Passion's Promise (9 page)

"Lovely. What?" She looked up expectantly over the gold-rimmed cup.

"Well, let's talk for a moment first." There was something different in his eyes today. Kezia wondered what it was. "This is a little different from what you usually do."

"Pornography?" She sipped the tea and half suppressed a smile. Simpson chuckled.

"So that's what you want to do, is it?" She laughed back at him and he lit a cigar. These were from Dunhill, not Cuba. She sent him a box every month. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you then. It's definitely not pornography. It's an interview." He watched her eyes carefully. She so easily got the look of a hunted doe. There were some zones of her life where even he would not dare to tread.

"An interview?" Something closed in her face. "Well, then I guess that's that. Anything else on the agenda?"

"No, but I think we ought to talk about this a little further. Have you ever heard of Lucas Johns?"

"I'm not sure. The name says something to me, but I can't place it."

"He's a very interesting man. Mid-thirties, spent six years in prison in California for armed robbery, and served his sentence in Folsom, San Quentin—all the legendary horror spots one hears about. Well, he lived through them, and survived. He was among the first to organize labor unions inside the prisons, and make a lot of noise about prisoners' rights. And he still keeps a hand in it now that he's out. I gather that's his whole life; he lives for the cause of abolishing prisons, and bettering the prisoners' lot in the meantime. Even refused his first parole because he hadn't finished what he'd started. The second time they offered him parole, they didn't give him a choice. They wanted him out of their hah*, so he got out and got organized on the outside. He's had a tremendous impact on the public awareness in terms of what really happens in our prisons. Matter of fact, he wrote a very powerful book on die subject when he first got out a year or two ago, can't quite remember when. It got him a lot of speaking engagements, television appearances, that sort of thing. And it's all the more amazing that he'd do that, since he's still on parole. I imagine it must be risky for him to remain controversial."

"I would think so."

"He served six years of his sentence, but he's not a free man. As I understand it, they have some sort of  system in California called the indeterminate sentence, which means you get sentenced rather vaguely. I think in his case the sentence was five years to life. He served six. I suppose he could have served ten or twenty, at the discretion of the prison authorities, but I imagine they got tired of having him around. To say the least."

Kezia nodded, intrigued. Simpson had counted on that.

"Did he kill anyone in the robbery?"

"No, I'm fairly certain he didn't. Just hell-raising, I think. He had a rather wild youth, from what I gathered in his book. Got most of his education in prison, finished high school, got a college degree, and a master's in psychology."

"Industrious in any case. Has he been in trouble since he got out?"

"Not that kind of trouble. He seems to be past that now. The only trouble I'm aware of is that he is dancing a tightrope with the publicity he gets for his agitation on behalf of prisoners. And the reason for this interview now is that he has another book coming out, a very uncompromising expose" of existing conditions, and his views on the subject are sort of a follow-up to the first book, but a good deal more brutal. It's going to create quite a furor, from what I hear. This is a good time for a piece about him, Kezia. And you'd be a good one to write it. You did those two articles on the prison riots in Mississippi last year. This isn't unfamiliar territory to you, not entirely."

"This isn't a documented piece on a news event either. It's an interview, Jack." Her eyes sought his and held them. "And you know I don't do interviews. Besides, he's not talking about Mississippi. He's talking about California prisons. And I don't know anything more about them than what I read in the paper, just like everyone else." It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it.

"The principles are the same, Kezia. You know that. And the piece we've been offered is about Lucas Johns, not the California prison system. He can tell you plenty about that. You can read his first book for that matter. That'll tell you all you need to know, if you can stomach it."

"What's he like?"

Simpson restrained a smile at the question. Maybe . . . maybe . . . He frowned and replaced his cigar in the ashtray. "Strange, interesting, powerful, very closed and very open. I've seen him speak, but I've never met him. One gets the Impression that he'll tell anyone anything about prisons, but nothing about himself. He'd be a challenge to interview. I'd say he's very guarded, but appealing in an odd way. He looks like a man who fears nothing because he has nothing to lose."

