The Devil in Silver (8 page)

Locked door, still no phone call made, Scotch Tape’s revelation about why he’d been brought in here, and even Dorry’s little story about the American buffalo. The whole mess swirled in Pepper’s head until he imagined a cliff with a mound of bodies at the bottom. But his vision was far worse than what Dorry had described. He saw buffalo heads and human arms, bison’s legs and human torsos, a mess of discarded flesh and fur. And the three cops were at the top of the cliff. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, not even wearing their plain clothes but the brightly colored sweatshirts those duck kids wore in the cartoons. One red, one blue, one green. They were pushing something big to the edge of the cliff, and he knew who it was.

What to do with all that?

Pepper put on his boots to get rid of the dark thoughts.

The boots were three years old now. Bought from a military shoemaker. The soles were flexible, the toes durable, and lots of ankle support. Perfect for furniture movers, as well as soldiers. Even without the laces it felt good to have his work shoes back on. He worked exclusively for Farooz Brothers Movers. He was very good at his job.

Pepper was thinking maybe he should call the Farooz brothers himself, risk asking them for help, when he heard a patter against his shatterproof windows.

It was rain. A sun shower. The best kind of storm. They always made Pepper feel drowsy. Rain against the windows. The faint tapping got stronger, but only slightly. A sun shower on a Friday morning. Pepper slid his butt backward and lay flat on his bed, the boots still on his feet.

Pepper liked to watch that painter on television, Bob Ross. His voice was as pleasant as this morning rain. His voice as soft as his white-guy afro. If Pepper was ever switching through channels and happened across an episode of Bob Ross’s painting program, he would lie down (if he could), lower his eyelids, and just
lull
.

And that’s what happened to him there, in his bed at New Hyde. A sun shower and memories of Bob Ross blissed him right out. Until
someone unlocked that room’s door, there was nothing else he could do anyway. He listened as the rain seemed to creep up the side of his windows instead of down, until the patter seemed to dance against the roof of the building. Pepper had forgotten what Dorry told him, about Northwest having a second floor, so he thought the noise above his head was just rain hitting the roof. That’s why Pepper listened to it calmly. It lulled him. Up there the noise changed slightly. It sounded more like creaking. Like wood stretching. A faint, fast rhythm to it as the sun shower became a little more forceful.

The rain grew even stronger and the sun got crowded out, but by then Pepper had nearly fallen asleep. As more clouds burst outside, the creaking in the ceiling only got faster and the tapping against the windows turned into slaps. There was so much to worry about, so many mistakes to sort out when he got out of bed again. He almost worked himself back into a frenzy when he thought about Mari and what her ex-husband might be doing to her right now. But he couldn’t do much about any of it right then, so he just listened to the sounds of the wild world. Slapping and creaking and carrying on. Drowning out everything, even Pepper’s rising fear that he might not get out of Northwest. Not in seventy-two hours. Not for far longer than that.

Forget all that right now.

As Pepper’s eyes fluttered closed, he could almost hear the alizarin-crimson voice of Bob Ross, whispering, “And until next time, I’d like to wish you happy painting, God bless, and I’ll see you again.”

When Pepper’s eyes opened again, who did he find stooping over him? Not kindly, sweet, semi-burnt-out Bob Ross. No, it was Coffee.

Fucking Coffee.

And Pepper had a feeling about where this would head next. He’d fallen asleep flat on his back, above the covers. Instinctively, he shoved his hands into his pockets just in case Coffee had been planning to rob his ass in his sleep. Coffee noticed Pepper doing this and sneered as he backed away.

“I don’t need your money that badly, Joe.”

Pepper lifted his head off his pillow. “Stop calling me Joe.”

Coffee pointed at the tray on top of Pepper’s dresser. “I brought you lunch.”

Pepper sat up now, starving. The change in his right pocket shook as it settled. He got up and walked toward the tray. As he moved, his clothes felt stiff and his feet, still in the boots, felt wet and sweaty. His wool socks had been in need of a wash when he put them on Thursday. So by now they might be getting a bit ripe. Then he felt self-conscious. Even though he’d showered that morning, he already wanted to wash himself again. But not in that tight, windowless bathroom. Not in that stand-up shower stall. At home. In his tub. He probably hadn’t taken a
bath
in eight or nine years, but he’d earned such an indulgence. He’d even throw in some Epsom salt for the sciatica that had the left side of his lower back hurting. Wait. How had a luxurious indulgence turned into an old man’s nerve therapy? And so quickly?

