“Yeah? How’s that going to work out?”
“I don’t know, that’s the thing. I just need one really good idea.”
“You probably need lots of really good ideas,” I tell him, but I’m not looking at him, but over his shoulder at Caleb Cole a few tables away. Cole is looking at me too. He looks angry. If I were a betting man I’d bet that after dinner and before we’re put back into our cell, he’s going to come for me. My heart starts racing at the thought and my stomach starts to rumble, but not the hunger rumble—the rumble of things getting ready to let go. “Especially if you want to write more than one novel.”
He starts nodding. “Yeah, that’s true. Completely true,” he says, almost as though he hadn’t thought of this. “Between you and me,” he says, but he doesn’t lower his voice so it’s between him and me and the guy to my left and the guy to his right, and the few guys sitting opposite us too, “I’ve tried a few times, you know. Back before I was arrested. I’d sit at the kitchen table with a computer and try to come up with something, but it never happened. I thought it’d be like writing lyrics, you know? But it’s not.”
“You need to write what you know,” I tell him, which is something authors always tend to go on about.
“Yeah, I’ve read that before,” he says. “And it makes sense. I need to write what I know,” he says, his voice trailing off.
“The problem is I don’t think people want to read books on how to molest children.”
He frowns at me and tries to figure out if I’m joking or being mean or being helpful, and comes to the right conclusion. “You really can be an asshole, Joe,” he says, then picks up his tray and walks off.
When dinner is over I ask one of the guards who isn’t Adam or Glen if I can use the phone. He’s a big guy made up of as much muscle as fast food, the kind of guy who looks like he could knock your head off in a single blow, but would double over after it from the exertion.
“This isn’t a vacation you’re on,” the guard says. He’s one of the night-shift guards. He starts at six o’clock and escorts us to and from dinner or showers then sits in a cubicle watching TV for seven hours while we’re all stuck in our cells. I think his name is something like Satan, but not Satan—Stan or Simon.
“I have a right to use the phone,” I tell him. “It’s important and my trial starts in two days.”
“You don’t have any rights in here,” he says, but at least he doesn’t laugh.
“A hundred dollars,” I tell him.
His eyes narrow as he stares down at me from the few inches of extra height he has. “What?”
I figure I have money to spare. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”
“Hand it over.”
“I don’t have it, but my lawyer can bring it in tomorrow.”
“Two hundred,” he tells me.
“Deal,” I tell him.
“If there’s no cash tomorrow your day around here is going to become a little more difficult,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me.”
I think about how bad today was, and the sad thing is that he’s right—it could have been worse. It’s like what Santa Kenny said—it’s all about the potential. The guard leads me down to the phone. He leans against the same patch of wall that Adam leaned against earlier, but he doesn’t keep making the same threats.
“Two calls,” I tell him.
“Just make it quick.”
First call is to my lawyer. It’s getting late and it’s a Saturday, but I have his cell number. He picks it up after a few rings. I can hear conversation and music in the background.
“It’s Joe,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, and I figure he probably has the prison phone in his caller ID. I figure I’m lucky he even answered. Could be the ball is still falling when it comes to my luck—after all, I wasn’t shot this afternoon. From here on out I’m going to be living the good life.
“Did the deal go ahead?”
“You’ve held up your end of the bargain,” he says. “Of course it’s going ahead. Once the body is identified the money will be transferred into your mother’s account. I have the details. Your mother is . . . well, she’s quite something,” he says, which on one hand is exceptionally accurate, but on the other hand doesn’t sum her up in the least.
“How long until they identify the body?” I ask him.
“You’ve got a break,” he says. “Five years ago Calhoun was chasing a rapist in his car,” he says, and I wonder if that’s the way most rapists get caught. “There was an accident. So now Calhoun has a metal pin in his leg. Pin has a serial number on it. So if the body you led them to has that same pin, then the money will be cleared. Jones is going to have a vision in the morning. It’s too late tonight and too dark and he wants a buildup. Autopsy will take place tomorrow afternoon. Funds will be transferred tomorrow night. Monday morning your mother will have them.”
“What time are you coming in tomorrow?”
“It’s my day off tomorrow,” he says. “It’s Sunday.”
“But we need to talk about the trial. It’s our last day,” I say, more desperate now since Melissa hasn’t set me free, so maybe the luck ball isn’t falling that much at all.
“Well, we’ll see what happens. If I can make it I’ll make it.”
“And I need you to spot me two hundred dollars,” I tell him.
“Good night, Joe,” he says, and hangs up.
The prison guard is still leaning against the wall. He’s playing a game on his cell phone. I make the second of my two calls listening to the theme music and then to the explosions coming from the guard’s direction. My mother answers after the first ring, as if she were expecting the call.
“Hello, Mom. It’s me.”
“Joe?” she asks, as if it could have been one of any amount of people ringing and calling her mom.
“It’s me,” I tell her.
“Why are you calling? It’s Saturday night. Date night. We’re about to head out for dinner.”
“I wanted to—”
“You can’t come along, Joe. It’s date night. Why would you try to ruin date night?” she asks, sounding annoyed, and I can picture her on the end of the phone frowning at the wall. “It’s our last one before the wedding.”
“I’m not calling about date night,” I tell her.
“Why? You’re too embarrassed to be seen with your mother on a Saturday night?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” she asks, no doubt the frown now being joined by, rather than replaced by, a look of confusion.
“I’m calling about something else.”
“About the wedding?”
“No. Remember how I called you last night?”
“Yes. Of course. You called about your girlfriend,” she says. “I’m so glad you have a good woman in your life, Joe. Every man deserves a good woman,” she says, sounding happy again. “Do you think you’ll get married? Is that why you’re calling? Oh my, I’m so excited for you! Perhaps we can have weddings on the same day! Just think about it. It’s so fantastic isn’t it? Oh, oh, how about if Walt is your best man? By golly, that’s a great thought!”
“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen, Mom.”
“Because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. You know, Joe, I didn’t raise you to be this way.”
We’re getting off track—but of course my mom has been off track for at least thirty years. “Mom, did you call her?”
“What?”
“Did you call my girlfriend? Did you tell her that I’d gotten the message?”
“What message?”
“Did you call her?”
“Yes, of course I called her. That’s what you asked me to do. She didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“The message,” I tell her, “the message in the books.”
“What books?”
“The books you brought in for me. The books she gave you to give me.”
“Oh, oh those books,” she says, and I hope the force of everything flooding back to her knocks her over. That way she’ll break a hip and the wedding will have to be postponed. “Did you enjoy them?” she asks. “I thought they were okay. Not as good as TV, but nothing ever is. I can’t count how many times I’ve read a book after seeing the movie on telly and been so disappointed. I just wish authors could get it right. Don’t you think so, Joe?”