"Everyone has something to lose, Jack."

"You're thinking of yourself, my dear, but some don't Some have already lost all they care about. He had a wife and child before he went to prison. The child died in a hit-and-run accident, and the wife committed suicide two years before his release. Maybe he's one of those who has already lost. . . . Something like that can break you. Or give you an odd kind of freedom. I think he has that. He's something of a god to those who know him well. You'll hear a lot of conflicting reports about him—warm, loving, kind, or ruthless, brutal, cold. It depends on whom you speak to. In his own way, he's something of a legend, and a mystery. No one seems to know the man underneath."

"You seem to know a lot about him."

"He interests me. I've read his book, seen him speak, and I did a little research before I asked you to come in and discuss this with me, Kezia. It's just the kind of piece I think you might be brilliant with. In his own way, he's as hidden as you are. Maybe it'll teach you something. And it's going to be a piece that will be noticed."

"Which is precisely why I can't do it." She was suddenly firm again, but for a little while she had wavered. Simpson still had hope.

"Oh? Obscurity is now something you desire?"

"Not obscurity, discretion. Anonymity. Peace of mind. None of this is new to you. We've gone over it before."

"In theory. Not in practice. And right now you have a chance to do an article that would not only interest you, but would be an extremely good opportunity for you professionally, Kezia. I can't let you pass that up. Not without telling you why I think you ought to do it, in any case. I think you'd be a fool not to."

"And a bigger fool yet if I did it. I can't. I have too much at stake. How could I even interview him without causing a certain 'furor* myself, as you call it. From what you're telling me, he's not a man who passes unnoticed. And just how long do you think it would take for someone else to notice me? Or Johns himself, for that matter. He'd probably know who I am." She shook her head with certainty now.

"He's not that sort of man, Kezia. He doesn't give a damn about the social register, the debutante cotillions or anything else that happens in your world. He's too busy in his own. I'd be willing to bet he's never even heard your name. He's from California, he bases himself in the Midwest now, he's probably never been to Europe, and you can be damn sure that he doesn't read the social pages."

"You can't be sure of that."

"I'd almost swear to it. I can sense what he is, and I already know what he cares about. Exclusively. He's a rebel, Kezia. A self-educated, intelligent, totally devoted rebel. Not a playboy. For God's sake, girl, be sensible. This is your career you're playing with. He's giving a speech in Chicago next week, and you could cover that easily, and quietly. An interview with him in his offices the next day, and that's it. No one at the speech will know you, and I'm certain that he won't. There's no reason at all why K. S. Miller won't cover you adequately. And that's all he'll know or care about. He'll be much more interested in the kind of coverage you're giving him than in what you do with your private life. That's just not the sort of thing he thinks about."

"Is he a homosexual?"

"Possibly, I don't know. I don't know what a man does during six years in prison. Nor does it matter. The point is what he stands for, and how he stands for it. That's the crux here. And if I thought, even for a moment, that writing this piece would cause you embarrassment, I wouldn't suggest it. You should know that by now. All I can tell you is that I am emphatically sure that he won't have the faintest idea about, or interest in, your private life."

"But there's no way you can be sure of that. What if he's an adventurer, a sharp con man, who picks up on who I am, and figures out some angle where that could be useful to him? He could turn right around and have me all over the papers just for interviewing him."

Simpson began to look impatient. He stubbed out the cigar.

"Look, you've written about events, places, political happenings, psychological profiles. You've done some excellent work, but you've never done a piece like this. I think you could do it. And do it well. And I think you should. It's a major opportunity for you, Kezia. And the point is: are you a writer or not?"

"Obviously. But it just seems terribly unwise to me. Like a breach of my personal rules. I've had peace for seven years because I've been totally, utterly, and thoroughly careful. If I start doing interviews now, and if I do this one . . . there will be others, and ... no. I just can't"

"Why not at least give it some thought? I have his last book, if you want to read it. I really think you should at least do that much before you make up your mind."