Pepper looked down at the lunch tray: a small orange, a plastic carton of apple juice, a tuna-fish sandwich on white bread (the bread looked like dry wall and the tuna, grout), a small cookie prepackaged in plastic. The cookie was just dough with a mysterious small red ruby in the center. It looked like a wedge of beet, to be honest. A
beet
cookie for dessert? Who would do that to people? Even crazy people deserved better.

Pepper knew he should thank Coffee for bringing him the food, especially considering what had happened in that alcove. Yet this meal had all the hallmarks of a punishment. Pepper said nothing.

Coffee sat in bed, where he’d brought his own lunch tray and a can of soda. He tapped the top of the can with the same bony nail he’d used to poke Pepper the night before.

Pepper looked at the wealth of bad options on his tray. Which should he start with? It was like deciding between torture and torture. While Pepper pitied himself, Coffee kept rapping on that soda-can lid. Must’ve been at it a whole minute. The kind of rap-tap-tapping that made Poe flip his lid. Exactly as Pepper almost did. But then he looked at the man making the noise. Late twenties maybe, slumped forward on his messy bed, the can between his thighs, banging away. Pepper thought of one of those little toy monkeys clanging a pair of
cymbals. (Pepper did
not
mean that in a racist way.) Coffee had been at it so long that it seemed maniacal, but here was a lunch tray right in Pepper’s lap. A kindness that deserved a little respect. So instead of going off on Coffee, Pepper tried to think of why someone might tap the top of the can like that. And keep going. Like a person clearing his throat, again and again, until you finally realize he has something to say. Something to share. Maybe he just wanted to be asked the right question.

“Where are you from?” Pepper asked. Usually an easy way to start a conversation in Queens. But Coffee didn’t respond. Just kept drilling that soda can.

“How long have you been in New Hyde?”

That caused Coffee to miss the top of the can and poke at the air, but just as quickly he went back to his routine.

Pepper had to think about what other subjects there might be, the ones that really mattered to Coffee. It didn’t take much longer to guess. He sighed.

“Who were you trying to reach? On the phones.”

Coffee smiled into his lap. He stopped tapping. “You really want to know?”

Based on that grin, the width and brightness of it, now Pepper wasn’t so sure. If this guy ended up saying he’d been trying to ring up the Illuminati or Reverend Al Sharpton (Okay, Pepper, now that one
was
a little racist), Pepper wouldn’t want to hear it. It would just be too sad.

Coffee said, “I was trying to reach the mayor’s office.”

Was that sane? Pepper couldn’t quite say. Ambitious, but not necessarily nuts. Lots of people called the mayor with problems. Pepper picked up the small orange, the size of a handball. He closed his fingers around it and it disappeared.

“The mayor of … 
where
?” he asked.

Coffee finally snapped the tab of his Sprite can. When the top opened, it sounded like a sizzling pan.

“The mayor of New York City. Who else?”

(Mayor McCheese?)

Pepper opened his hand and bit into the top of the orange skin. He
spat the chunk onto his tray and peeled the rest. “And why were you trying to reach him?”

Coffee drank half his can of soda in slow gulps. When he finished, he looked at Pepper directly. Each man sat on his own bed, with his lunch tray on his lap. They looked like kids bunking at sleepaway camp.

Coffee said, “I had to let him know this place is dangerous. I’ve seen its true face.”

Pepper dropped the rest of the orange skin on the tray and tore the fruit in half.

Pepper held up the orange and said, “I’ll trade you for a can of soda.”

Coffee set his tray on his pillow, rose from the bed, grabbed another Sprite from his dresser and exchanged it for half the orange. He wobbled slightly as he moved across the room. Coffee leaned down so he could be close to Pepper’s face. So close that Pepper leaned backward. There had been the faint accent, and now this complete ease with closeness. Pepper felt sure this guy hadn’t been born in the United States. While the rest of the world seems happy with only a membrane of personal space, Americans need a bubble.

Coffee said, “The mayor ought to know it’s killing us.”

