The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (133 page)

“How does that guy know Buddy?” Crotch Lady asked me.

“He doesn’t,” I said.

“He
said
he did.”

“Well, he doesn’t. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“Oh. It’s chilly in here, ain’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Is it January?”

I told her no—that it was August. Late August.

“Oh,” she said. “Got any gum?”

Half an hour later, I passed Leo in the hallway. He looked panicked—tried mouthing something I didn’t catch. “This door here,” Officer Overcash said.

I got my wish: a visit to a cracked toilet in an adjoining bathroom/supply closet just off the interrogation room. The only thing was, I had to keep the door open. Had to have Officer Avery stand there while I took a wiz, aiming a sample into this plastic cup about the size of a shot glass. At first, in my nervousness, I got “stage fright.” Avery and I waited and waited. Then, when I finally got past that little problem, I managed to piss all over my jeans and onto the floor. I cleaned it up with paper towels, apologizing like I’d just committed murder.

When we stepped back into the interrogation room, another cop was sitting at this enamel-topped table. He told me his name was Captain Balchunas and that I should have a seat. Balchunas was older than Avery and Overcash—grayish crewcut, red face, Santa Claus twinkle in his eye. I sat down, folding my arms across my chest. The enamel had worn off the tabletop at the exact points where I rested my elbows.

They’d decided not to bother with the formality of a tape recorder, Balchunas said. Avery and Overcash sat on either side of him, a pair of
stone-faced bookends. Overcash took out a pen and a legal pad. Did
I
have any questions before they started?

“Should I . . . do I need a lawyer or anything?” I said.

“For what?” Captain Balchunas asked. “You a bigtime drug lord or something?”

“No. I just—”

“You think these officers and I are going to step on your rights? Is that it? You one of those kids who thinks all cops are fascist pigs?” He was smiling as he said it.

“No.”

“What is it then?” He gave my paperwork a quick scan. “Tell me why you think you need a lawyer, Dom.”

“I just . . . Never mind. Go ahead.”

“See, what we’re thinking is, if you cooperate with us the way your buddy just did, we can streamline this process. Probably be able to get you out of here before a lawyer even had time to get in his car and get down here. See what I’m saying?”

I didn’t really see, but it sounded good. I nodded.

Captain Balchunas said he noticed I lived on Hollyhock Avenue. When he was a kid, he said, he used to hike up that road on his way to Rosemark’s Pond. He and his brothers used to catch snapping turtles up there. “That pond was lousy with them—ornery sons of bitches,” he said. “Some good-sized ones, too. You’d poke a stick at them and they’d latch on for dear life. Break a good-sized branch in half sometimes, neat as a pair of lopping shears.” He grabbed Officer Overcash’s pen and stuck it in his mouth, imitating the way the snapping turtle bit the stick. He had those really fake-looking false teeth—those grayish-green jobs. It struck me kind of funny, in spite of my nervousness. Or
because
of it, maybe: him chomping on that pen, shaking it back and forth, his jowls flapping. There was a tingling in my toes and fingertips. I was maybe 25 percent still stoned.

Balchunas stopped. Stared at me.
Kept
staring. “Why you shaking, Dom?” he asked. I looked over at Officer Avery. Shrugged. I was a little nervous, I told him.

“Nervous? Yeah?” He said they’d done a preliminary check on
me and that my record was clean as a whistle. “Everyone makes mistakes, Dom,” he said. “Has lapses in judgment. You just talk straight with us and we’ll talk straight with you. All right?”

“All right,” I said.

“Because your buddy Leon—he was
very
candid with us just now, and we were equally candid with him. And things went well. Didn’t they, fellas?”

Very
well, the other two agreed. I recalled the look on Leo’s face in the hallway a few minutes before. If he’d been so candid and straight with them, why was he trying so hard to tell me something?

“Leon says he and you are both in college, right?” Balchunas said. “Gonna be roommates this coming year? Up at the university?”

“Yes.”

“You ever have to do any research, Dom? For any of your college courses? Do some research on a subject, and then write a paper about it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what this is like, see? These officers and I are just doing some research, that’s all. You see, Dom, you might need a lawyer if protecting your rights was an issue. Which isn’t really applicable in this ‘sitchy-ation.’ At least we don’t
think
it is. That urine we took on you isn’t going to show us any surprises, is it?”

“Surprises?”

“Like that you’re a heroin addict or an LSD freak or something?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good. Cryst-o-mint?”

