Sideswipe (7 page)

"Then you're in the clear, Pop. Feel better?"

"I think so." Stanley nodded. "My lip still hurts though."

"I can't do anything about that. But when you get out, you should get a doctor to take a couple of stitches in it. Or, if they send you to the psychiatric ward in the morning, ask the nurse to get it sewed up for you. If I had a needle and thread I'd do it for you myself."

"You know how to do things like that?"

"Sure. I'm used to taking care of myself when I get hurt. I'm a professional criminal, a career criminal, and when I get hurt on the job, or someone with me does, we can't go to a doctor--not a regular one, anyway. I've set bones, and I even took a bullet out of a man's back once. If I hadn't, he'd of been paralyzed."

"How come you're in jail, Troy?"

"Call me Robert, Pop, while we're in here. Robert. After we get out, then you can call me Troy. Remember I told you I'm signed in here as Robert Smith."

"Sure, Robert. I'm sorry. I'm still upset, I guess."

"No need to be. You'll get out of this okay, Pop. But to answer your question, I'm a professional criminal, what the shrinks call a criminal psychopath. What it means is, I know the difference between right and wrong and all that, but I don't give a shit. That's the official version. Most men in prison are psychopaths, like me, and there are times-- when we don't give a shit--when we act impulsively. Ordinarily though, I'm not impulsive, because I always think a job out very carefully before I get around to doing it. But I misjudged this truck driver this morning. I thought he was a little simple-minded, in fact, just because of the way he talked. But he turned out to be devious. He didn't have much education, but apparently he had more native American intelligence than I gave him credit for-- Somebody's coming."

Troy crossed to the bars and watched the black trusty coming down the corridor with an enameled metal plate and a cup of coffee.

"Who was it missed supper?" the trusty asked as he reached the cell.

"Just pass it through. I'll give it to the old man."

"I'm not hungry," Stanley said.

"Never mind," Troy said. "Somebody'll eat it."

The trusty passed the plate and the cup through the slot in the cell door, and Troy sat beside Stanley on the bottom bunk. The plate contained beef stew, mustard greens, lime Jell-O, and a square of corn bread. There was a tablespoon in the cup of black coffee, which had been heavily sugared.

"Sure you don't want some of this, Pop? It'll be a long time till breakfast. Here, eat the corn bread, anyway."

Stanley ate the corn bread, and Troy ate the stew and the lime Jell-O, but not the mustard greens. He sipped the coffee and grimaced. "I don't mind food mixed up on the plate, because it all goes to one place anyway, but I can't eat greens without vinegar. Can you?"

"I'm not hungry. But this is good corn bread."

"I'm not hungry either, but I never pass up a chance to eat when I'm in jail. Ever been in jail in Mexico, Pop?"

"I never been in jail before. I already told you that. I never been in Mexico, either."

"I was in jail in Juarez once, right across the border from El Paso. They only feed twice a day there, at ten and four, and the guys who're doing the most time take half your beans. All you get is tortillas and beans twice a day, and the guys who've been there longest need the extra calories. They presume that a man who just got in's been eating good already, and they need to keep up their strength. There's more of them than there are of you, so you have to give up half your beans."

"What did you do to get thrown in a Mexican jail?"

"That's another story, Pop. Let me finish telling you what went down this morning, 'cause you're gonna help me with my situation. I'm on my way to Miami, and I got stuck just outside of Daytona, hitchhiking. Hitchhiking ain't what it used to be, unless you're a soldier or a sailor in uniform, because there are a lot of criminals on the roads these days, and people aren't picking up strangers the way they used to. I waited on U.S. One for almost three hours before I got a ride. Finally, a guy named Henry Collins gave me a lift. D'you know him, by any chance?"

"No, I don't. But I don't know many people."

"He lives right here in West Palm Beach."

"I don't live in West Palm. I live in Ocean Pines Terraces, over in Riviera Beach, the retirement settlement the other side of the canal."

