didn’t, mister.”
The Sunlight Man considered it, still watching for the guard, then turned his head once more to look at the Indians. They were young, teen-agers, the older one lean and muscular, with a short, flat forehead and a thin mouth. The younger one was fat, as apelike as the Sunlight Man himself, but cleaner, with downward slanting, unfocused eyes that seemed never fully opened. The two Indians were like Mutt and Jeff, like a pine tree and a mound of earth, like contrasted endocrinological types in a high-school biology book. When the new prisoner was finished looking at them, grimly and suspiciously, or so it seemed at the moment, he smiled suddenly, like a wicked child, and opened his hands like a Jewish tailor.
“But you see,” he said, “I have his billfold.” It hung, incontrovertible as a flat-iron, between the thumb and first finger of the man’s left hand.
The Indians stared and even the humpbacked thief turned to look, and, after a silence, they all began to laugh.
When the guard came, the new prisoner handed him the billfold humbly, as if sheepishly, and explained, showing his large, perfect teeth, “Practice.”
The guard said nothing. He pocketed the billfold without even checking to see that whatever money he’d had was still inside (he regretted that later, though nothing was missing), and he held out his hand again. His face was dark red, whether with rage or embarrassment you could not have guessed. Chief of Police Clumly and Captain Sangirgonio—Miller—stood watching from the hallway, with their arms folded, Clumly looking panicky and mildly outraged, pale eyes bulging, Miller grinning broadly, one eyebrow cocked. The bearded prisoner put his fingers to his lips studying the guard’s outstretched, patient hand, then nodded thoughtfully and produced from the empty air, as it seemed, a wristwatch, a pack of Kools, a pencil, and a fifty-cent piece. The guard stuffed them all in his pocket without glancing at them, bit his lips together, and turned to stalk between Clumly and Miller and away down the hall.
“He’s good, you know that?” Miller said.
Clumly said, “There’ll be a file on that man. You mark my words.”
Miller grinned. “Fifty bucks says you’re wrong, Chief. That’s no pick-pocket there.” He rubbed his hands. “We caught us a magician.”
“Negative,” Clumly said. “What’s a magician doing defacing a public thoroughfare?”
Miller turned mock-solemn. “You’re right, Chief. That’s the work of a pick-pocket.”
Clumly scowled his disgust and went back to his office. Miller nodded admiration and farewell, and the bearded prisoner bowed from the waist, like a Chinaman, fingertips together, his fire-blasted face like a large baked apple wrinkled and dry with age. When Miller was gone, the new prisoner went to the back of his cell, demonically pleased with himself, and sat down.
He’d won them all, that moment—both the police and his fellow prisoners—and so, by some inevitable logic of his character, he had to destroy the effect. He said to both Indians, as though they weren’t worth addressing singly, “What did they arrest you for?” He managed to make it sound thoroughly unfriendly, as though he wanted to know for his own safety. When the older one answered, the bearded prisoner closed his eyes and seemed to pay no attention—though he heard, all right, they would find out later.
The younger one said, “Why they got you here?”
He leered. “Because I’m mad, friend.” He stood up, threw out his arms, tipped back his head, and lifted his thick right leg straight out to the side so that the toe of his shoe hung, perfectly motionless, four inches beyond the fingers of his right hand. The baggy suitcoat opened, revealing a dirty white shirt and no tie. It was then that he began his infuriating prattle.
“Jesus God,” the older of the Indians said.
Even after the light went off, a little before midnight, the Sunlight Man went on
The Sunlight Man considered it, still watching for the guard, then turned his head once more to look at the Indians. They were young, teen-agers, the older one lean and muscular, with a short, flat forehead and a thin mouth. The younger one was fat, as apelike as the Sunlight Man himself, but cleaner, with downward slanting, unfocused eyes that seemed never fully opened. The two Indians were like Mutt and Jeff, like a pine tree and a mound of earth, like contrasted endocrinological types in a high-school biology book. When the new prisoner was finished looking at them, grimly and suspiciously, or so it seemed at the moment, he smiled suddenly, like a wicked child, and opened his hands like a Jewish tailor.
“But you see,” he said, “I have his billfold.” It hung, incontrovertible as a flat-iron, between the thumb and first finger of the man’s left hand.
The Indians stared and even the humpbacked thief turned to look, and, after a silence, they all began to laugh.
When the guard came, the new prisoner handed him the billfold humbly, as if sheepishly, and explained, showing his large, perfect teeth, “Practice.”
The guard said nothing. He pocketed the billfold without even checking to see that whatever money he’d had was still inside (he regretted that later, though nothing was missing), and he held out his hand again. His face was dark red, whether with rage or embarrassment you could not have guessed. Chief of Police Clumly and Captain Sangirgonio—Miller—stood watching from the hallway, with their arms folded, Clumly looking panicky and mildly outraged, pale eyes bulging, Miller grinning broadly, one eyebrow cocked. The bearded prisoner put his fingers to his lips studying the guard’s outstretched, patient hand, then nodded thoughtfully and produced from the empty air, as it seemed, a wristwatch, a pack of Kools, a pencil, and a fifty-cent piece. The guard stuffed them all in his pocket without glancing at them, bit his lips together, and turned to stalk between Clumly and Miller and away down the hall.
“He’s good, you know that?” Miller said.
Clumly said, “There’ll be a file on that man. You mark my words.”
Miller grinned. “Fifty bucks says you’re wrong, Chief. That’s no pick-pocket there.” He rubbed his hands. “We caught us a magician.”
“Negative,” Clumly said. “What’s a magician doing defacing a public thoroughfare?”
Miller turned mock-solemn. “You’re right, Chief. That’s the work of a pick-pocket.”
Clumly scowled his disgust and went back to his office. Miller nodded admiration and farewell, and the bearded prisoner bowed from the waist, like a Chinaman, fingertips together, his fire-blasted face like a large baked apple wrinkled and dry with age. When Miller was gone, the new prisoner went to the back of his cell, demonically pleased with himself, and sat down.
He’d won them all, that moment—both the police and his fellow prisoners—and so, by some inevitable logic of his character, he had to destroy the effect. He said to both Indians, as though they weren’t worth addressing singly, “What did they arrest you for?” He managed to make it sound thoroughly unfriendly, as though he wanted to know for his own safety. When the older one answered, the bearded prisoner closed his eyes and seemed to pay no attention—though he heard, all right, they would find out later.
The younger one said, “Why they got you here?”
He leered. “Because I’m mad, friend.” He stood up, threw out his arms, tipped back his head, and lifted his thick right leg straight out to the side so that the toe of his shoe hung, perfectly motionless, four inches beyond the fingers of his right hand. The baggy suitcoat opened, revealing a dirty white shirt and no tie. It was then that he began his infuriating prattle.
“Jesus God,” the older of the Indians said.
Even after the light went off, a little before midnight, the Sunlight Man went on
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