A blur waved in front of my face. A roll of Life Savers. “Uh, no . . . no thanks.”

“No? You sure? Gee, your buddy Leon had three or four of these things. Said he had dry mouth. I guess being stoned affects different people different, right? One guy gets dry mouth, the other doesn’t. Course, he talks a lot, too, that pal of yours. He’s got quite the gift of gab.”

I sat there. Said nothing. The less I said, the less likely I’d be to contradict whatever Leo had told them.

“Jesus Christ, Dom, you’re shaking like a leaf,” Balchunas said. “What’s the matter? You got Saint Vitus’ dance or something? We scaring you?”

Trying
not
to shake with them looking at me was futile. “I’m just . . . I’m all right.”

“Well, just relax. I could be wrong, Dom, but I don’t think you’re going to get the chair on this one.” He said it deadpan, then smiled.

I smiled back.

He popped himself a Life Saver.

“Gave up smoking three weeks ago, and I been sucking on these things ever since,” he said. “I was a two-and-a-half-packs-a-day man. How about you, Dom? You smoke?”

I looked over at Officer Avery. Looked back. Didn’t answer.

“Tobacco, I mean? Cigarettes?”

I shook my head.

“No? Good. Take my advice and don’t start. I quit over two weeks ago and I’m still bringing up phlegm.”

“Um . . . are you . . . are you going to arrest us?”

“Who? You guys? You and Leon? Well, let’s put it this way. We’re going to
try
not to. See, frankly, Dom, you and your buddy are more trouble than you’re worth. Couple of gnats on the windshield, you know? To
us,
I mean. To the justice system. Not, I’m sure, to your parents. Or your girlfriend. You got a girlfriend, Dom?”

“Yes, sir.”
Had
one, anyway, before this weird weekend. I saw Dessa, beneath me on the backseat of her mother’s car. Punching me, pushing me away.

“I bet you do. Good-looking fella like you. She pretty?”

What did he care? What did Dessa have to do with anything?

“Yes.”

“Hell, I bet she is.” He leaned forward and smiled. “She big-busted, Dom? You get to bury your face in some good-sized tittie, do you?”

I looked over at Officer Avery. No expression. “Uh . . .”

“None of my business, right? Okay, Dom. I withdraw the question. Consider it withdrawn. I envy you young guys these days,
though. All this ‘sexual revolution’ stuff I read about in the papers. When I was your age, a guy used to have to stand on his head and spit nickels just to cop a feel, and nowadays you young fellas say, ‘Open your legs up,’ and all she wants to know is, ‘How wide, honey?’ Right, Dom?”

I told myself he was just trying to piss me off—get me mad enough to incriminate myself. If I said I wanted a lawyer, didn’t they have to let me call one? Except getting a lawyer probably meant having to call Ma and Ray. Shit, if Ray found out . . .

“But like I was saying, Dom, you guys are small potatoes,” Balchunas said. “You and . . . what’s his name, again? Your fishing buddy? Motormouth, there?”

“Leo,” I said.

“That’s right. Leo. We might be able to clean this up pretty quick is what I’m saying. Your parents nice people, Dom?”

Oh,
fuck.
“Yes.”

“That’s what I figured. Bet they’d be a little upset if they knew about what was going on down here. Right? Here. Last chance.” He was holding out the goddamned Life Savers again. “Humor an old geezer, will you?
Take
one.”

I reached across and took one of his fucking mints. Put it in my mouth. Chewed it.

“How ’bout you, fellas?” he asked the other officers. “Cryst-o-mint?”

“No thanks, Captain.”

“I’m good, Captain.”

“Okeydoke.” He turned to Overcash. “Where was I, Clayton?”

Overcash consulted his pad: cross-hatchings in the margins, a single word or two. “Small potatoes,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. You see, Dom, with all the stuff going on in this town, you and Leon are what we classify as ‘nuisance cases.’ Frankly, prosecuting you guys is a waste of police time and resources. You see what I’m saying? Not that we
couldn’t
make the charges stick if we had to. I mean, come on, Dom. These officers here caught you two dead to rights.” He stopped, sniffed the air. “I can still
smell
the sweet
stuff on you, for Christ’s sake. You
reek
of it. So what we look for in ‘sitchy-ations’ like this is some kind of trade-off. Something that makes hauling you two guys in worth our while. See, what we’re interested in is where you
got
the stuff. We want to know who’s selling to guys like you and Leon, and who’s selling to
them,
and so on and so forth all the way up the food chain.
Capisce?
”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. So tell us about this Ralph Drinkwater character.”

