?Which is which?? Ben Toy shouted. ?Which is which? Which is which? Which is which? Which is which??
This time Lasini gave him his answer. Oona Quinn and Harley John. Left and right.
Toy smiled at Lasini. He unsheathed a long-barreled Mauser from under his shirt. He handed the ass-heavy cannon to the law student, who held it loosely by the butt, like a wet diaper.
?Like this, man.? Ben Toy illustrated a proper grip: two hands on the gun, both arms straight, knees bent slightly. Then he casually walked away to a bench and occupied himself with knotting his windbreaker around his waist.
A second law student took two photographs of Ben Toy, and fingerprinted him on an ordinary ink pad.
There was a scuffle in the back room, and Toy cold-cocked Lasini. It was a loud, cracking right fist that broke the law student?s jaw in two places.
Toy was a good fighter, aggressive, unafraid of being hit in the face himself. Sergeant Fall clubbed him from behind with a soda bottle.
As they rode with Ben Toy handcuffed between them, Fall and Lasini were all serious business. They conspired in whispers.
?Which is which?? Ben Toy checked every five minutes or so.
Pauly Lasini, his lip and cheek discolored, told him wrong answers in retribution for his wound.
?I?d just like you to repeat these simple numbers.? The resident on admissions duty spoke to Toy in a semi- darkened examination room. The room was at the far end of a weird underground tunnel, and there was a network of old yellowed pipes over their heads.
?This is a nuthouse.? Toy looked around at the walls and X-rays machines. ?Good,? he said. ?I have a chemical imbalance in my brain. You better write that down.?
?Frontward and backward,? the resident was friendly, but firm. ?Listen to the numbers now, Ben. Don?t stare at the walls. No numbers on the walls ? Thank you ? OK now. 328 ? 4729.?
Ben Toy slapped down his right hand on the meat wrapping paper which covered the examination table. ?Which is my right hand?? he asked.
?Forget about your hands,? the resident said. ?I?ll repeat the number for you.?
?Two nine,? Ben Toy said. ?Which is which, you son of a bitch??
Aboveground, on rolling green lawns, Ben Toy was walked to the maximum security ward by a team of five aides and a doctor. He was put in a seclusion room and placed on constant two-to-one male supervision. For two hours he was put in wet packs; then he was given so much Thorazine he had trouble rolling over on his mattress.
Nursing notes were written for the 11-7 shift:
. . . Ben T. was admitted in agitated state this eve. Pt. slaps hand flat on mattress and says, ?This is Oona Quinn? (or Shepherd, Berryman, Horn, something or other). Pt. then slaps other hand on mattress. Gives it another name (any of the above) ? Pt. then tests staff on which hand is which. Pt. will stop on request. But starts again within minutes. His span of attention is about 30 sec. Pt. claims to have shot several people. But this is highly unlikely. Knows much about business, and he may be a flipped-out businessman. Pt. slept well.
In the morning, all of the nursing reports were read and noted by Doctor Alan Shulman.
Oona Quinn was reached that afternoon at Berryman?s telephone number. She explained that she hadn?t been shot by Ben Toy. She admitted knowing him and said she would like to come talk with him. He was her friend?s friend.
She said that no, she didn?t know two other friends or business acquaintances of Toy?s?neither Harley Wynn nor James Horn. She didn?t know anything about them.
Hampton Bays, July 24
I couldn?t take my eyes off Oona Quinn.
She was locking up Berryman?s house, pausing in front of the door. Then she dropped the keys in her big western saddlebag purse. She had on a navy skirt that day, puffy white blouse, makeup: it was the look of a New York career girl.
I was on my way back to Tennessee for a while. She was going to New England. (To visit friends on Cape Cod, she said. Maybe to stop off at Revere.) We?d decided to go to the airport together.
The Pinto was sputtering badly on the quiet country road that goes out to the Long Island Expressway.
?How long do you plan to be up there?? I asked over the engine noise.
?Dunno,? she said. ?Haven?t figured it out yet. Dunno.?
I hesitated before continuing. She was in one of her spacy moods. Continually brushing black hair back out of her face.
?I just want to say one more thing. Serious thing,? I said. ?I?ve got to follow through,? I started, then stopped. ?This kind of reporting ??
Oona stopped me. ?I?m fine,? she said. ?You were fine, Ochs. Just do your job.?
I started combing my hair with my fingers again. I?m just too big and clumsy to finesse apologies, I was thinking. I don?t want to destroy this young woman?s life, I was thinking.
We eventually were approaching the one-story concrete building where the Eastern shuttle to Boston leaves.
Oona stayed inside the car for an extra minute and all the N.Y. cabbies started honking at us. Some
