Part 3 (1/2)
”Real modern methods, King, spoiling Meyer's face.”
”All you got is my word, but it isn't like that around here.”
”Then why did Deputy Billy Cable bring me through here to admire Meyer before he took me to Hyzer?”
”Billy got gnawed down to the bare bone on that one. He was off in the MP's for a while. Sometimes he forgets Mister Norm doesn't like those little tricks.”
”Now how would you know Hyzer came down on Billy Cable?”
”You learn to read that man's face. It isn't easy, but you have to learn. I saw he was upset, and I could guess why. He'd already found out about Meyer, and he was upset about that, too, about it happening at all. By now he's got Billy all peeled raw.”
”Who did it?”
”I didn't see a thing.”
Priskitt came to the cell. ”I thought this man had probly jumped you and made good his daring escape, champ. You want me to lock you in there with him so you can keep the dialogue going, or do you want to go back to work? As a special favor to Mister Norm.”
”He called for me?”
”He surely did.”
And with a single bulge-eyed look of anxiety, King Sturnevan went off, in a light-footed, fat-jouncing trot.
”The department seems to have a plent.i.tude of deputies, Mr. Priskitt.”
He looked at me happily. ”Plent.i.tude! One rarely hears the good words around here, Mr. McGee. I would say that Mister Norm has an adequacy of deputies. Not a superfluity. Whatever Mister Norm feels is necessary for the pursuit of his sworn responsibility, he asks for. And gets. We must chat later.”
He hurried away and I stretched out...
Four.
IMMOVABLE BUNK and a thin hard mattress pad. Cement floor with a center drain. Bright bulb countersunk behind heavy wire mesh in the cement ceiling. Iron sink with a single iron faucet and no drain pipe so that water from the sink would run down the pitch of the floor to the drain three feet away. Toilet with no lid or seat. No window. No way to see any other cell through the top half of the door which was of st.u.r.dy bars. The lower half was steel plate.
Stretch out on the back, forearm across the eyes. Shove the whole d.a.m.ned mess over into a corner cupboard and kick the door shut. Save it until later, because trying to think about it would only bring the anger back. Angry men do a bad job of thinking.
There had been a lot of waiting-time in my life. Sometimes it was cat-time, watching the mouse hole for all the endless dreary hours. Sometimes it had been mouse-time, waiting all the day through for the darkness and the time for running.
So you learn the special resources of both memory and imagination. You let the mind run through the old valleys, the back hills, and pastures of your long-ago years. You take an object. Roller skate. The kind from way back, that fastened to the shoes instead of coming with shoes attached. Look and feel and design of the skate key. With old worn shoes you turn the key too much and you start to buckle the sole of the shoe. Spin one wheel and listen to the ball-bearinged whir, and feel the gritty texture of the metal abraded by the sidewalks. Remember how slow and strange and awkward it felt to walk again, after all the long Sat.u.r.day on skates, after going way to the other end of town. Remember the soreness where the strap bit into the top of your ankle. When it got too sore, you could stop and undo the strap and run it through the top laces of your shoe. Thick dark scab on the abraded knee. The sick-making smack of skull against sidewalk. Something about the other end of the skate key... Of course! A hex wrench orifice that fit the out on the bottom of the skate so you could expand it or contract it to fit the shoe. If you didn't tighten it enough, or if it worked loose, then the skate would stealthily lengthen, the clamps no longer fitting the edge of the shoe sole, and at some startling moment the next thrust would spin the skate around, and you either took a very nasty spill, or ended up coasting on the good skate, holding the other foot with dangling skate up in the air until you came to a place to sit down and get the key out and tighten everything again. Roller skate or sand box or apple tree or cellar door. Playground swing or lumberyard or blackboard or kite string. Because that was when all the input was vivid. All of it is still there. So you find a little door back there, and like Alice, you walk through it into the magic country, where each bright flash of memory illuminates yet another.