“Ralph?” I said. “Uh . . . what do you want to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell us.”

For some reason, I started talking about Penny Ann Drinkwater’s long-ago murder out at the Falls. About the tree-planting in her honor. About Ralph’s showing up in my history class years later and then, again, on the work crew. I told them about graveball—how far Ralph could clobber a Wiffle ball. I was in the middle of explaining our rules on ghost runners when Balchunas interrupted me. “What’s the most grass you ever saw in Ralph’s possession at any one given time? What’s the max?”

“Uh . . . let me think. Couple of joints, maybe? Three joints?”

“You sure? Because Leon says he’s seen him with a hell of a lot more than that. Tonight, in fact. You two were over Ralph’s house tonight, right? You and Leon? You’re sure all you’ve ever seen on him was a couple of joints?”

Agree with whatever I tell them, Leo had said. But
this
?
Frame
the guy. “I’m . . . I’m not sure what Leo saw. All
I
ever saw was a couple of joints.”

“How ’bout hash? Ralph ever try and sell you any hash?”

“No.”

“Uppers? ‘Ludes? Acid?”

“No. He never—”

“Okay. Let’s change the subject. What do you recall hearing about the guy Ralph works for?”

“You mean Dell? Our foreman?”

“I mean the guy he
sells
for.”

“He doesn’t sell for anybody,” I said. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

Balchunas chuckled. “Oh, come on, now, Dom. Where you been all this time—never-never land? If Ralph’s dealing, then he’s getting it from someplace. Right? I thought we were going to talk straight with each other. Let’s cut the bullshit. Shall we?”

How was I supposed to walk
this
particular tightrope—not bag Ralph and not bag Leo, either? Not end up bagging myself?

“We . . . we were over there looking at a car, okay? Ralph lives at our foreman’s house, and our foreman has this car that he might sell. And . . . and I was out there looking at the car. And for a little while, a few minutes, Ralph and Leo were in the house, so maybe Leo saw something then. But
I
didn’t. . . . He never
sold
us anything. Ralph. All’s we did was get high a couple of times at work together, that’s all. At lunchtime or whatever. He just, you know, lit up a joint and passed it around a couple of times.”

“Just passed the joint, eh? How many times is ‘a couple of times,’ Dom?”

“I don’t know. . . . Six or seven, maybe? Eight?”

Balchunas turned to Overcash. “You hear that, Clayton? This must be that new math they teach in school nowadays. ‘A couple of times’ is eight times.” He turned back to me. “You remember Ralph saying anything about a guy named Roland?”

“Roland? No. Who’s Roland?”

“Leon says Ralph talked to you two once about a guy named Roland. Thinks he comes from New York, maybe? Thinks he might be Ralph’s connection? What do you remember about that conversation, Dom? Your buddy says you were there that time when Ralph was talking about Roland.”

Leo could get in deep shit for lying to the cops like this. Could get us
both
in trouble. “I don’t remember anything about any Roland. Maybe Ralph said something to Leo—I don’t know. Not to me.”

“You got some reason to protect this guy, Dom?”

“Protect who? Ralph?
No.
”

“No? You sure? Because your story’s not matching up that good with your buddy’s. Which leads me to the conclusion that one of you guys isn’t being 100 percent honest.”

I said nothing. This was just great: they thought
I
was bullshitting them, not Leo. Let
me
do the talking, he’d said. If I ended up having to call Ray, I was really fucked.

“You getting dry mouth, Dom? You keep swallowing. Want another mint?”

“No, thank you.” Fuckin’ pig bastard. He could
shove
his mints.

“So this Ralph never sold you anything, right? Just ‘passed the joint.’ Generous guy, huh? Just brings his stash to work and shares it.” He smiled. Leaned forward—close enough for me to smell his peppermint breath, see the little pockmarks on his nose. He whispered his next question. “And how about you, Dom? You ever share anything of yours with Ralph?”

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“Well, how can I put this delicately? Your friend Leon says this Ralph’s of the persuasion where—where he likes the fellas better than he likes the girls. Leon says Ralph and this foreman over on Bickel Road might have a little something funny going on. A little something more than a boss-and-worker relationship. See what I’m saying? So I guess I was just wondering out loud if you and Ralph ever made any kind of private deal. You know. He gives you something you want and you give him something he wants.”