Delusion (6 page)
Exercise period took place in a big, open-roofed cage with a dirt yard and a basketball hoop at one end. For some reason, Pirate arrived a minute or two early. There was only one other inmate on the yard, sitting slumped against the fence as though ill, and as Pirate went closer he saw that this lone inmate was Esteban Malvi. He and Esteban Malvi went way back. Pirate’s heart started beating fast, despite how at peace he was with everything. His heart beat fast and he felt the tiny weapon in his eye.
Year two. In
those days, the exercise yard was bigger and uncaged, on the other side of C-block, bounded by the walls themselves. C-block
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was the oldest part of the prison, and there were a few odd corners in the old yard, hard to see from the towers. Guards patrolled the yard, so those blind spots shouldn’t have mattered, but they did on the morning that Esteban Malvi decided that Pirate—still called Al at the time—had disrespected him.
Pirate was a much bigger man than Esteban Malvi, and at that stage of his life still jacked and ripped besides. The catch was Malvi’s position: his father headed a Central American drug gang, the Ocho Cincos or something like that, a gang unknown to Pirate until too late. They lured him into one of those blind spots in the yard with an offer of a cigarette. For a moment, everything looked friendly, Malvi sitting on a bench, eating yogurt with a plastic spoon, other inmates lounging around: one of those misleading first impressions.
The other inmates turned out to be Ocho Cincos. The next minute Pirate lay helpless on the ground and Malvi was scooping out his right eye with the plastic spoon. Impossible to do that with a plastic spoon, of course. The eating part snapped off right away, but what remained had a sharp point, and Malvi finished the job with that. A minute later, Pirate was alone and the guards were on their way. No witnesses stepped forward, and Pirate, now more experienced, knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
And here, slumped
against the fence in the new yard, was Esteban Malvi, all pale and clammy, looking ill, and for a moment or two they would be alone. Pirate went closer. Esteban recognized him, understood the situation instantly, tried to squirm away. But he was weak, and there was nowhere to go. Pirate crouched beside him. Esteban’s eyes shifted here and there, maybe searching for help. But Pirate knew there would be no help. Everything was lined up right.
“What’s the matter, Esteban?” he said. “Got AIDS?”
“A little bit,” Esteban said.
Pirate put a hand on Esteban’s shoulder. His hand looked huge and strong, Esteban’s shoulder weak and pitiful. The tiny weapon in Pirate’s eye itched to get out.
Esteban pushed against the fence, as though his body could flow
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through the holes. “What—what can I do for you?” he said. “Maybe make things easier?”
“Things couldn’t be any easier,” Pirate said. “I’m easy.”
“Oh, right, I hear you’re getting out. Be a shame to ruin that.”
Pirate shrugged. “Do I care?” he said. A funny question: he didn’t know the answer himself. He let go of Esteban, raised his eyepatch, folded back the eyelid, produced the weapon. Esteban’s eyes got very big. They suddenly began exerting magnetic force, and the weapon was steel. What else could it do?
“Oh, God,” said Esteban.
And at that moment, Pirate understood the story of Job, but completely, the last bit of meaning falling into rightful place: he knew what it felt like, not just to be Job, but to be God as well. Had he ever felt happier in his life? Pirate laughed out loud. For some reason that scared Esteban even more. Yellow liquid pooled in the dirt between his legs. Pirate wrapped the tiny weapon in its tiny scrap of cotton and put it back where it belonged. He rose.
“This is your lucky day, Esteban,” he said.
Esteban gazed up at him.
“But don’t push it too far—I’m not going to cure your AIDS.”
Esteban’s face turned unpleasant; he let his natural meanness get the best of him. “You nuts?” he said.
Pirate froze for a second. Then he bent over and patted Esteban’s clammy head. After that, more to demonstrate God’s unpredictability than anything else—how could you spend time with Job without learning of God’s unpredictability?—Pirate thumbed up one of Esteban’s eyelids, licked the tip of the index finger of his other hand, just to be sanitary, and stroked Esteban’s eyeball, stroked it lightly, the way he’d stroke a kitten. Well, maybe a little harder than that. Then came some sort of cry on Esteban’s part, not too loud.
