and the next two after that.
Vulnerability wasn’t a quality I ever associated with him, but that’s what it sounded like, on more than one level. I liked thinking of him as invincible, by temperament and circumstance. I hadn’t been the easiest friend. Yet Burton never showed anything but unflinching faith and generosity. Which is maybe why I was such a pain in the ass. I knew I’d never be able to reciprocate.
Probably all he ever wanted was what I gave him that night. The right to do something stupid with your eyes open, without condemnation. And the reassurance that no matter how stupid the thing you did, you didn’t have to do it alone.
TWENTY-TWO
JACKIE ALWAYS LOOKED reluctant to climb into the Grand Prix for anything longer than a trip into Southampton Village. Not that we had another option. Her Toyota pickup was half the age and twice the wreck, with oversized tires and amped-up shocks that made the thing ride like a slab of granite.
She did get to the cottage almost on time, which was a first. I had matching travel mugs of coffee ready for the two of us, and a box of Big Dog biscuits for Eddie.
“You’re bringing the dog?”
“I can’t leave him alone that long.”
“I thought you had it rigged so he goes in and out by himself and gets his own food and drives himself to the vet.”
“Not for his sake. For mine.”
Eddie never gave me an argument about a ride in the car. In fact, there was hardly anything that gave him more joy. Long rides, short rides, they were all occasions for unrestrained delight.
The car itself was a bit of a question mark. My father only got a few years out of it before he was killed. He kept it in pristine condition, which helps explain why I could bring it back to life after a million years sitting in a shed. I think my mother forgot it was there.
Even an alleged performance tank like the Grand Prix wasn’t all that complicated back in 1967. And I had little else to do after Jason dropped me off at the cottage. I replaced the battery, points, plugs, and wiring harness, pulled and cleaned up the carburetor, changed the oil and used a bicycle pump to inflate the tires. It started on the third try. There were a few thousand more things to fix and replace after that, but at least I had transportation.
I loaded up the trunk with tools and whatever spare parts I had in reserve and left the rest to providence. And positive thinking.
“This baby loves the open highway,” I said to Jackie, patting the steering wheel. “Gets the oil flowing, lubes the joints, burns up carbon deposits …”
“That must be what I’m smelling. Couldn’t be oil.”
I had both windows down so Eddie could run back and forth and stick his nose out. Jackie looked back at him, looked at me and shook her head while trying to get control of her hair.
“If we’re doing this the whole way you can let me out here.”
“You want a hat? I’ve got one in the trunk.”
We took Route 27 all the way to the Southern State, and from there up the Cross Island to the big bridges, and onto the Cross Bronx, which was running at its usual five miles an hour, filled to bursting with irritated, impatient drivers. Acting like this had never happened before. The Grand Prix kept its cool, according to the temperature gauge. As did its driver, who unlike his passenger was philosophical about the lack of air- conditioning.
“It’s a mind-set,” I told her. “You realize you have no air-conditioning, you start getting hot. Just imagine you’re out on the tundra, or having lunch with your mother-in-law.”
Eddie kept his head out the window while we were stuck in traffic, barking at any vehicle suspected of carrying another dog. As always, I wondered, to what end? But at least it kept him occupied.
Once we made it to the George Washington Bridge, things opened up and we sailed up the Palisades with the wind at our back. An hour and a piss stop later, we were approaching Hungerford, New York, a small rural town whose largest contributor to the tax base was a massive medium-security prison. You could see it from the highway, following the contour of the hills over which it sprawled. The original complex dated back to the late nineteenth century. It was made of red brick and unnecessarily adorned with architectural detail, especially given the aesthetic sensibilities of the residents.
Flowing out from the old buildings were plainer modern additions, built of red-stained concrete block to match the design vernacular. All of which was contained within two rings of twenty-foot-high cyclone fence topped with curls of jagged-bladed bands of razor-sharp steel.
To get inside you had to go through two checkpoints. The first had a friendly young man in a little hut who looked at our IDs and crossed our names off his list, made a joke about checking Eddie’s dog tags, then directed us to the parking lot where I left Eddie in the car. From there we passed through another cyclone-fenced entrance. The gate slid open, then closed behind us, leaving us in an enclosure. The next guy was a lot less friendly and asked what seemed like random, meaningless questions, but I knew why. He was seeing how we responded, looking for nerves or indecision.
We played it straight down the middle. On Jackie’s advice I’d brought along a sports jacket and tie, and she almost looked like a lawyer in her gray suit and sensible closed-toe pumps.
He buzzed us through the second gate and then a solid door that led to a narrow hallway, at the end of which was a large desk occupied by two prison guards, a man and a woman. They also checked our IDs and asked a few questions. Then they came around and ran metal detectors over us and patted around our nooks and crannies. The female guard asked Jackie if she preferred that done in private. Jackie said this was the closest I’d ever get to copping a feel, so go ahead.
After that they brought us into a windowless room with a table and a half dozen chairs. I was expecting to be in a little divided glass-walled booth where we’d have to talk to Roy over a telephone. This was much better.
The guards told us there was a routine cell check in progress that would keep Roy occupied for about half an hour, but he’d be in shortly after that. So we sat and waited. To kill some time I got around to asking Jackie how she pulled this meeting off.
“Pleaded, whined, lied, cashed in favors. All the things I usually do.”
“Roy doesn’t know we’re coming?”
“No, but we can’t make him see us if he doesn’t want to.”
“Any chance of that?” I asked.
She thought about it.
“I don’t think so.”
Soon after that he showed. A far thinner, balder, paler version of the Roy Battiston I’d last seen in a courtroom in Southampton. He used to be one of those overweight guys who seemed to sweat at room temperature, but now his skin looked chalky dry. The blue prison jumpsuit was big on him and folds of skin hung off his jowls and throat. In his early forties, his remaining hair was a gray-flecked, indistinct brown. He held a knit beanie in both hands, which he worried and twisted into a ball, then flattened out again. He looked slightly curious, but contained. Not wary, but guarded. What I remembered—that open, expectant, just-here-to-help-any-way-I-can bank manager look—had been replaced by a furtive energy, hidden behind an ashen haze that clung to his face.
No one tried to shake hands before he sat down across from us.
“This is a surprise,” he said.
“We appreciate you seeing us,” said Jackie.
“You’re my lawyer. I have to see you. I guess this guy sometimes comes with the deal,” he said, gesturing at me.
“How’re you doing?” asked Jackie. “How’re you holding up?”
He thought over his answer.
“In the beginning it’s a nightmare you can’t wake up from,” he said, looking at me, the guy who put him there, “but it gets better. I’ve always been a good learner. I’ve learned how to play the game.”
