tissue had
turned to mush in my mouth. I spit some of it out on the floor,
started choking on some more of it, and then vomited up the rest.
"You better kill me, fucker," I said
between heaves.
For the first time, Jordan smiled at me with genuine
amusement. It lit up his whole face, even his dead eyes. "I
think I can manage that," he said.
He raised the sap over his head and slammed it across
my right arm at the shoulder. I shrieked and Jordan barked with
laughter. My right arm went numb, all the way to the fingertips.
"Did that hurt?" he said, pressing the sap
against the bruise.
I shrieked again and writhed against the bars behind
me.
He slapped me with the sap a few more times--little
stinging snaps on my chest and thighs. He wasn't using all his
strength, like he had on my shin, my back, my shoulder, and my gut.
But the blows still hurt. And after a half dozen or so of them, the
pain began to accumulate.
I started dreading the next slap, flinching before he
hit me, as if I were being whipped. I knew he was setting me up for
another big one. And I told myself to save my strength for what was
ahead. But each time he flicked that piece of lead against me, I lost
a little more willpower and cowered a little more openly against the
bars.
"Enough fooling around," Jordan said, when
he'd gotten me good and scared. "This time, we go for the head."
He dangled the sap in my face. "Give you a walleye and a drool
for the rest of your life." He lifted the sap above his head,
and I felt something inside me just give out.
"Don't!" I screamed.
"What was that?" Jordan said, pressing his
face close to mine.
"Don't!" I said, begging him. "Please,
Christ, don't!"
"That's a little better," he said, backing
away with a satisfied look. He slapped the sap against the bars of
the cell. They rang like a bell and I cringed. "You going to
tell me about your connection now, Harry?"
I nodded weakly.
"I can't hear you," Jordan said.
"Yes!" I shouted. Yes, yes.
"All right," Jordan said with satisfaction.
He smiled at me, almost paternally. "No hard feelings, Harry.
That's the way it's done. You remember, don't you?"
He lifted me up to my feet and brushed some of the
dust from my jacket. I could barely stand on my ankle; my back hurt
up and down the spine; my right arm was useless; and the pain in my
gut was like a knife wound,
"You think you can make it upstairs, tough guy?"
Jordan said.
I leaned against the bars, unable to speak, barely
able to stand.
"Just remember, Harry," Jordan said, poking
me gently with the sap. "If I don't hear what I want to hear
when we get up to the interrogation room, we're coming right back
down here. We haven't even begun to party yet."
18
Jordan left me in the holding tank while he arranged
for an interrogation room and a stenographer. I barely made it into
one of the little cells. I collapsed on the steel cot and lay there
for what seemed like an hour, smelling the stink of my own fear and
humiliation. I'd been unmanned before. In the war and afterward. It
had happened. But even though I'd come close in the past, it had
never actually happened at the hands of a cop, in the basement of a
police station. The pain would go away. I knew that. I could live
with the pain. What I couldn't live with was the way the pain had
made me behave.
I wanted to kill Jordan for what he'd done to me. I
wanted to kill him more than I'd ever wanted anything else in my
life. And then I wanted to kill Lonnie. For the shame he'd brought
down on my head, for the shit I'd had to eat to protect him. I'd had
to grovel in front of an enemy. I'd almost been killed earlier that
day by another enemy. And on both occasions, I was the wrong goddamn
man! The injustice of it plagued me almost as much as the beating I'd
taken.
Jordan hadn't been wrong. I was connected, all
right-to an absurd, dangerous idea, to a fellowship out of the
sixties that had been ambiguous to begin with and was now turning
lethal. What killed me was that
turned to mush in my mouth. I spit some of it out on the floor,
started choking on some more of it, and then vomited up the rest.
"You better kill me, fucker," I said
between heaves.
For the first time, Jordan smiled at me with genuine
amusement. It lit up his whole face, even his dead eyes. "I
think I can manage that," he said.
He raised the sap over his head and slammed it across
my right arm at the shoulder. I shrieked and Jordan barked with
laughter. My right arm went numb, all the way to the fingertips.
"Did that hurt?" he said, pressing the sap
against the bruise.
I shrieked again and writhed against the bars behind
me.
He slapped me with the sap a few more times--little
stinging snaps on my chest and thighs. He wasn't using all his
strength, like he had on my shin, my back, my shoulder, and my gut.
But the blows still hurt. And after a half dozen or so of them, the
pain began to accumulate.
I started dreading the next slap, flinching before he
hit me, as if I were being whipped. I knew he was setting me up for
another big one. And I told myself to save my strength for what was
ahead. But each time he flicked that piece of lead against me, I lost
a little more willpower and cowered a little more openly against the
bars.
"Enough fooling around," Jordan said, when
he'd gotten me good and scared. "This time, we go for the head."
He dangled the sap in my face. "Give you a walleye and a drool
for the rest of your life." He lifted the sap above his head,
and I felt something inside me just give out.
"Don't!" I screamed.
"What was that?" Jordan said, pressing his
face close to mine.
"Don't!" I said, begging him. "Please,
Christ, don't!"
"That's a little better," he said, backing
away with a satisfied look. He slapped the sap against the bars of
the cell. They rang like a bell and I cringed. "You going to
tell me about your connection now, Harry?"
I nodded weakly.
"I can't hear you," Jordan said.
"Yes!" I shouted. Yes, yes.
"All right," Jordan said with satisfaction.
He smiled at me, almost paternally. "No hard feelings, Harry.
That's the way it's done. You remember, don't you?"
He lifted me up to my feet and brushed some of the
dust from my jacket. I could barely stand on my ankle; my back hurt
up and down the spine; my right arm was useless; and the pain in my
gut was like a knife wound,
"You think you can make it upstairs, tough guy?"
Jordan said.
I leaned against the bars, unable to speak, barely
able to stand.
"Just remember, Harry," Jordan said, poking
me gently with the sap. "If I don't hear what I want to hear
when we get up to the interrogation room, we're coming right back
down here. We haven't even begun to party yet."
18
Jordan left me in the holding tank while he arranged
for an interrogation room and a stenographer. I barely made it into
one of the little cells. I collapsed on the steel cot and lay there
for what seemed like an hour, smelling the stink of my own fear and
humiliation. I'd been unmanned before. In the war and afterward. It
had happened. But even though I'd come close in the past, it had
never actually happened at the hands of a cop, in the basement of a
police station. The pain would go away. I knew that. I could live
with the pain. What I couldn't live with was the way the pain had
made me behave.
I wanted to kill Jordan for what he'd done to me. I
wanted to kill him more than I'd ever wanted anything else in my
life. And then I wanted to kill Lonnie. For the shame he'd brought
down on my head, for the shit I'd had to eat to protect him. I'd had
to grovel in front of an enemy. I'd almost been killed earlier that
day by another enemy. And on both occasions, I was the wrong goddamn
man! The injustice of it plagued me almost as much as the beating I'd
taken.
Jordan hadn't been wrong. I was connected, all
right-to an absurd, dangerous idea, to a fellowship out of the
sixties that had been ambiguous to begin with and was now turning
lethal. What killed me was that
Similar Books