Pirate gave a brief explanation: “This is only a test.” He walked away.
Other inmates were arriving, plus a few guards. Pirate spoke to one of them.
“Esteban’s AIDS is giving him a hard time today.”
The guard glanced over at Esteban, slumped against the fence.
“Christ,” he said, and reached for his surgical gloves.
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. . . .
Pirate lay on
his bunk, fingers on the gold tassel. Time passed. He was at peace. Footsteps sounded outside: light, with a slight offbeat rhythm—recognized by Pirate from his guitar-playing days—as though whoever was coming had a song on the brain. Pirate already knew: it was the CO with the modified dreds, a big man but soft on his feet.
“Pirate?” he said. “Visitor.”
Pirate didn’t feel like a visitor—he was having a nice quiet time—but he didn’t argue. Keys jingled. He went through the steps: raised arms, spreading, dropped pants, bending. Then Pirate and the guard walked past all the caged rats.
“Lots of talk about you these days, Pirate,” the guard said.
“Don’t pay attention to gossip, myself,” said Pirate.
They went into the visiting room. The woman with the glowing skin was waiting on the other side of the glass. Pirate sat in the middle chair, like last time, and picked up the phone.
The woman smiled. “Hello, Mr. DuPree,” she said. “Holding up all right?”
Holding up all right? Pirate wasn’t sure he understood the question. At the same time, since he’d forgotten her name, he couldn’t politely reply,
Hello, Miss
whatever the name happened to be. He ended up saying nothing.
That tiny frown furrow appeared on the woman’s brow, adding to her beauty. “This waiting must be hard,” she said.
Pirate shrugged. He was an expert at waiting.
“The hearing has been postponed,” the woman said, “while they track down Napoleon Ferris.”
“Nappy.”
“Yes, Nappy. The liquor-store owner.”
“I didn’t like him.”
“No?”
“He wanted nine ninety-nine for a pint of Popov.”
“That’s a kind of vodka?”
“Barely.”
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The woman laughed. He’d cracked a joke. It felt good, and seeing her laugh was even better. He remembered her name.
“Barely, Susannah,” he said. “But I don’t drink anymore.”
Her eyes shifted slightly. He took that to mean
of course not,
you’re in prison,
and for a second or two—but no more—she wasn’t quite so beautiful.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he said.
“I won’t,” she said, looking serious, and back to her old beautiful self. “In the meantime, we were wondering—”
“What meantime?”
Susannah blinked. “While the search goes on for Nappy.”
“Nappy, Nappy, Nappy.”
“Mr. DuPree?”
“Why all this talk about Nappy?”
“We need his testimony to fill in the gaps.”
“Gaps?”
“In the whole story of the tape—when it was sent, why, why not pursued.” Her answer led to confusion in Pirate’s mind, but before he could speak she went on: “We’ll have a much better chance with the judge.”
“What judge?”
“We don’t know who it will be yet, but I’m talking about the judge at your hearing,” Susannah said. “The hearing to free you.”
“Turn the captivity,” said Pirate.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
Pirate bowed his head, remained silent.
“In the meantime,” she said, “we wondered whether you’ve given any thought to what you might want to do if we’re successful.”
Pirate looked up. “Successful?”
“At the hearing.”
“Oh,” said Pirate. His mind was a blank.
“Have you kept in touch with any relatives or friends?”
In touch: Pirate thought of the slightly damp, surprisingly hard surface of Esteban Malvi’s eye. He shook his head.
“Is there anyone on the outside you’d like us to contact?”
“Besides Nappy, you mean?”
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Susannah paused for a moment, then laughed. He’d cracked another joke. “Yes,” she said, “besides Nappy.”
“Nope,” said Pirate.
She gazed at him. “There’ll be plenty of time to figure this all out later.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anything we can help you with for now?” she said. “Anything you need?”
“An earring of gold.”
She laughed right away, catching on to his sense of humor. But this time he hadn’t been joking. “It’s good to see you holding up so well, Mr. DuPree—and I think you have every right to be cautiously optimistic.”
Cautiously optimistic! What a great expression! That was him in a nutshell. “Okay,” he said.