"Well, Collins lives here, and he told me West Palm was as far as he was going when I first got into his car. He drives a 1984 Prelude."

"That's a Japanese car. You know, it's un-American to drive one of them. The foot pedals in a Honda are too small, and there's more leg room in a Ford. A Ford'll do anything a Honda'll do, too."

"I'm not complaining about the car, Pop. After three hours standing in the sun, I was willing to ride in the back of a pickup with a load of sheep. Anyway, Collins is a truck driver, and works out of Jacksonville. But he had two full days off, and he was coming home to spend it with his wife. I got to thinking about standing on the highway for another three hours or so, and the more I thought about it, the more I hated the idea. So I decided to take Collins's car and drive to Miami myself."

Stanley widened his eyes. "You mean you stole the man's car, after he was good enough to give you a free ride?"

"No, it didn't work out that way. I took my pistol out from under my belt and shoved it into his side, but before I could explain that I was only going to borrow his car, and that I wasn't going to hurt him, Collins jerks the wheel and we pile into a concrete bridge rail. About a mile north of downtown Riviera Beach. I'd already seen the sign marking the city limits. The damned fool could've killed us both."

"That's right. 'Specially in a tinny Japanese car."

Troy laughed. "He was frightened, I suppose. He banged his head against the windshield, and he was stunned for a minute, but I was braced and wearing my seatbelt. I always wear a seatbelt. Seatbelts save lives."

"I don't wear mine. I figure if I'm hanging on to the wheel I'm braced enough."

"It didn't work out that way for Henry Collins, Pop. The swamp was right there, with water going under the bridge, and it looked pretty deep there, so I tossed my gun as far as I could into the water. Collins was only out cold for a few seconds, but then he came to and glared at me."

"You should've run," Stanley said. "If I'd a been you I'd've started running."

"I never run, Pop. What could Collins prove? It was only his word against mine. We didn't wait long anyway, because people stopped right away to see if we were hurt. Within three minutes there was a state trooper there to investigate the accident. It was just inside the city limits, so he called for a Riviera cop. Meanwhile, Collins was filling the trooper in about me pulling a pistol on him."

"What did you say?"

"I told the trooper and the cop both that Collins was either drunk or crazy. They made him walk a straight line and then take a breath test. And he wasn't drunk. They didn't think he was crazy either, so after he said he'd prefer charges, they locked me up. Hell, he's a homeowner here, and I don't have any fixed address. Not at the moment anyway, except for this cell."

"Did they ever find your gun?"

"Not yet, and they won't try very hard, not in all that stinking muck out there. But even if they find a gun they can't prove it's mine. There must be hundreds of guns thrown off bridges here in Florida."

Frowning, Stanley took the plate and cup from Troy and put them down by the door. "You're in a lot of trouble, son. That's an awful thing to do, pulling a gun on a man that way. What ever made you do it?"

"I explained that to you. I'm a criminal psychopath, so I'm not responsible for the things I do."

"Does that mean you're crazy? You don't look crazy, Troy--I mean John."

"Robert."

"Robert. Of course, pulling that pistol on that man--"

"Let me finish, Pop. I don't have time to go into all of the ramifications of my personality, it's too complex. I've been tested again and again, and it always comes out the same. Psychopath. And because I'm a criminal, I'm also a criminal psychopath. You follow me?"

"Yeah, I think so. But if you aren't crazy, what are you?"

"It's what I told you already. I know the difference between good and bad, but it makes no difference to me. If I see the right thing to do and want to do it, I do it, and if I see the wrong thing and want to do it, I do that, too."

"You mean you can't help yourself then?"

"Certainly I can. I'll put it another way. I can help myself, but I don't give a damn."

"And because you don't give a damn, you're a criminal psychopath, is that it?"

"You've got it."

"But why"--Stanley made a sweeping movement with his arm--"don't you give a damn?"