She hesitated for a long moment and then nodded carefully. It was the only concession she would make; she was still sure she wouldn't do the piece. She couldn't afford to. Maybe Lucas Johns had nothing left to lose, but she did; she had everything to lose. Her peace of mind, and the carefully guarded secret life she had taken so long to build. That life was what kept her going. She wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it, not for anyone. Not for Mark Wooly, not for Jack Simpson, and not for some unknown ex-con with a hot "cause." To hell with him. No one was worth it.

"All right, I'll read die book." She smiled for the first time in
half
an hour, then shook her head ruefully.

"You certainly know how to sell your arguments. Wretch!"

But Simpson knew he had not yet convinced her. All he could hope was that her own curiosity and Lucas Johns' written words would do the job. He felt in bis bones that she had to do this one, and he was seldom wrong.

"Simpson, you really are a first-water wretch! You make it sound like my whole career depends on this ... or my life even."

"Perhaps it does. And you, my dear, are a first-water writer. But I think you're getting to a point when you have to make some choices. And the fact is that they're not going to be easy whether you make them now, over this particular article, or later, over something else. My main concern is that you make those choices, and don't just let life, and your career, pass you by."

"I didn't think that 'life' or my career was passing me by." She raised an eyebrow cynically, amused. It was unlike him to be so concerned, or so outspoken.

"No, you've done well until now. There has been a healthy progression, a good evolution, but only to a point. The crunch is bound to come sometime though. That moment when you can't 'get by" anymore, when you can't just 'organize' everything to suit all your needs. You'll have to decide what you really want, and act on it."

"And you don't think I've been doing that?" She was surprised when he shook his head.

"You haven't had to. But I think it's time you did."

"Such as?"

"Such as who do you want to be? K. S. Miller, writing serious pieces that could really further your career, or Martin Hallam tattling on your friends under a pseudonym, or the Honorable Kezia Saint Martin sweeping in and out of debutante balls and the Tour d'Argent in Paris? You can't have it all, Kezia. Not even you."

"Don't be absurd, Simpson." He was making her distinctly uncomfortable, and all over this article about an ex-convict labor agitator. Nonsense. "You know perfectly well that the Hallam column is a joke to me," she said, annoyed. "I never really took it seriously, and certainly not in the last five years. And you also know that my career as K. S. Miller is what really matters to me. The deb parties and dinners at the Tour d'Argent, as you put it," she glowered at him pointedly, "are something I do to pass time, out of habit, and to keep the Hallam column lively. I don't sell my soul for that way of life." But she knew too well that that was a lie.

"I'm not sure that's true, and if it is you might well find that sooner or later the price you will have to pay is your soul, or your career."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Not dramatic. Honest And concerned."

"Well, don't be 'concerned,' not in that area. You know what I have to do, what's expected of me. You don't change hundreds of years of tradition in a few short years at a typewriter. Besides, lots of writers work under pseudonyms."

"Yes, but they don't live under pseudonyms. And I disagree with you about changing traditions. You're right on one score, you don't change traditions in a few years. You change them suddenly, brutally, with a bloody revolution."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"Or 'civilized,' is that it? No, you're right, it's not civilized. Revolution never is, and change is never comfortable. I'm beginning to think you ought to read Johns' book for your own sake. In your own way, you've been in prison for almost thirty years." His voice softened as he looked into her eyes. "Kezia, is that how you want to live? At the expense of your happiness?"

"It isn't a question of that. And sometimes there's no choice." She looked away from him, partly annoyed, partly hurt.

"But that's precisely what we're discussing. And there is always a choice." Or didn't she see that? "Are you going to live your life for an absurd 'duty,' to please your trustee ten years after you come of age? Are you going to cater to parents who have been dead for twenty years? How can you possibly expect that of yourself? Why? Because they died? That's not your fault for God's sake, and times have changed; you've changed. Or is this what that young man you're engaged to expects of you? If that's the case, perhaps the time will come when you'll have to choose between him and your work, and maybe you'd best face that now."