“I’ll be in touch. Bye, Mr. DuPree.” She hung up.
“I’m going to have twice what I had before,” Pirate said.
She picked up the phone. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Drive safe,” said Pirate.
Lee Ann was on the phone. “Any chance of getting together today?”
she said. “I’ve got a few things I’d like to go over with you.”
“What kind of things?” Nell said. She was in the middle of writing an e-mail to Norah:
I’ve left a couple messages, sweetheart.
Everything ok? If you’ve lost your phone again, don’t wor—
“Concerning Alvin DuPree,” Lee Ann said.
“Lee Ann, please. I’ve got nothing to say. This is a mistake and it’s going to get cleared up.”
“Even if it is,” Lee Ann said, “that’s a story, too. How a mistake like this could happen, the role of Bernardine and the flood, what it says about the whole town.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Nell said. “But I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I don’t understand that question,” Nell said; she heard her tone sharpening. “It’s
can’t
of course. This tape is a fake of some kind, but other than that, I have no information at all.”
“Has it been definitely identified as a fake?”
“I don’t know,” Nell said. “Why don’t you call Clay?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He had no comment.”
“Then neither do I.”
“But—”
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In fact, this was sneaky: Lee Ann was trying to get her to talk behind Clay’s back. “Sorry, Lee Ann, I’ve got to go.”
“But there’s—”
Nell hung up. She went back to her e-mail, fingers not quite steady.
. . .
don’t worry—just get another one and put it on the debit card.
Talk to you soon, I hope. Love, Mom.
The phone rang just as she deleted
I hope
and hit send. Nell let it ring. The answering machine took the call. Lee Ann said, “Nell?
You there? I was about to mention something I probably should have figured out long ago but didn’t. I’ve been going over the timeline, and there doesn’t seem to be any way for Clay to have been Norah’s father. Am I right on this? And if—”
Nell grabbed the phone. “What the hell are you doing?” she said.
“Working on a story.”
“My private life has nothing to do with your story.” Nell slammed down the phone.
Her first instinct was to pick it right back up and call Clay. But why add to his burden? Nell took a deep breath and called Lee Ann instead.
“Are you planning to put it in the paper?” she said. “About Clay?”
“No,” Lee Ann said. “I have no plans to do that.”
“Good,” said Nell. “Because it’s not a secret. Clay filed adoption papers.” And had tried his best—and Clay’s best meant a very high standard—to be a good father to Norah and even more than that, loved her as his own daughter; Nell left all that unsaid.
“Sorry,” Lee Ann said. “I should have checked that.”
“But why? Why are you doing any of this? This is my personal business.”
“I’m only trying to understand,” Lee Ann said, “to get all the pieces straight in my head before the hearing.”
“But the hearing will be the end of it,” Nell said. “The tape is a fake. How many times do I have to say it? I saw the killing happen with my own eyes.”
“I know,” Lee Ann said, her tone softening. After a short pause, she said, “What if I picked you up and went over there, would you be willing to talk me through the whole thing?”
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PETER ABRAHAMS
“Over where?” said Nell.
“Parish Street,” Lee Ann said. “Down where the pier used to be.
This is for background only, as I said, but also . . .”
“Also what?”
“I know we were never really close, but—also as a friend.”
“That’s very nice,” Nell said, actually meaning it. “But no.”
“Your call, no problem,” said Lee Ann. “Just one last thing—I’ve got an idea or two about the tape.”
“Go on.”
“I’d prefer to do that in person,” Lee Ann said.
Lee Ann picked
Nell up about ten minutes later. She drove a small convertible, with the “service engine” light on, clutter everywhere but the passenger seat and the AC running full blast even though it was pleasant outside, the real heat still two or three months away.
“Got you a latte,” Lee Ann said, handing her a paper cup. “Hey, nice ring.” She gazed at the premature anniversary ring. “What is that—garnet?”
“Ruby,” said Nell, sticking the latte in the drink holder and leaving it there. “What are your ideas about the tape?”
“We’ll get to that,” Lee Ann said, driving down Sandhill Way and taking a left turn at the bottom, a little too fast. “First, what can you tell me about your husband’s relationship with Bobby Rice?”