"Because I'm a criminal psychopath. Maybe, when they give you some tests, you might could be one, too."

"No, I'm a responsible person, Robert. I worked hard all my life, took good care of my wife and son, and even put my boy through junior college. I own a home up in Detroit, and I own my own home here in Florida. I never done nothing wrong in my life, except for--well, I won't go into some little things, maybe."

"Even after they test you, Pop, you still won't know how they came out. They never tell you. I had to give a man at Folsom two cartons of Chesterfields to get a Xerox of my medical records. That's how I know. Otherwise I wouldn't know that I was a criminal psychopath, and I would think I was doing strange things instead of acting naturally. I read a lot, you see, even when I'm not in jail."

Stanley pointed to the dish and cup on the floor. "Do I have to wash this plate and cup?"

"Hell, no, just leave it for the trusty. Until a man's been adjudicated and found guilty, he don't have to do anything in jail. They'll try to get you to do things, but you can tell them to go fuck themselves because you're innocent until you're proven guilty. You and me are both innocent, so we don't have to do a damned thing. Sit down over there, Pop, I want to talk to you."

"I don't want to hear no more about those tests."

Stanley sat beside Troy, and Troy put an arm around the old man's shoulders. "Never mind the tests. I want you to do me a little favor, Pop. If you don't want to help me, say so, and I won't ask."

"Sure, I don't mind helping you, Robert, I guess. But in here, I don't know--"

"You won't be in here much longer. If you call a lawyer he can get you out right away on your own recognizance."

"My what?"

"Rec-- The fact that you know who you are and that you're a property owner. Just listen to me a minute. I'm not wanted anywhere at present, but the first thing the sheriff'll do is send my fingerprints up to Charleston, South Carolina, to see if there's any criminal record on me, or if I'm wanted by some southern state. Florida's still the South, you know, despite all the snowbirds who moved down here from the North. And in the South, they always send the prints to Charleston first, because it's the southern version of the FBI records center. They won't get a make on my prints in Charleston, because I did all my time in California."

"They didn't take my prints yet. Will they send mine to Charleston, too?"

"I don't think so. As I said, you probably won't even be booked. Let me finish, then I'll answer your questions."

"Sorry, Robert. It's just that this is so darned interesting. How come they don't just send your fingerprints to the FBI in Washington?"

"They will. But later. They're interested first in whether a southern state wants a man or not. In the South, they really don't give a shit about the rest of the United States. If there isn't any make on the prints in Charleston, -then- they send them to Washington. And that's what I'm worried about, you see. It'll take about three days to get a negative report from Charleston, and then they'll forward my prints to Washington, which'll give me another three days. So I only have about six days altogether before they find out who I am. Washington's got a list on me about this long"--Troy spread his arms--"beginning with my yellow discharge from the Army and everything else. Right now, I'm okay. With just the two of us involved, me and Henry Collins, the State Attorney, when he looks at the case, wouldn't be too eager to prosecute. But when he sees my record, I'll be arraigned, and the judge'll be all set to convict me even though I'm innocent, just because of my record."

"But you aren't innocent, Robert. You already said--"

"I'm innocent until they prove otherwise. They can't prove anything, but my record'll make me look bad. That'll put me in a tight spot."

"I'm not seeing how I can help you."

Troy crossed to the bars, looked down the corridor, then sat down again. He pulled off his left boot, extracted a nail from the heel, and slid the lowest layer of the heel to one side. From a hollowed-out recess in the heel he removed three tightly folded newspaper clippings. Troy unfolded the clippings, thumbed through them, and handed one of them to Stanley. He replaced the other two clippings in the heel, twisted it back, and reinserted the nail.

"Go ahead and read it, Pop."

The clipping contained three short paragraphs. Stanley didn't have his reading glasses, so he had to hold it at arm's length to read it. Stanley read it three times before returning it to Troy. "I don't understand, Robert--"