perilously along its ever-crumbling rim.
It happened three hours later, when Jack Stout came into my office. He was wearing baggy pants, as always, black except for the places where cigarette ash left small dusty stains. He plopped down in the chair opposite my desk, unfastened his jacket, and let his belly flop over a cracked leather belt. “Headin’ for New York, Mr. Chase,” he said. “To pick up Charlie Younger.” He thumped a cigarette from a crumpled pack and offered it to me.
“No, thanks.”
Jack plucked the cigarette from the pack, lit it with a match raked across the side of his boot. “They got him in a place called—” He stopped, yanked a piece of paper from his pocket, and squinted. “Tombs.”
“That’s the city jail.”
“It’s on an island, Mr. Ferguson told me.”
“Rikers Island. It’s in the middle of a river. The one that runs along the east side of Manhattan.”
Jack crammed the address back into his shirt pocket. “It’s just me, you know. Nobody else going with me.”
“You don’t need anybody else.”
Jack grinned, his bottom teeth rising like a jagged yellow wall. “Figure Charlie’ll go peaceful, do you?”
“He’ll be wearing everything but a muzzle,” I said. “Feet and hands, both shackled. A chain running under his crotch. You won’t need help, believe me. Not to bring Charlie Younger home.”
“Well, he sure scared the shit out of Lou Powers.”
“The gun wasn’t loaded. Charlie was desperate, that’s all. He never had a problem before that. He won’t give you any trouble.”
Jack Stout grinned again. “Famous last words, Mr. Chase.”
“When are you leaving?”
“‘Bout an hour. Just gonna grab a clam roll at the Bluebird, then head out.” He crossed one leg over the other. A huge brown boot wagged in the air, the heel worn flat. “Hoping I won’t hit too much weather.” He stroked his chin. “Think I need a shave? Mr. Ferguson says I need to look professional.”
I didn’t see how Jack Stout could ever look professional. Shave, haircut, even dressed in a neat blue ready-made suit, none of it would have mattered much. Jack bore the mark of what he was, one of six brothersfrom a family of scavengers and poachers, the type who lived in shacks at the end of winding mountain roads. As a group, the Stouts had always preferred, as if by nature, things that were unhinged and collapsible, could be broken into pieces and dragged through the piney woods or hauled up rocky trails. Jack was the only one who’d made a life within the law, usually as a laborer, but sometimes running errands for Hap and Sheriff Pritchart, fetching prisoners back to Port Alma from the places they’d fled to, and from which they surrendered, penniless and hungry. Charlie Younger was just the latest in a growing line of such men, driven by harsh times to harsh acts, then tracked down in flophouses from Portland to Baltimore, and brought back to face consequences no less harsh. I pitied them briefly, prosecuted them energetically, and sent them, dazed, to jail.
“You look fine,” I told him.
Jack pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, blew a speck of ash from what remained, and dropped the rest into his pocket to smoke another time. It was the sort of small economy the poor practiced in those days, and I couldn’t help admiring it, not so much for the savings as for the sheer frankness of the gesture, a raw admission of want, offered with neither apology nor resentment.
Jack slapped his knees and rose. “Well, can I bring you anything from the big city? Besides Charlie, I mean?”
At that instant, I saw Dora’s face as she’d looked up from her desk a few hours before. An idea came to me. It was one of those impulses we either act upon casually or casually deny, then live forever in the wake of a fatal choice.
“As a matter of fact, you
could
do something for me, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a place in New York. A residence hall for
It happened three hours later, when Jack Stout came into my office. He was wearing baggy pants, as always, black except for the places where cigarette ash left small dusty stains. He plopped down in the chair opposite my desk, unfastened his jacket, and let his belly flop over a cracked leather belt. “Headin’ for New York, Mr. Chase,” he said. “To pick up Charlie Younger.” He thumped a cigarette from a crumpled pack and offered it to me.
“No, thanks.”
Jack plucked the cigarette from the pack, lit it with a match raked across the side of his boot. “They got him in a place called—” He stopped, yanked a piece of paper from his pocket, and squinted. “Tombs.”
“That’s the city jail.”
“It’s on an island, Mr. Ferguson told me.”
“Rikers Island. It’s in the middle of a river. The one that runs along the east side of Manhattan.”
Jack crammed the address back into his shirt pocket. “It’s just me, you know. Nobody else going with me.”
“You don’t need anybody else.”
Jack grinned, his bottom teeth rising like a jagged yellow wall. “Figure Charlie’ll go peaceful, do you?”
“He’ll be wearing everything but a muzzle,” I said. “Feet and hands, both shackled. A chain running under his crotch. You won’t need help, believe me. Not to bring Charlie Younger home.”
“Well, he sure scared the shit out of Lou Powers.”
“The gun wasn’t loaded. Charlie was desperate, that’s all. He never had a problem before that. He won’t give you any trouble.”
Jack Stout grinned again. “Famous last words, Mr. Chase.”
“When are you leaving?”
“‘Bout an hour. Just gonna grab a clam roll at the Bluebird, then head out.” He crossed one leg over the other. A huge brown boot wagged in the air, the heel worn flat. “Hoping I won’t hit too much weather.” He stroked his chin. “Think I need a shave? Mr. Ferguson says I need to look professional.”
I didn’t see how Jack Stout could ever look professional. Shave, haircut, even dressed in a neat blue ready-made suit, none of it would have mattered much. Jack bore the mark of what he was, one of six brothersfrom a family of scavengers and poachers, the type who lived in shacks at the end of winding mountain roads. As a group, the Stouts had always preferred, as if by nature, things that were unhinged and collapsible, could be broken into pieces and dragged through the piney woods or hauled up rocky trails. Jack was the only one who’d made a life within the law, usually as a laborer, but sometimes running errands for Hap and Sheriff Pritchart, fetching prisoners back to Port Alma from the places they’d fled to, and from which they surrendered, penniless and hungry. Charlie Younger was just the latest in a growing line of such men, driven by harsh times to harsh acts, then tracked down in flophouses from Portland to Baltimore, and brought back to face consequences no less harsh. I pitied them briefly, prosecuted them energetically, and sent them, dazed, to jail.
“You look fine,” I told him.
Jack pinched off the lighted end of his cigarette, blew a speck of ash from what remained, and dropped the rest into his pocket to smoke another time. It was the sort of small economy the poor practiced in those days, and I couldn’t help admiring it, not so much for the savings as for the sheer frankness of the gesture, a raw admission of want, offered with neither apology nor resentment.
Jack slapped his knees and rose. “Well, can I bring you anything from the big city? Besides Charlie, I mean?”
At that instant, I saw Dora’s face as she’d looked up from her desk a few hours before. An idea came to me. It was one of those impulses we either act upon casually or casually deny, then live forever in the wake of a fatal choice.
“As a matter of fact, you
could
do something for me, Jack.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a place in New York. A residence hall for
Similar Books
