Chapter nine
Lots of small towns don’t have jails.
Sullivan’s Corners had one.
There was a wino in the cell with me. He was asleep with his mouth open when Fred brought me in. When the door clanked shut, the wino sat bolt upright, blinked his eyes, and then stared at me.
‘What’d you do?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Go to sleep.’
‘You got a hair across?’
‘Yes. Go to sleep.’
‘I’m only trying to be friendly.’
‘I committed an ax murder,’ I said. ‘I killed my wife and our fourteen children.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, impressed. ‘What was the matter? She nag you?’
‘She was having an affair with a police dog,’ I said.
The wino blinked. ‘You can’t trust German shepherds,’ he said at last. ‘Collies are good dogs.’ He blinked again. ‘Gee, it’s morning, ain’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
‘You want this lower, I’ll be happy to change.’
‘I’ll take the upper.’ I gripped the edge of the double-decker bunk and swung myself up.
‘Lots of guys don’t like uppers,’ the wino said. ‘I got to hand it to you. Commit a couple of murders, and then go right to sleep afterwards.’
‘I need my strength,’ I told him.
‘Why?’
‘Because sooner or later, they’ll have to let me out of this place. And when they do...’ I let the sentence trail. The wino was silent for a long time. The early morning sunlight filtered through the small barred window. I was almost asleep when the wino said, ‘Why’d you choose an ax?’
‘Huh?’
‘An ax. Why’d you pick that?’
‘Because Fred has both my guns,’ I mumbled, and I drifted off.
I never dream.
Psychiatrists say you always dream; you just don’t remember the dreams when you wake up. Okay, I always dream but I never remember the dreams when I wake up. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody’s there to see it, did it fall?
I never dream.
I sleep, and I wake up. Usually, I get dressed and go to work. If it’s my day off, I hang around and have a leisurely cup of coffee, and then maybe I’ll read the paper or call Ann, or listen to some records. That’s my life. Dull. I usually wake up in the same room. My bedroom at the house where I board. It’s a nice room. There are ships on the wallpaper design and sometimes they make me seasick, but it’s a nice room. The radiators clang in the winter time, but I like a clanging radiator. It makes me feel as if it’s working.
I was not working.
I was on vacation.
I woke up, and I hadn’t dreamed, and there were no ships sailing across the walls. It’s a strange feeling to come out of a deep sleep and have no idea at all where you are. I looked at the ceiling, and I looked at the walls, and it took me a few moments to remember I was in jail.
I looked at my watch. It was one-thirty.
‘You’re a late sleeper,’ a voice said.
I looked across the cell. The man opposite me, sitting on the bench, wore soiled blue jeans and a tee shirt. He hadn’t shaved since the Smith Brothers invented cough drops. His nose was red, and his eyes were red, and his lips were parched. He was my wino.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
‘Good afternoon,’ he corrected.
‘What’s for breakfast?’ I asked.
‘Breakfast has come and gone.’
‘What’s for lunch?’
‘You missed that, too.’
‘Has there been any word from the governor?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ I swung my legs over the side of the bunk. ‘Who’s in charge of this place?’
‘Feller named Tex Planett. He ain’t really from Texas. They call him Tex ’cause he’s kind of long and rangy.’ The wino paused. ‘Also because he’s the sheriff of Sullivan’s Corners. You know, like who expects to find a sheriff, except out West?’ The wino shrugged. ‘Tex.’
‘You’re pretty familiar with the local law, huh?’
‘I’m in and out of this place regularly,’ the wino said. And then, offhandedly, ‘I’m a vagrant. M’name’s Tuckem.’
‘Mine’s Colby.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Tuckem said. He paused again. ‘I drink.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘I ain’t getting your permission; I’m only stating a fact. I been drinking for twenty years straight now. It’s a miracle I ain’t got a wet brain. Someday I’m going to write my autobiography, like I’ll Cry Tomorrow, you know? I got the title all picked out.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah. You want to hear it?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘It’s all about me, you understand,’ Tuckem said. ‘An autobiography. Also, it will contain my philosophy of life. You want to hear the title?’
‘Sure,’ I said again.
Tuckem spread his hands grandly. ‘Tuckem All,’ he said. He grinned. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s good.’
‘You ought to write one. Feller who commits ax murders sure ought to write a book.’
‘My uncle wrote one,’ I said.
‘Yeah? Was he an ax murderer, too?’
‘No. He burned his victims to death. Didn’t you read his book?’
‘Which one is that?’ Tuckem asked.
‘Flesh in Pan,’ I said.
‘I missed that one,’ Tuckem said seriously. ‘I read one by a kidnapper, though. You read that one?’
‘Which one?’ I said.
‘It was called Snatch. Very interesting.’ This time, Tuckem smiled. I smiled with him. ‘You didn’t really commit no ax murder, did you?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so. Why’re you in here?’
‘I know too much.’
‘That’s why almost everybody I know’s in jail. They either know too much, or they don’t know enough.’
‘What’s the local law consist of?’
‘Well, there’s Tex. He’s sheriff. He’s got four deputies, I think. Yep, four. That’s it.’
‘What about state troopers?’
‘One, so far as I know. Feller named Fred.’
‘What about Handy?’
‘He’s the j.p. Harmless guy. Used to be a fighter, that man. I can remember when he used to be a fighter. No more now. No spunk.’
We heard footsteps in the corridor. Tuckem looked up. I turned toward the barred door. The man who came into view was tall and thin. He had cool blue eyes and a crew cut. A star was on his chest, and he carried a .45 in a holster at his side.
‘Hope I’m not breaking anything up,’ he said.
‘Tex?’ I said.
‘That’s me.’ He paused. ‘The real name’s Salvatore. Salvatore Planetti. It got shortened to Tex Planett. That’s ’cause I’m a pioneer.’ He looked me over. ‘Understand you were raising a bit of a ruckus this morning, Colby.’
‘Was I?’
‘According to Fred. I just wanted you to know the local law ain’t asleep around here.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No sir. I sent a deputy out to Mike Barter’s place. Just checking, you understand. Had him look at Mike’s register. Well, you was registered, all right, but you checked in alone. There wasn’t no girl who signed the register with you.’
‘I could have told you that,’ I said.
‘Well, I wanted to find out for myself.’ Planett cleared his throat. ‘My deputy also ripped up that linoleum in the closet.’
‘Did he?’
‘I said he did, didn’t I? Don’t you believe me?’
‘Sure. I believe you. What’d he find?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s what I figured you’d say he found.’
‘You don’t believe me, huh?’