“My friend?”
“Yeah. We got him. Took us a while to find out where you were. Sorry about the delay.” Chuckles. I was delighted to see that somebody was having a good time.
“My friend?” I said again.
“Look, buddy, how dumb are you? There’s no use fucking around with us. It’s over. We got the whole story. Picked up your friend and found the shit. So don’t fucking waste our time.”
Crew Cut turned around from the front seat to look at me. “See, punk, this time it’s for real. It’s all for real.” Then he laughed. “Christ, you guys are all the same. Like that guy we picked up last week—hey, Murph, you ’member the guy on the beach? Yeah. We picked up this guy on the beach in Frisco last week, busted him while he was shooting up. He had his whole outfit right there with him, along with half a bag of scag, and he was so smacked out of his mind that the whole way in to the station he wouldn’t do nothing but tell us what a great guy God was.” Titters all around. Crew Cut was being appreciated. “Goddamn. The whole way, the guy stuck to this one story. Said he just went down to the beach to meditate, ’cause he wanted a bag of scag so bad that he’d decided to pray to God, and suddenly—this is what he says, he says, ‘and then suddenly, Officer, God answered my prayers, and that bag, my bag you got there, that bag just dropped into my lap, right out of the sky.’ Wouldn’t tell us anything more. Christ, you guys are all the same.”
More titters. Even the cop who was driving joined in. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“I want to see my lawyer,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Crew Cut. “At the station.”
16
I FINALLY GOT THE STORY when I was booked. Lou was driving around in the car and the brake lights hadn’t been working, so the cops pulled him over for a routine check. And Lou hadn’t had his license, and nothing but rental papers in place of registration, so they had decided the car was stolen, called in the FBI, and given him a good going-over. Along with the car. It was then that they’d found a lid of Lou’s grass under the seat.
So they ran him in, and he swore that it was my grass and my car, and that he’d just innocently borrowed it. He had become extremely helpful, and even gave them Musty’s address.
So they busted me.
It was just a freak accident, the kind of dreary, half-assed thing that could happen to anybody. I couldn’t even get very angry about it.
The walls of the cell were green.
17
NOTES FROM JAIL: BROUGHT TO you by the silent majority of Alameda County. Arrival sensations. Jail really exists. Astoundingly dull. In conception, execution, duration, the idea of jail is a watershed in man’s inanity to man. Does have its good points. A raving genius couldn’t possibly have thought of a simpler way to drive one absolutely crazy. Sense deprivation child’s play compared to this. Jail is will deprivation. No life. Death meaningless. Ambition a torture. Failure a vision in steel.
More: It goes on. Green everywhere, bathroom green. Like going blind from an overdose of ethyl crème de menthe. County runs a tight ship. Enter jail proper, all personal effects removed and checked. Money, matches, belt, shoestrings. Don’t want people hanging themselves by their shoestrings. Then on to converted shower stall, also green, big enough for three men sitting. Five men are standing. Pay phone on wall, am allowed two calls, lawyer and bondsman. Names of bondsmen scrawled all over the wall, no lawyers. Search-and-seizure manual forgot to tell me they take my money away when I come in. I can’t call. Others are calling. Suddenly realize they’ve been through all this before. Have to have been through it to know the ropes, like everything else. Whacked out old bestubbled wino asking everyone if he can blow them. Sorry bud. Gets heavy and I start singing. Very effective. Yell till your lungs burst but singing drives the guards crazy. Transferred immediately to cell by myself.
Celclass="underline" Incredible. Everything electric, controlled from out in the hall. No keys, like in the movies. Bars four inches apart and cross-riveted, can’t cut and bend. Mine one of eight cells looking onto large room connected to mess room and guards’ corridor. Altogether ten doors for the one block, all controlled from corridor. More green. Bare bulbs on all day all night, no sunlight. No air. No idea what time, they have taken my watch. Might slit my wrists. Know that x amount of time has elapsed due to unidentifiable slop brought around twice a day. Never eat but go out to mess room, a chance to leave the cell. Doors lock behind even in mess. Four steel slats riveted to wall in my cell, one has a blanket. Somehow it is cold after dinner, good to have a blanket. Light directly overhead through grating, wish I had something to poke it out. Combination can-drinking fountain in my cell, attached to wall. I piss on mess floor. Anything to fuck them up.
Amusements: Good deal of writing on the wall. Jails probably the most creative places in America. No time, have to create your own. Tremendous variety. Slogans, dates, epithets, jokes, obscenities. Some take me back to fourth grade, others brilliant. Everything indelible because scratched into paint of wall. No pens allowed. Layers of painted-over graffiti beneath current coat of paint. Deciphering these provides blessedly time-consuming endeavor. One magazine in cell, old copy of Life last seen in parents’ living room. The Grandeur That Was Egypt. Very appropriate for jail. All is Lost Empire here. Carefully drawn life-size penis inserted into Nefertiti’s mouth on cover. Excellent job. Flash: someone smuggled a pen in to do that. Have to know the ropes. Not eating makes me sleepy. I sleep a lot, surprisingly good dreams. All of things I cannot have. In one dream I order a Coke, the guard brings it. I wake up crying so happy and see green. Back to sleep. I have no matches and can’t smoke. Guards won’t give me any, the cunts. First meal third day they come and take me out. Everything sharp and clear in my head from not eating. Gums hurt from no nicotine. Down the hall the desk. This the Out of Stater? Yeah. Two of the plainclothesmen who picked me up are here. No one in cells looks up as I go. Why bother? They’re still in. Manila envelope with what looks like my name on desk. Wristwatch, belt, ballpoint, blah blah blah. Piece of paper sign here. Where? Here. Plainclothesmen pull my hands behind again, on with the cuffs. Wait a minute, I hear my voice. First time I’ve spoken in three days. It sounds crystal clear. Wait a minute, I had twenty bucks on me when I came in here. Frown behind the desk. See the receipt? See your signature? You signed on, you’re signed off. So get the hell out. Wait a minute, I repeat, I had twenty bucks, see the twenty in the corner there? Behind the desk heavy now. He’d like to work me over cuffed, I think. So that’s your game, huh? he says. Looking at plainclothesmen like Do Him Good For Me. That’s your cell number! he says. About face. Have to know the ropes. Forward march past two guards and through a thick steel door, locks inside and out. Small sign on door says BE SURE TO CLOSE TIGHT AS YOU GO. Don’t worry, fellas, you don’t have to say it twice.
18
INTERROGATIONS WAS A FLIGHT UP and had padded chairs. It was a small room but on the way up I passed through an office of busy secretaries and big broad glass windows with the sun coming through. And then I realized that if they’d just wanted to interrogate me they could have done it in the cell, and a lot more privately, too. The fact that they were doing it here meant only one thing—I was out.
Inside the room they took the cuffs off and I found myself facing Crew Cut and Fats. They sat and stared at me.