Finders Keepers (14 page)

The slam of the front door cut her off.

Morris stalked to the sidewalk with his head down, and when he reached it, he began to run. There was a strip mall with a liquor store in it three blocks away. When he got there, he sat on the bike rack outside Hobby Terrific and waited. The first two guys he spoke to refused his request (the second with a smile Morris longed to punch off his face), but the third was wearing thrift-shop clothes and walking with a pronounced list to port. He agreed to buy Morris a pint for two dollars, or a quart for five. Morris opted for the quart, and began drinking it beside the stream running through the undeveloped land between Sycamore and Birch Streets. By then the sun was going down. He had no memory of making his way to
Sugar Heights in the boosted car, but there was no doubt that once he was there, he'd gotten into what Curd the Turd liked to call a mega jackpot.

Whose fault is it that you're in here?

He supposed a little of the blame could go to the wino who'd bought an underage kid a quart of whiskey, but mostly it was his mother's fault, and one good thing had come of it: when he was sentenced, there had been no sign of that sarcastic curl of a smile. He had finally wiped it off her face.

•••

During prison lockdowns (there was at least one a month), Morris would lie on his bunk with his hands crossed behind his head and think about the fourth Jimmy Gold novel, wondering if it contained the redemption he had so longed for after closing
The Runner Slows Down
. Was it possible Jimmy had regained his old hopes and dreams? His old fire? If only he'd had two more days with it! Even one!

Although he doubted if even John Rothstein could have made a thing like that believable. Based on Morris's own observations (his parents being his prime exemplars), when the fire went out, it usually went out for good. Yet some people
did
change. He remembered once bringing up that possibility to Andy Halliday, while they were having one of their many lunch-hour discussions. This was at the Happy Cup, just down the street from Grissom Books, where Andy worked, and not long after Morris had left City College, deciding what passed for higher education there was fucking pointless.

“Nixon changed,” Morris said. “The old Commie-hater opened trade relations with China. And Lyndon Johnson pushed the Civil Rights Bill through Congress. If an old racist hyena like him could change his spots, I suppose anything is possible.”

“Politicians.” Andy sniffed, as at a bad smell. He was a skinny, crewcut fellow only a few years older than Morris. “
They
change out of expediency, not idealism. Ordinary people don't even do that. They can't. If they refuse to behave, they're punished. Then, after punishment, they say okay, yes sir, and get with the program like the good little drones they are. Look at what happened to the Vietnam War protestors. Most of them are now living middle-class lives. Fat, happy, and voting Republican. Those who refused to knuckle under are in jail. Or on the run, like Katherine Ann Power.”

“How can you call Jimmy Gold
ordinary
?” Morris cried.

Andy had given him a patronizing look. “Oh, please. His entire story is an epic journey out of exceptionalism. The purpose of American culture is to create a
norm
, Morris. That means that extraordinary people must be leveled, and it happens to Jimmy. He ends up working in
advertising
, for God's sake, and what greater agent of the norm is there in this fucked-up country? It's Rothstein's main point.” He shook his head. “If you're looking for optimism, buy a Harlequin Romance.”

Morris thought Andy was basically arguing for the sake of argument. A zealot's eyes burned behind his nerdy hornrims, but even then Morris was getting the man's measure. His zeal was for books as objects, not for the stories and ideas inside them.

They had lunch together two or three times a week, usually at the Cup, sometimes across the street from Grissom's on the benches in Government Square. It was during one of these lunches that Andrew Halliday first mentioned the persistent rumor that John Rothstein had continued to write, but that his will specified all the work be burned upon his death.

“No!” Morris had cried, genuinely wounded. “That could never happen. Could it?”

Andy shrugged. “If it's in the will, anything he's written since he dropped out of sight is as good as ashes.”

“You're just making it up.”

“The stuff about the will might just be a rumor, I grant you that, but it's well accepted in bookstore circles that Rothstein never stopped writing.”

“Bookstore circles,” Morris had said doubtfully.

