At last, ready to leave, he took down his coat, heavy with weaponry, from the hook on the back of the door, shrugged into it, opened the door, and Tiny Bulcher stepped in, pushing Fitzroy backward so that he sat abruptly on the toilet, while the big man came on in, squeezing into the space, pushing the door closed behind him.
There really wasn’t room for both of them in here. Fitzroy was about to say so, perhaps with some vehemence, when Tiny reached out, delicately, with thumb and first finger of his right hand, like someone choosing just the one perfect grape from a bowl of grapes, and grasped hold of Fitzroy’s Adam’s apple. Fitzroy froze, eyes and mouth wide open, and Tiny leaned down to speak to him very quietly, but with impact: “John is a humanitarian,” he explained. “He says I should let you stay alive unless you irritate me. It’s more complicated that way, but I’m willing to go along with it, not have this major mess on the floor in here with all these kiddies about, if we can do it that way. You gonna irritate me?”
Fitzroy didn’t trust himself to speak. Also, his throat was in extreme pain. Instead, understanding now why Stan had taken his time on the drive south and to whom he had been communicating on his car phone, Fitzroy spastically shook his head. No, he would certainly not irritate Tiny.
“Good.” Tiny released the Adam’s apple, which went on hurting anyway. He leaned his back against the door and said, “I’ll take the coat. Might as well leave the guns in it.”
Not questioning, Fitzroy removed his bulky coat and extended it toward Tiny, who said, “Just drop it on the floor.”
“It’ll get dirty.”
“There are worse problems,” Tiny said.
So Fitzroy dropped his coat on the floor, and Tiny kicked it backward through the space under the door, where hands at once grabbed and removed it.
And Tiny said, “Now the sweater.”
“It’s terribly cold out there, Tiny,” Fitzroy reminded him.
For answer, Tiny extended that thumb and first finger again, but this time he didn’t reach for the Adam’s apple. This time, he shot a marble from Fitzroy’s forehead.
Fitzroy’s head rang like a temple gong. He took off the sweater and reached it toward Tiny, who pointed at the floor. So he dropped it on the floor, and Tiny kicked it back out of sight and said, “The shirt.”
“Tiny, what are you—”
The thumb and forefinger showed themselves. Fitzroy went to work on the shirt buttons.
Watching him, Tiny said, “What I really liked, Fitzroy, was those Glock machine pistols under the front seat. Don’t stop unbuttoning, Fitzroy.”
Unbuttoning, Fitzroy said, “You saw those? We had no intention to use them, of course.”
“I know,” Tiny said.
Feeling sudden urgency, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, where’s Irwin?”
“At the moment,” Tiny told him, “he’s wrapped in about a mile of duct tape and resting comfortably in a great big tractor-trailer full of raincoats.”
“Raincoats?”
“On their way to Oregon,” Tiny explained, “nonstop. Get there in maybe five days.”
As the shirt went under the door, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, I need Irwin.”
“I don’t,” Tiny said. “Shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Shoes.”
Fitzroy considered resistance, then unlaced his shoes. His problems were more severe than shoes. He said, “Tiny, Irwin has concealed some audiotapes that could be very incriminating for me.”
“Kick the shoes under the door.”
Fitzroy kicked the shoes under the door. “If Irwin isn’t around to take care of those tapes,” he said, “they’ll be turned over to the police.”
“Socks.”
“Tiny, don’t you understand? If Irwin—”
Tiny showed the thumb and forefinger again. He said, “Sounds like you’re gonna be in some trouble. Good thing you’re taking a trip.”
“I’m taking a trip?”
“Socks, Fitzroy.”
So off came the socks, and away under the door, and Tiny said, “T-shirt.”
Fitzroy said, “Tiny, how far are you going with this? You don’t mean to leave me here, do you? Naked?”
“Oh, naw, Fitzroy,” Tiny assured him, “we ain’t mean guys, not like some. There you go, kick that T-shirt. And now let’s do the pants and the shorts all at once. You got the rhythm here, Fitzroy, don’t falter now.”
“I could shout,” Fitzroy said.
Tiny looked interested. “You think you could? With all these little chirping kiddies out here? And for what fraction of a second, do you figure, Fitzroy? And then what happens next?”
Fitzroy, embarrassed and humiliated beyond belief, trying to assure himself that someday he’d get even for this but having great difficulty fleshing out that fantasy, finished stripping himself, saw the last of his garments kicked under the door and out of sight, and sat, miserable, cold and naked, on the toilet for a few seconds, until something else slid in under the door from outside. A garment of some kind, a deep, rich red.
“There you go,” Tiny said, looking down at this new apparel with approval. “Try that on, there, Fitzroy.”
Fitzroy stooped, grunting, to pick up the garment, which turned out to be a jumpsuit, cotton, many times laundered. On the back, in big white block letters on the deep red material, was printed C H C I. “What are the—What are these letters?”
“Central Hudson Correctional Institution. It’s your medium-tough kind of place. They’re bad guys, but they pull their punches. Like me with you, right now. Put it on, Fitzroy.”
They’re going to put me in this prison, Fitzroy thought in panic and despair. How are they going to do such a thing? Slipping on the legs of the jumpsuit, he said, “Are you going to put me there?”
“What?” Tiny chuckled, a sound from the bass drum section of the orchestra. “Naw, we don’t want you found, Fitzroy, we want you lost. And I guess you do, too. Okay, get up, boy, sleeves in, zip it up, that’s good, turn around, hands behind you, Fitzroy.”
Fitzroy felt the cool, rigid metal as the cuffs went on his wrists.
“Now,” Tiny said, “let’s do the perp walk.”
“Tiny,” Fitzroy said, “this is no way to treat a person who has never been anything—”
His head rang like a temple gong. He blinked and shut up, and Tiny reached past him to open the stall door.
They were all out there, in a cluster, facing the other way, Andy and John and Stan, obscuring the action at this one stall here for all the daddies and kiddies in the room. Tiny nudged Fitzroy in the back, and the five of them marched across the gents and out to the restaurant and out to the parking lot. Fascinated and horrified eyes followed them every step of the way.
It was so obvious what this was. Here was a criminal, a convict, probably been off to New York City or somewhere to testify in some gruesome, horrible crime, being taken back to prison, surrounded by four plainclothes deputies because he’s such a dangerous felon, and to whom, at this point, should Fitzroy call for help? That sneaking, despicable, rotten turncoat of an Irwin was on his way to Oregon in a truckload of raincoats. These tourists all around him weren’t likely to want to abet the escape of a desperate and dangerous criminal. Oh, damn.
They were walking him toward the separate truck parking area, so apparently he, too, was to take a voyage. They had left the family groups now, the observant eyes. The big trucks were parked in long, crowded rows, with very short sight lines, and nobody around anyway. They were leaving the world of witnesses. The ground was cold under Fitzroy’s bare feet; his future was all at once too horrible to contemplate, but all he could think now was, where are they sending me?
Andy walked to his right, John to his left, Tiny and Stan behind him. Fitzroy said, “Andy, is there any chance at all I could appeal to your better nature?”
“Every chance, Fitzroy,” Andy told him. “You already did. That’s why me and John told Tiny not to unplug you unless he had to. And I’m really glad he didn’t have to, you know what I mean?”