“And you think Bloomberg can do anything about that?”

Coffee tore off a slice of the orange and slipped it into his mouth. He hardly chewed before he spoke. “The man got three terms in a city where two terms are the law! He changed the law to help himself, so why can’t he do it to help others?”

“But why would he want to?” Pepper asked. “What would he get?”

Coffee laughed quietly as he went back to his bed. He pulled the lunch tray onto his lap and lifted the tuna sandwich. He sniffed at it, then set it down again without tasting.

Pepper ate his sandwich in two bites, damn the funny smell. And if Coffee didn’t eat his soon, Pepper would offer to eat it for him. As bad as it tasted, all this would help get his strength up. The morning pills weren’t making his mind drag anymore. They had worn off. His body no longer drifted. A little fuel, any fuel, would fill his tank.

The rain had stopped and the clouds parted. The sun reappeared.
Bright out. The windows were still slick with drops but they dried fast in the daylight.

“You ask why the mayor should care.” Coffee pointed at Pepper. “You’re an American. That’s right?”

“That’s right.”

“I am not. That is why I
know
what you cannot
believe
. This country might look like it’s about to break down for good.”

“That’s the truth,” Pepper said, as he choked down the tuna. Just then, even a bad job was a good job in this woefully unemployed country.

Coffee raised his Sprite as if he was giving a toast.

“But listen to me because I’m serious. America is not broken yet.”

Pepper wanted to argue. To educate this outsider. He knew the way systems ran in this country. For instance, he wondered how long it would take for Coffee to reach the mayor. A week? No chance. How about a thousand years? And then to be heard? To have something done about New Hyde? Count that shit in eons.

He wanted to say all that, but maybe he should’ve been more concerned about the sound of Miss Chris’s shoes coming down the hallway. In one hand she carried a small white plastic cup. In that cup were two small pills for Pepper. His midday meds.

Miss Chris plus Haldol plus lithium. A recipe for bed rest. He’d lost the morning and now it seemed he was going to lose the afternoon. She entered the room, ignored Coffee (because he’d already gotten his dose), and practically tossed the two meds down Pepper’s throat. As he drifted away, it occurred to him that he might end up spending the entire seventy-two-hour observation period with his eyes shut. Practically comatose. Then it occurred to him that this might be intentional.

So he slept through the afternoon, and in the evening Coffee did Pepper the kindness of bringing the dinner tray. A scoop of macaroni and cheese, a spoonful of green beans, two slices of plain white bread, a plastic container of apple juice. (Again with the apple juice?) And
another sugar cookie with a beet-looking blob stuck in the middle. This dessert, like the afternoon’s, would remain in its plastic.

Pepper ate the food, and a nurse, one he hadn’t seen before, came in to bring his nighttime meds. New nurse, same pills. He was knocked out even before the nurse had returned to the nurses’ station.

And that, friends, was almost all of Pepper’s first full day on the psychiatric unit.

The last thing to happen was this:

He opened his eyes at 2:45 a.m. He was on his side, facing the door. He saw Coffee under the covers of his own bed. The room’s lights were out, the door shut; behind Pepper the moon was up. Pepper got up to use the bathroom and this took a little while. He had to roll himself off his mattress, and then he spent a few minutes on his hands and knees on the floor. The tiles felt cold against his palms and even through his slacks. He planned to stand up and walk to the toilet, but he just couldn’t coordinate his muscles. So he crawled to the bathroom on his hands and knees while Coffee watched in silence.

In the bathroom Pepper clutched on to the sink to pull himself up. Who was that in the bathroom, grunting and groaning? It was him, but the sound seemed so far away.

He splashed water on his hands and face. He peed. He washed his hands again. He returned to bed. This time he lay down facing the windows.

The view wasn’t so bad at this hour. Pepper could see the tops of the trees outside and the starless dark sky and the moon, nearly full. He couldn’t see the chain-link fence or the barbed wire at the top or make out the headlights of cars in the distance. It felt good.

Which is why the intrusion bothered him so much.

Pepper heard a muted
thump
. It could’ve been something dropping from above, but Pepper couldn’t figure out what that might be. Then he thought of a set of bedcovers being tossed to the floor, and Pepper assumed that Coffee had climbed out of bed.