It doesn't work that way for everybody. Once I worked a stakeout for two months with a quiet little man. We were talked out after two days. But he seemed totally patient, totally content. After a month I asked him what he thought about. He said he was a rubber bridge addict. So mentally he would deal himself a random hand, then out of the thirty-nine cards left, deal a random hand to the opponent at his left, then to the other one at his right, and give what was left to his partner. Then he would go through the bidding, the play of the cards, and mark the result on the running scorepad in his head. He said that sometimes when he was a little fatigued, he might forget whether the jack of diamonds had been dealt at his left or his right. Then he would have everybody throw their hands in and he would deal again.
When the people we were covering finally made their move, there was a communication problem. We couldn't get through to the vehicle parked six blocks away. So the bridge player handled that problem, at a dead run. He got there in time and they closed that door before the quarry tried it. He sat in the back seat, they said, and gasped and laughed, then squeaked and died. I saw him for a couple of moments, and thought of all the bridge games that died inside his head when all the other things stopped.
”McGee?”
I looked up and got up and went over to the door. ”Sheriff?”
”I researched that problem you raised, McGee. I do not want to take any chance of reversal of conviction on a very minor point. I think I am right. If tomorrow were a working day, I would take my chances. But running it over into a Sat.u.r.day might be questionable. It's a little after four now, but you should be able to reach your Mr. Sibelius, I think.”
The operator left the line open on my person-to-person collect call, and I could hear the girl at the other end being professionally indefinite about where and how Lennie could be located.
”Operator, is that Miss Carmichael?”
”Trav? This is Annie, yes.”
”Are you accepting the collect call, Miss?”
”Well... I guess so. Yes. Travis? Why collect, for goodness' sake?”
”It seemed simpler, on account of I am here in the county jail in Cypress County on suspicion of killing people.”
No gasps or cooing or jos.h.i.+ng or stupid questions. She went to work. She got the phone number. She said that if we were in luck, she could catch Lennie between the apartment and the marina, on his telephone in his car. If he had already taken off, she wouldn't get him until he monitored the Miami marine broadcast at six o'clock. Then she broke it off.
I told the hero sheriff the call would come back quickly, or not until after six. He looked at his watch. ”Wait here for ten minutes. Stand over there against the wall.”
No readable inflection, no emotion in the delivery. So you stand against the wall, in your ratty straw slippers, the pant legs of the coveralls ending about five inches above where pants should end, the top b.u.t.tons unb.u.t.toned because it is too small across chest and shoulders, the sleeves ending midway between elbow and wrist. So you are a large grotesque unmannerly child, standing and watching an adult busy himself with adult things. Man in a dark business suit, crisp white s.h.i.+rt, dark tie, dark gloss of hair, opening folders, making small marginal notes.
The law, in its every dimension of the control of criminals, is geared to limited, stunted people. Regardless of what social, emotional, or economic factor stunted them, the end product is hate, suspicion, fear, violence, and despair. These are weaknesses, and the system is geared to exploit weaknesses. Mister Norm was a creature outside my experience. There were no labels I could put on him.
He answered the phone, held it out to me. ”h.e.l.lo, Lennie,” I said.
”From this phone booth, Trav, I can see the Witchcraft, all fueled and ready, and my guests carrying the food and booze aboard, and a pair of blond twins slathering oil on each other up on the fly bridge. It was nice to have known you, pal.”
”Likewise. Take off, playboy. Cruise the ocean blue in your funny hat. Kiss the twins for me.”
”So all right! Bad?”
”And cute. And for once in your brief meteoric career, you'd be representing total innocence.”
”Now isn't that nice! And I can't get into a front page with it, because if I make you a star, you are going to have to find useful work or starve. Status right now?”
”Held for questioning. I waived my rights, and then all of a sudden a very bad question came along, and after thinking it over, I took it all back.” My mind was racing, trying to figure out some way to clue him into checking out Sheriff Norman Hyzer, because, had I been sure of Hyzer's integrity-and sanity-I would have explained the envelope he had found.
”Innocence can answer any kind of question that comes up.”
”If everybody is truly interested in the concept, Lennie.”
”Chance of the law there looking for a setup?”
”It's possible.”
”Annie said something about killing people.”
”At least one, they claim. They haven't said why. Just hinted about some kind of job long ago netting nine hundred thou.”