Thinking about Cartwright always made me smile. I got two or three minutes of amusement as a reward for passing by that giant steel cross.
The main drag was just now lighting up for the night. Most people had some time off to be with their friends and families. The Dairy Queen’s chill white luminescence showed lines that stretched down the block. The same for the two downtown movie theaters where The Ipcress File with Michael Caine was up against Help with the Beatles, the latter probably sending the good Reverend Cartwright into suicidal depression. Little kids held strings to the red and blue and yellow and pink balloons their parents had bought them from the vendor in front of the A amp;P.
Elderly couples sat on bus benches, the buses having stopped running at six o’clock. I wondered what they made of it all. Some of them had seen Saturday nights when horses and buggies had plied our Main Street. Now it was the predatory crawl of teenage boys in their cars searching for girls, me having been one of them for several years myself. I always watched for the black chopped and channeled ’49 Merc, the one even cooler than James Dean’s in Rebel Without a Cause. It was as brazen and sure of itself as only a classic car can be-it spoke of power and lust and longing; and now when I saw it pull into place with the parade of cars cruising the street, I felt better. Or maybe I just felt rational.
A breeze cooled me as I walked the final steps to the police station. I was calm now, and I wouldn’t shout at Cliffie as I’d planned. I’d methodically point out to him that by not giving me adequate time with my client, he might well jeopardize the trial and give me grounds for appeal. This was unlikely as hell, but Cliffie knew even less about law than he did about police work.
The lobby area was empty. The drunks and the fistfighters would fill up the eight cells starting in a few hours, and their loved ones would be out here in the lobby pleading for them to be released. Some would be embarrassed, some would be angry, a few-especially the women whose husbands pounded on them-would be secretly happy.
Mary Fanelli was behind the desk. Since we’d gone to grade school together, she was another one who disregarded Cliffie’s Hate McCain policy.
“How’s your dad, Sam?”
“Not any better. Maybe a little worse.”
“We did a novena for him at the early Mass yesterday.”
“Thanks, Mary. Is the chief around?”
“Softball game.” She brought forth a can of 7UP and sipped it. She was a slight woman with a sharp face redeemed by sweet brown eyes. “Bill Tomlin’s here. Want me to buzz him?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She got on the intercom and told Tomlin I was here. She clicked off a second too late. I heard his “Shit” loud and clear. She smiled. “He knows you’re going to ask him to make a decision, and he hates making decisions. You know how the chief is. We all hate decisions because no matter what we do, it’s wrong according to him.”
Tomlin walked toward me as if he was expecting to be executed. “Chief’s not here.”
“That’s what Mary said. I’d like to see Harrison Doran.”
“Aw, shit, McCain, c’mon. You really want to put my tit in a wringer like that? No offense, Mary.” Mary grinned.
“I’m going to make it easy for you, Bill. I got permission from the DA to see Doran for half an hour. Your boss kicked me out after fifteen minutes. That means I’m owed another fifteen minutes.”
“You mind if I call him?”
“Who?”
“The DA.”
“You’re getting smart.”
“I’ve been listening to your stories for four years now, McCain. The chief didn’t believe you, and neither do I.”
“How about ten minutes?”
He glanced at Mary as if for guidance. To me he said: “How about five?”
“Five? What can I say in five minutes?”
“A lot, if you get right to it.”
“How about seven?”
“How about six?”
Mary had been swallowing 7UP and almost spit it out laughing. “You two sound like seven-year-olds arguing about marbles.”
“I’ll take you back to his cell. And I’m starting the six-minute clock as soon as my key goes in the cell door.”
He kept talking to me as we walked the corridors toward the back of the station where the cells were. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was thinking of seeing the smile on Doran’s face when I told him that I now had at least two more very possible suspects and would be telling the DA about one of them. Cliffie wouldn’t release Doran on his own, but his DA cousin could force him to. Doran needed some good news. It didn’t take long for most people to wither in a jail cell. Depression came fast; claustrophobia came even faster.
Like the rest of the station, the cell block was clean, well-lighted, well-windowed, even if the bars on them did spoil any thoughts of escape.
Doran was in a cell at the back. He sat bent over on his cot. I wondered if he was sick. If you haven’t had jail experience, your body can retaliate.
He wasn’t sick, though. He was scribbling on a yellow pad and when he turned his face up to mine, he didn’t look wasted at all. He half shouted: “Hey, man! Great to see you!”
What the hell was he so happy about?
Tomlin’s key made a scraping noise. “Six minutes, McCain. Starting now.”
He locked me in and left. I sat on the cot across from Doran.
“You doing all right, Doran?”
“This is so cool,” Doran said.
“What?”
“This-this is very, very cool, McCain.”
“This is cool? Being in jail is cool? The last time I saw you, you were terrified.”
“That’s before I had my idea.”
He was doing theater again. He was up on his feet and walking around as much as the cell allowed. He could have snapped. It’s not unknown for people in jail to have breakdowns. Or even try suicide. “Listen, Doran, I think maybe I’ve got a shot at getting you out of here.”
“Out of here! Are you crazy? You try and get me out of here, McCain, and I’ll get another lawyer.”
“Sit down.”
“What?”
“I said sit down. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I think we better get the city psychologist to have a talk with you. Of course you want to get out of here. You’re innocent-or at least I’m pretty sure you are.”
He sat down and leaned forward and snapped, “What the hell kind of book will that make?”
“Book? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My life story. All the people I’ve claimed to be. And how I wound up in jail falsely accused of a murder. And how a kind-ofdown-on-his-luck lawyer saved my bacon.”
No, he wasn’t crazy; I was crazy. The words were supposed to be that he hated it in here and that he wanted to get out before he killed himself-but for some reason my brain wasn’t tuned to the right radio station. I was hearing some insane bullshit about him writing a book and wanting to stay in jail.
“I’ve got to be in here for at least a week. So if you’ve figured out who killed the old man, you’ve got to keep it to yourself for at least five or six days. That’ll give me my ending-you know-how if I hadn’t been falsely accused, I wouldn’t ever have looked back on my life and realized that I should never have let all those women support me, even though-you know-I pretty much paid them back when bedtime rolled around. It’s the old Cecil B. DeMille stuff- fifty-five minutes of sin and five minutes of repenting at the end.”
“I quit.”
“What?”
“Unless you tell me right now that all this bullshit is a joke, I’m quitting.”
