Part 21 (1/2)
”This was handy.”
”You'll have to sign in and leave your things here.”
She flipped pages in a ledger, wrote something, then handed me the pen. I scribbled the time and my name. Then I slipped my purse off my shoulder and handed it across the counter.
”It'll be a minute.”
Ms. Cupcake secured my bag in a metal locker, then picked up a phone and spoke a few words. Ten minutes later a key turned in a green metal door to my left, then it opened and a guard waved me in. He was skeletal, his uniform drooping from his bones like clothes on a hanger.
Guard number two swept me with a handheld metal detector, then indicated I should follow. Keys jangled on his belt as we turned right and headed down a corridor lighted by fluorescents and surveilled by wall and ceiling cameras. Straight ahead I could see a large holding cell, with a window facing the hall I was in, green bars facing the other. Inside, a half-dozen men lounged on wooden benches, sat or slept on the floor, or clung to the bars like captive primates.
Beyond the drunk tank was another green metal door, the words Bloc Cellulaire Bloc Cellulaire in bold white to its right, beside that another counter. A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was arriving. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, gla.s.ses, or other personal possessions until checkout. in bold white to its right, beside that another counter. A guard was placing a bundle in one of a grid of cubicles, this one marked XYZ. I suspected a Mr. Xavier was arriving. He would not see his belt, shoelaces, jewelry, gla.s.ses, or other personal possessions until checkout.
”Man's in here,” said the guard, thrusting his chin toward a door marked Entrevue avocat Entrevue avocat, the door attorneys used. I knew Dorsey would pa.s.s through an identical door marked Entrevue detenu Entrevue detenu, for the prisoners.
I thanked him and brushed past into a small room not designed to lift prisoner or visitor morale. The walls were yellow, the trim green, the only furnis.h.i.+ngs a red vinyl counter, a wooden stool fixed to the floor, and a wall phone.
George Dorsey sat on the opposite side of a large rectangular window, back rounded, hands dangling between his knees.
”Push the b.u.t.ton when you're done,” said the guard.
With that he closed the door and we were alone.
Dorsey didn't move but his eyes locked on me as I crossed to the counter and picked up the handset.
I flashed on Gran's painting. Jesus, skull circled with thorns, forehead covered with droplets of blood. No matter where I went the gaze followed. Look, the eyes were open. Blink, they were closed. The picture was so unnerving I avoided my grandmother's bedroom my entire childhood. Dorsey had the same eyes.
Inwardly trembling, I sat and folded my hands on the countertop. The man across from me was thin and wiry, with a hump nose and razor-blade lips. A scar started at his left temple, looped his cheek, and disappeared into a circle of plumage around his mouth. His head was shaved, his only hair a dark bolt of lightning that touched down just above the scar's terminus.
I waited for him to pick up the phone and break the silence. Outside our little room I heard voices and the clang of steel against steel. Despite the intensity of his stare, Dorsey looked as though he hadn't slept in a while.
After several birthdays Dorsey smiled. The lips disappeared and small, yellow teeth took their place. But there was no mirth in his eyes. With a jerky motion he yanked the receiver from its cradle and placed it to his ear.
”You've got b.a.l.l.s coming here, lady.”
I shrugged.
”Got cigarettes?”
”Don't smoke.”
He drew both feet in, flexed his toes, and jiggled one leg up and down on the ball of his foot. Again he went mute. Then, ”I had nothing to do with that piece of work in Pointe-St-Charles.”
”So you said.” I pictured the gruesome scene at Les Appartements du Soleil.
”This a.s.shole Claudel is trying to cut my d.i.c.k off. Figures if he sweats me hard enough I'll cop to burning Cherokee.”
The jiggling intensified.
”Sergeant-Detective Claudel is simply doing his job.”
”Sergeant-Detective Claudel couldn't blow a fart and get it right.”
There were times I agreed with that a.s.sessment.
”Did you know Cherokee Desjardins?”
”I've heard of him.”
He ran a finger back and forth along a groove on the countertop.
”Did you know he was dealing?”
Now Dorsey shrugged.
I waited.
”Maybe the stuff was for personal use. You know, medicinal. I heard he had health problems.”
He ran the finger through the hair on his chin, then went back to working the groove.
”You were seen at Desjardins' building around the time he was shot. They found a b.l.o.o.d.y jacket in your apartment.”
”The jacket ain't mine.”
”And O.J. never owned the gloves.”
”What kind of moron is gonna keep souvenirs after a hit?”
He had a point.
”Why were you in that neighborhood?”
”That's my business.”
He shot forward and spread his elbows on the counter. My heart did a hop, but I didn't flinch.
”And it had nothing to do with wasting Cherokee.”
I noticed a tightening around his eyes, and wondered what scenario he was constructing for my consumption.
More silence.
”Do you know who killed him, George?”
Mistake.
”Ohh, whee!” He curled his fingers and rested his chin on the back of one hand. ”And can I call you Tempe?”