“We have our own grapevine, Morris. Rothstein's housekeeper does his shopping, okay? Not just groceries, either. Once every month or six weeks, she goes into White River Books in Berlin, which is the closest town of any size, to pick up books he's ordered by phone. She's told the people who work there that he writes every day from six in the morning until two in the afternoon. The owner told some other dealers at the Boston Book Fair, and the word got around.”

“Holy shit,” Morris had breathed. This conversation had taken place in June of 1976. Rothstein's last published story, “The Perfect Banana Pie,” had been published in 1960. If what Andy was saying was true, it meant that John Rothstein had been piling up fresh fiction for sixteen years. At even eight hundred words a day, that added up to . . . Morris couldn't begin to do the math in his head, but it was a lot.

“Holy shit is right,” Andy said.

“If he really wants all that burned when he dies, he's
crazy
!”

“Most writers are.” Andy had leaned forward, smiling, as if what he said next were a joke. Maybe it was. To him, at least. “Here's what I think—someone should mount a rescue mission. Maybe you, Morris. After all, you're his number one fan.”

“Not me,” Morris said, “not after what he did to Jimmy Gold.”

“Cool it, guy. You can't blame a man for following his muse.”

“Sure I can.”

“Then steal em,” Andy said, still smiling. “Call it theft as a protest on behalf of English literature. Bring em to me. I'll sit on em awhile, then sell em. If they're not senile gibberish, they might fetch as much as a million dollars. I'll split with you. Fifty-fifty, even-Steven.”

“They'd catch us.”

“Don't think so,” Andy Halliday had replied. “There are ways.”

“How long would you have to wait before you could sell them?”

“A few years,” Andy had replied, waving his hand as if he were talking about a couple of hours. “Five, maybe.”

A month later, heartily sick of living on Sycamore Street and haunted by the idea of all those manuscripts, Morris packed his beat-up Volvo and drove to Boston, where he got hired by a contractor building a couple of housing developments out in the burbs. The work had nearly killed him at first, but he had muscled up a little (not that he was ever going to look like Duck Duckworth), and after that he'd done okay. He even made a couple of friends: Freddy Dow and Curtis Rogers.

Once he called Andy. “Could you
really
sell unpublished Rothstein manuscripts?”

“No doubt,” Andy Halliday said. “Not right away, as I believe I said, but so what? We're young. He's not. Time would be on our side.”

Yes, and that would include time to read everything Rothstein had written since “The Perfect Banana Pie.” Profit—even half a million dollars—was incidental. I am not a mercenary, Morris told himself. I am not interested in the Golden Buck. That shit don't mean shit. Give me enough to live on—sort of like a grant—and I'll be happy.

I am a
scholar
.

On the weekends, he began driving up to Talbot Corners, New
Hampshire. In 1977, he began taking Curtis and Freddy with him. Gradually, a plan began to take shape. A simple one, the best kind. Your basic smash-and-grab.

•••

Philosophers have debated the meaning of life for centuries, rarely coming to the same conclusion. Morris studied the subject himself over the years of his incarceration, but his inquiries were practical rather than cosmic. He wanted to know the meaning of life in a legal sense. What he found was pretty schizo. In some states, life meant exactly that. You were supposedly in until you died, with no possibility of parole. In some states, parole was considered after as little as two years. In others, it was five, seven, ten, or fifteen. In Nevada, parole was granted (or not) based on a complicated point system.

By the year 2001, the average life sentence of a man in the American prison system was thirty years and four months.

In the state where Morris was stacking time, lawmakers had created their own arcane definition of life, one based on demographics. In 1979, when Morris was convicted, the average American male lived to the age of seventy. Morris was twenty-three at the time, therefore he could consider his debt to society paid in forty-seven years.

Unless, that is, he were granted parole.

