.
Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations. This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letter dangerous—because of it.
“No family.”
Ish shrugged. “Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father was making good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need to worry about them.”
Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought. MacKenzie’s face did not go into a blank of repression—but it still passed no judgements.
“How’s things between you and the opposite s*x?”
“About normal.”
“No wife—no steady girl.”
“Not a very good idea, in my racket.”
MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swung toward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimed between Isherwood’s eyes. “You can’t go!”
Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in his temple veins. “What!” he roared.
MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burst was over, and his face was apologetic, “Sorry,” he said. He seemed genuinely abashed. “Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go, all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions and drives.”
Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and more fear than he wanted to admit. “I’m due at a briefing,” he said tautly. “You through with me?”
MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. “Sorry.”
Ish ignored the man’s obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send a parting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. “Big gun in the psychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo’s slipping, Doc. They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy, hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn’t do anything to help me!”
“I don’t know,” MacKenzie said softly. “I wish I did.”
Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.
Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn’t seemed to take up that much of his time.
He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, he lost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization that nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of “Marty!” ringing in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster, as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.
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