the floors above and below him. With that, Collins turned and dropped the zipper on his jumpsuit, and strolled back toward the potty. He looked directly at Muriel, expecting her to scurry, and she held her ground for a minute.
"Whatta you think?" Larry asked, when they were on the way back down.
"Damn good-looking," Muriel answered. He resembled her mother's favorite, Harry Belafonte.
"I'll see if we can get his mug shot in a frame for you. Are we wasting our time?"
She asked what Larry thought.
"I think he's the average jailhouse piece of shit," Larry said. "But I got an hour if you do."
After feed time, when Collins was back in general population, they could bring him down to an interview room without fanfare. In the administrative office, Larry asked the officer on duty to arrange that, saying only that they had to question Farwell concerning a murder. Half the staff in here was jumped-in to a gang, or otherwise affiliated, and word would trail back quickly if they thought Collins was cooperating. The duty officer took Larry and Muriel to a small interview room, a trapezoid of cheap plasterboard, scuffed with heel marks several inches up the wall. They sat in plastic swivel chairs, which, like the small table between them, was fixed to the floor with heavy hex bolts.
"So how's Talmadge?" Larry1s eyes angled away promptly, as if he regretted the remark once it was out. Lots of people were mentioning Talmadge to her now. A photo, taken at a fund-raiser, had appeared in the paper last week. Still, this wasn't a discussion she was having with Larry.
"You know, Larry, I never figured you as jealous."
"That's informational," he protested. "You know. Like the weather report. Like how's your health and your family?"
"Uh-huh." "And?"
"Come on, Larry. I'm seeing the man. We have a nice time."
"And you're not seeing me."
"Larry, I don't recall ever 'seeing' you very often. As far as I can tell, you never thought about me when you weren't horny."
"So what's wrong with that?" Larry asked. She nearly went for it, before she realized he was having her. "I'll send flowers every day now and billets-doux."
'Billets-doux.' Larry could always surprise you. She just looked at him.
"I'm giving you space," Larry said. "I thought you wanted space."
"I want space, Larry." When she closed her eyes, her lashes seemed to catch in her makeup. Somehow Larry, who lived on his instincts, knew something was up. Two nights ago, as Talmadge was leaving her place, he had pressed her head to his chest and said, 'Maybe we should start thinking about making this permanent.' She had recognized all along this was where they were headed, but a palsy had shaken her anyhow. In her own way she had been working hard since then not to think of what he had said, meaning at bottom she'd thought of nothing else.
It felt as if she were looking down into the Grand Canyon. Somehow her first marriage, which was rarely even a topic of reflection, was in the dangerous distance below. She had married at nineteen, when the dumb things people did were legion, and when she believed she was getting a prize. Rod had been her high-school English teacher, caustic and bright and still unmarried at the age of forty-two -it had not even occurred to her to wonder why. The summer after she graduated, she ran into him on a corner and flirted boldly, having discovered in those years that sexual forwardness did wonders for a girl whose looks didn't stop traffic. She'd pursued him, begged him to join her for lunch, to go to movies, always on the sly. Her parents were horrified when she announced their wedding. But she worked and finished college in five years, taught in the public schools, and went to law school at night.
In time, of course, Rod's charm had worn thin. Well, that was not really true. He remained one of the most devastatingly funny humans she'd known -the wise-guy drunk at the end of the bar who got off the best lines in English comedies. But he was, in a
"Whatta you think?" Larry asked, when they were on the way back down.
"Damn good-looking," Muriel answered. He resembled her mother's favorite, Harry Belafonte.
"I'll see if we can get his mug shot in a frame for you. Are we wasting our time?"
She asked what Larry thought.
"I think he's the average jailhouse piece of shit," Larry said. "But I got an hour if you do."
After feed time, when Collins was back in general population, they could bring him down to an interview room without fanfare. In the administrative office, Larry asked the officer on duty to arrange that, saying only that they had to question Farwell concerning a murder. Half the staff in here was jumped-in to a gang, or otherwise affiliated, and word would trail back quickly if they thought Collins was cooperating. The duty officer took Larry and Muriel to a small interview room, a trapezoid of cheap plasterboard, scuffed with heel marks several inches up the wall. They sat in plastic swivel chairs, which, like the small table between them, was fixed to the floor with heavy hex bolts.
"So how's Talmadge?" Larry1s eyes angled away promptly, as if he regretted the remark once it was out. Lots of people were mentioning Talmadge to her now. A photo, taken at a fund-raiser, had appeared in the paper last week. Still, this wasn't a discussion she was having with Larry.
"You know, Larry, I never figured you as jealous."
"That's informational," he protested. "You know. Like the weather report. Like how's your health and your family?"
"Uh-huh." "And?"
"Come on, Larry. I'm seeing the man. We have a nice time."
"And you're not seeing me."
"Larry, I don't recall ever 'seeing' you very often. As far as I can tell, you never thought about me when you weren't horny."
"So what's wrong with that?" Larry asked. She nearly went for it, before she realized he was having her. "I'll send flowers every day now and billets-doux."
'Billets-doux.' Larry could always surprise you. She just looked at him.
"I'm giving you space," Larry said. "I thought you wanted space."
"I want space, Larry." When she closed her eyes, her lashes seemed to catch in her makeup. Somehow Larry, who lived on his instincts, knew something was up. Two nights ago, as Talmadge was leaving her place, he had pressed her head to his chest and said, 'Maybe we should start thinking about making this permanent.' She had recognized all along this was where they were headed, but a palsy had shaken her anyhow. In her own way she had been working hard since then not to think of what he had said, meaning at bottom she'd thought of nothing else.
It felt as if she were looking down into the Grand Canyon. Somehow her first marriage, which was rarely even a topic of reflection, was in the dangerous distance below. She had married at nineteen, when the dumb things people did were legion, and when she believed she was getting a prize. Rod had been her high-school English teacher, caustic and bright and still unmarried at the age of forty-two -it had not even occurred to her to wonder why. The summer after she graduated, she ran into him on a corner and flirted boldly, having discovered in those years that sexual forwardness did wonders for a girl whose looks didn't stop traffic. She'd pursued him, begged him to join her for lunch, to go to movies, always on the sly. Her parents were horrified when she announced their wedding. But she worked and finished college in five years, taught in the public schools, and went to law school at night.
In time, of course, Rod's charm had worn thin. Well, that was not really true. He remained one of the most devastatingly funny humans she'd known -the wise-guy drunk at the end of the bar who got off the best lines in English comedies. But he was, in a
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