And all this simply to guarantee that on the following Tuesday there would be time enough to obtain a permission slip to get a pass to go to the west wing for the meeting of the Crime Club.
It was possible that he might have done without his elaborate preparations, that things would have gone smoothly, but he had lost his nerve in a way, though another kind of nerve had taken its place. Here he was, spending permission slips, passes, Respite, taking on tiers of obligation, confronting a jeopardy of consequences that he could not possibly foresee. It was like living in a boom town whose primitive facilities and difficulties with supply forced the prices of even those ordinary commodities one took for granted to skyrocket mercilessly — like paying two dollars for toothpaste or five for milk. Necessity made for a sort of obligatory sportiness.
So he had the Certificate of Respite in the breast pocket of the blue fool suit. He touched it at least a hundred times that Tuesday. After lunch he did not return to work in the canteen, but went back to his cell to wait for the pencil man. Disappointingly the man didn’t question what he was doing in his cell — despite himself, Feldman was itching to show him his certificate — and after getting his permission slip, he brought it to the Fink to trade it for a pass.
He was relieved when the Fink, one of his enemies, questioned the legitimacy of the slip and had him taken back under guard to check it. The pencil man had left on a break, and they had to wait for an hour and a half.
“Yes, this is all right,” the pencil man told the guard, glancing casually at the slip, when he returned.
Feldman was brought back to the Fink, who searched his face for signs of triumph. It’s good I planned ahead, Feldman thought. It’s good I had the foresight to anticipate all this.
He was disturbed, however, that he took no real pleasure in his justification. For one thing, he couldn’t be sure that the Fink had really doubted him. Perhaps he had been pretending merely to cause him trouble. But wasn’t trouble exactly what he wanted? he wondered. And then, saddened, he realized that if it was, he had been trapped into wanting it by the warden. What of the generosity he had seen in his thriftless preparations? Wasn’t that all undermined if he wanted to use up all the security-to-spare that he had purchased by asking for five hours of Respite when three would probably have served? It was difficult to know which was better — gratefulness for things gone smoothly, or delight that his pains had been really necessary. Had the warden intended all this? Feldman was numb. He suspected it had been the warden’s objective to bring him to just this state of stymied feelings. Call the police, he thought wearily. I’ve been robbed.
With the pass to the west wing secured, he went to dinner at five and still had time to return to his cell for a half-hour’s rest before starting for the meeting. He was exhausted, but so worried that his precautions had stripped him of the energies he would need that evening that he saw it was useless to try to rest. He set out for the Crime Club.
He was early, but several members were already there and he wondered if they had had to make the same preparations. They — many, like himself, wore special clothes; he supposed these were bad men, and he thought Flair, thought Style—herded together on folding chairs in a strange, tight grouping. Feldman went up to the small stage at the front of the room where they were stacked and took one down, feeling curiously depleted. It seemed odd to him that no one had attempted to make rows or to line up the chairs around the walls. The members were bunched together in a random arrangement, so that despite the fact that it was still early and probably not everyone was there yet, the room seemed crowded.
As others came, they went up to the stack of chairs and continued the odd pattern Feldman had observed. The back of one chair was at an oblique angle to Feldman’s shoulder; another began to describe a rough arc a couple of inches to the right and slightly forward of his stomach; someone else sat facing him, so that their knees touched. It was like coming to life in a Cubist sketch. This is some bunch, he thought sorrowfully, guessing the implications of the seating arrangements.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the convict facing him.
Feldman moved his chair a few inches, bumping into one behind him and feeling what was almost certainly an ear against the back of his neck. “Excuse me,” Feldman said, but the convict ignored him.
“I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’”the first prisoner repeated.
Rather than answer, Feldman reached inside his jacket to pull out the warden’s letter. The man unfolded the paper and read it. “This is a Certificate of Respite,” he said.
Feldman looked at it again. Already the five hours were up, and he had a heavy, sudden sense of uselessness. The official seals flared obsoletely on the certificate like great gilded nipples.
“All right,” a voice announced, “it’s seven o’clock. I call this meeting of the Crime Club to order.”
In the close quarters it was difficult to know who spoke. The voice might have been tough and husky, but was marred by a faint lisp and, at the other, deeper end of the man’s speech, a difficulty with l’s and r’s. The result was a peculiar effect of retardation, of the frictionless speech of monsters in films. The tattooed underside of the tongue, Feldman remembered. My God, it’s God.
“Old business?” the voice asked. “All right. New business?”
“I have new business,” Feldman said. He had decided to assert himself at once.
“Who’s that? Who’s there?” the voice asked, and Feldman saw a man stand up not far from him. Seated, he caught a quick glimpse of the flowered underside of the man’s tongue.
Feldman rose. “I have new business,” he repeated.
“State your new business.” The man was huge. He looked like all the dock-wallopers and bodyguards who had ever lived.
“You’re out of order,” Feldman said. “I’m the new president of this club.”
“Who the hell are you?”
It was disconcerting to Feldman not to be known here. Troublesome as his notoriety had been in the other parts of the prison, he had always been able to take from it a kind of reassurance, reading the prisoners’ contempt (and perhaps fear) almost — he knew this was insane — as a sign of their culture. Now their ignorance of him deepened his impression that they were corrupt. There was no telling what such men might do. As yet, however, he had no real fear of violence, taking comfort from the man’s very size, trusting in a big man’s admiration for order and due process.
“My name is Feldman,” he said.
“Credentials,” the incumbent said calmly.
“I have credentials.” He took out the warden’s letter and read it to them, leaving out the postscript.
“Check the signature, Forger.”
The man seated at Feldman’s knees held out his hand and took the letter. “It’s legit,” he said after examining it.
“I have a letter saying I’m the new president too,” one of the other convicts said.
“Sure you do,” said a man on the outer edges of the circle. (They formed a rough circle, Feldman saw now.) “We all have letters like it. As the son of a bitch says himself, he’s the one does the nominating and electing.” The men laughed.
“That’s right,” Feldman said. “That’s right. You all would have similar letters.”