A Chicago Lawyer Sees Sam I 107

A bit startled at this apparently irrelevant question Yager asked, “Sam who?”

“Sam Shoemaker.”

“No-o-o. Why?”

“Oh, I just thought you might. You know nothing about him at all?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Yager, fencing. “The name is vaguely familiar. Should I know him?”

“He’s written quite a number of books. I thought maybe you’d read one.”

“No, I’m afraid not. What kind of stuff does he write?”

“Some of his books are over there on the shelf.”

As a matter of pure courtesy, the lawyer walked to the bookcase in question, looked at the titles of the Shoemaker books, came back, sat down, and said nothing. The two conferees at once resumed their business discussion, but after a few more minutes, Miss Nicholl again abruptly remarked: “You know, you really should meet Sam.”

“Well, I’m sure I’d like to.” Cantwell spoke politely but, inwardly annoyed, he returned immediately to the crucial publishing details under discussion.

Five more minutes on business and then, to his utter astonishment, he heard Miss Nicholl say, “Would you meet Sam if I made an appointment?”

Not trusting himself to say a word, the lawyer stared. Running through his mind was, What in hell has Sam Shoemaker got to do with what we’re talking about! If this gal really wants me to meet her man Sam, she sure has missed the bus.

By now it was clear that “Sam” was a clergyman. Unfortunately, though an ardent believer, Cantwell’s two decades of latent resentment against “churchianity” were bubbling onto the floor of his consciousness. What came out next was short and curt and his body language gave him away. He could conceive of nothing rational, logical, or even supplementary which might justify a meeting with Sam Shoemaker, and for once he decided to give up all attempts at concealing his feelings.

Again Miss Nicholl wisely dropped the subject.

About 4:30 P.M., when Cantwell started to say goodbye, Louise Nicholl was also on her feet. “Will you at least do me a favor?” she asked abruptly.