He became eligible the first time in 1990. Cora Ann Hooper appeared at the hearing. She was wearing a neat blue suit. Her graying hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it screeched. She held a large black purse in her lap. She recounted how Morris Bellamy had grabbed her as she passed the alley beside Shooter's Tavern and told her of his intention to “rip off a piece.” She told the five-member Parole Board how he had punched her and bro
ken her nose when she managed to trigger the Police Alert device she kept in her purse. She told the board about the reek of alcohol on his breath and how he had gouged her stomach with his nails when he ripped off her underwear. She told them how Morris was “still choking me and hurting me with his organ” when Officer Ellenton arrived and pulled him off. She told the board that she had attempted suicide in 1980, and was still under the care of a psychiatrist. She told the board that she was better since accepting Jesus Christ as her personal savior, but she still had nightmares. No, she told the board, she had never married. The thought of sex gave her panic attacks.

Parole was not granted. Several reasons were given on the green sheet passed to him through the bars that evening, but the one at the top was clearly the PB's major consideration:
Victim states she is still suffering
.

Bitch.

Hooper appeared again in 1995, and again in 2000. In '95, she wore the same blue suit. In the millennium year—by then she had gained at least forty pounds—she wore a brown one. In 2005, the suit was gray, and a large white cross hung on the growing shelf of her bosom. She held what appeared to be the same large black purse in her lap at each appearance. Presumably her Police Alert was inside. Maybe a can of Mace, as well. She was not summoned to these hearings; she volunteered.

And told her story.

Parole was not granted. Major reason given on the green sheet:
Victim states she is still suffering.

Shit don't mean shit, Morris told himself. Shit don't mean shit.

Maybe not, but
God
, he wished he'd killed her.

•••

By the time of his third turndown, Morris's work as a writer was much in demand—he was, in the small world of Waynesville, a bestselling author. He wrote love letters to wives and girlfriends. He wrote letters to the children of inmates, a few of which confirmed the reality of Santa Claus in touching prose. He wrote job applications for prisoners whose release dates were coming up. He wrote themes for prisoners taking online college courses or working to get their GEDs. He was no jailhouse lawyer, but he did write letters to real lawyers on behalf of inmates from time to time, cogently explaining each case at hand and laying out the basis for appeal. In some cases lawyers were impressed by these letters, and—mindful of the money to be made from wrongful imprisonment suits that were successful—came on board. As DNA became of overriding importance in the appeals process, he wrote often to Barry Scheck and Peter Neufeld, the founders of the Innocence Project. One of those letters ultimately led to the release of an auto mechanic and part-time thief named Charles Roberson, who had been in Waynesville for twenty-seven years. Roberson got his freedom; Morris got Roberson's eternal gratitude and nothing else . . . unless you counted his own growing reputation, and that was
far
from nothing. It had been a long time since he had been raped.

In 2004, Morris wrote his best letter ever, laboring over four drafts to get it exactly right. This letter was to Cora Ann Hooper. In it he told her that he lived with terrible remorse for what he had done, and promised that if he were granted parole, he would spend the rest of his life atoning for his one violent act, committed during an alcohol-induced blackout.

“I attend AA meetings four times a week here,” he wrote, “and now sponsor half a dozen recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. I would continue this work on the outside, at the St. Patrick's Half
way House on the North Side. I had a spiritual awakening, Ms. Hooper, and have allowed Jesus into my life. You will understand how important this is, because I know you have also accepted Christ as your Savior. ‘Forgive us our trespasses,' He said, ‘as we forgive those who trespass against us.' Won't you please forgive my trespass against you? I am no longer the man who hurt you so badly that night. I have had a soul conversion. I pray that you respond to my letter.”

Ten days later, his prayer for a response was answered. There was no return address on the envelope, but
C.A. Hooper
had been printed neatly on the back flap. Morris didn't need to tear it open; some screw in the front office, assigned the duty of checking inmate mail, had already taken care of that. Inside was a single sheet of deckle-edged stationery. In the upper right corner and the lower left, fluffy kittens played with gray balls of twine. There was no salutation. A single line had been printed halfway down the page: