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“I took the Luger off of Frankie Gee. I didn’t want him parking one in my brisket.”
“Well, Frankie screwed you from inside a body bag. How do you like that?”
“Where was the Luger stolen from?”
“See what your lawyer can find out before you enter your plea.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We can hold you as a material witness indefinitely. The possession charge is a bone for my colleagues. They’ll accuse me of doing favors for you and Dave, but eventually, they’ll forget about it. No, no need to thank me. I like taking the heat for you two.”
“You had my Caddy towed. You rousted me on a phony beef. Your colleagues are bums. I’m supposed to be grateful?” Clete rubbed the fatigue from his face and looked wanly out the window. “Put me in an isolation unit, will you? I’m not up to the tank.”
“You were protecting Frankie Gee from somebody.”
“Yeah, from whoever was trying to smoke him.”
“Who?”
Clete seemed to think for a long time, his forehead propped on the heel of his hand. Then he looked up at Dana Magelli as though he had just come to a profound conclusion. “I saw the trusty headed down to the tank with the food cart. If I don’t go to the tank, can I still have a sandwich and coffee?” he said.
IN CLETE’S VIEW, few people understood what jails represented or what it was like to be confined in one, regardless of the duration. People were not locked in jails simply because they had committed crimes. The commission of the crime was secondary to the larger issue, namely, that jails provide a home for defective and often hapless people who can’t cut it on the outside. In an era when minor offenders have to get on a waiting list to serve their sentences, almost anyone stacking serious time in a parish, state, or federal prison is not only pathological or brain-dead but would not have it any other way, at least in the gospel according to Clete.
He knew from his own life that in many ways, a jail is like a late-hour low-bottom bar, one with no windows or clocks or direct lighting. Once you are safely inside, time stops, and so do all comparisons. No matter how much damage you have done to your life, no matter how shameful and degrading and cowardly and depraved your conduct has become, there is always somebody on the tier who has been dealt a worse hand or committed worse deeds than you.
The biggest downside of incarceration, however, isn’t stacking the time. It’s the realization that you are in the right place and you put yourself there so someone else could feed and take care of you. Titty-babies come in all stripes, many of them with tats from the wrist to the armpit. It isn’t coincidence that mainline recidivists usually have a heavy commitment to topless bars.
Clete didn’t have all of these thoughts, but he had some of them, and each applied to him. He no longer kept tally of the holding cells and booking rooms he had been in or the times he had been hooked on a chain and transported from jail to morning court, the professional miscreants on the chain eyeing him cautiously. Was it accident that again and again he found himself in their midst, trying to rationalize his behavior, staring at a urine-streaked drainhole in the floor while a night-count man went down the corridor, raking his baton across the bars on the cells? Miscreants broke into the slams, not out of them. They all knew one another, shared needles and women the way ragpickers share clothes, passing their diseases around without remorse or recrimination. The die had been cast for most of them the day they were born. What was Clete’s excuse?
The light fixture outside his holding cell was defective and kept flickering like a damaged insect, causing him to blink constantly, until his eyelids felt like sandpaper. The paint in the cell was a yellowish-gray and still bore the watermarks and soft decay from five days of submersion during Katrina, when the inmates were left by their warders to slosh about in their own feces until they were rescued by a group of deputies from Iberia Parish. Drawings of genitalia were scratched on the walls, and the names of inmates had been burned onto the ceiling with twists of flaming newspaper, probably during the storm. The toilet bowl had no seat, and the rim was encrusted with dried matter that Clete didn’t want to think about. As he lay on the metal bench against the back wall, his arm across his eyes, he wondered why people always felt compassion toward political prisoners. A political prisoner had the solace of knowing he had done nothing to deserve his fate. The miscreant knew he had ferreted his way into the belly of the beast deliberately, in the same way a tumblebug burrows its way into feces. Could a person have worse knowledge about himself?
At eight-fifteen A.M. a screw unlocked Clete’s cell door. The screw was a dour lifetime employee of the system, with creases as deep as a prune’s in his face and five o’clock shadow by ten in the morning. “You just got sprung,” he said.
“Nig Rosewater is out there?” Clete said.
“Nig Rosewater hasn’t been up this early since World War Two.”
“Who bailed me out?”
“A woman.”
“Who?”
“How would I know? Why don’t you take your problems somewhere else, Purcel?”
For some reason, the remark and the flatness of the screw’s tone bothered Clete in a way he couldn’t define. “I do something to set you off?”
“Yeah, you’re here,” the screw said.
THE GIRL HE had met in the nightclub way down in Terrebonne Parish was standing in the foyer on the other side of the possessions desk, her chestnut hair backlit by the sunlight out on the street. “You went my bail?” Clete said.
“You’re good for it, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know my name? How’d you know I was in the can?”
“A friend of mine at Motor Vehicles ran your tag. I called your office, and your secretary told me where you were.”
“That doesn’t sound right. Miss Alice doesn’t give out that kind of information.”
