“No,” Bob said, “he just left.”
I put in my oar again. “Practical jokers don’t have to actually be present when their trick springs itself,” I said. “In fact, most of them prefer not to be. They just set up their little time bombs and go away.”
“Like the stink bombs,” Phil said. More disgusted. “Right,” I said, and Billy cracked his knuckles. I really wished he wouldn’t do that.
“You know,” Max said, “we got one of those birds right here in this prison.”
Jerry turned to him. “Yeah? Who?”
“I wish I knew,” Max said. “The son of a bitch put Saran Wrap on one of the toilets in C Block.”
Billy cracked his knuckles.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Max said, “if I was just taking a leak.”
I closed my eyes. I listened to Billy’s knuckles cracking. They sounded like boulders knocking together at the very beginning of an avalanche. And guess who’s at the bottom of the mountain.
Speaking thoughtfully, Joe said, “You know, one of my cigarettes blew up on me a couple weeks ago. I figured it was something wrong with the tobacco. Could that be the same guy?”
I opened my eyes. I must not draw attention to myself, I thought. I stared at the retired shirt of 4611502. Be like him, I told myself. Be intrepid. Be unflinching. Be ready to run a four-minute mile.
Phil was saying to Joe, “You, too? One of my cigarettes went up, too. Scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m telling you,” Max said, “we got one of those practical joker birds right here inside this very prison.”
I have to take part, I thought. I have to divert suspicion. I have to do it right now, right this second, because if I do it later I’ll just attract suspicion. I opened my mouth. What am I going to say? Nothing about blood types, all right? I said, “You know, he got me, too.”
They all looked at me. Billy cracked his knuckles. Joe said, “How, Harry?”
“In the mess hall,” I said. “The sugar and salt had been switched. I put sugar all over my mashed potatoes.” Jerry, his eyes alight with discovery, said, “So that's what happened to my coffee that time!”
“And my eggs,” Bob said.
“And my cornflakes,”Eddie said.
Max said,“I’d like to get my hands on that bastard.”
“The one I want,” Phil said,“is the one in town, with his fucking stink bombs.”
“That was probably a kid,” Max said. “Stink bombs, you know, that’s the sort of thing a kid does.”
“I get my hands on him,” Phil said, “he’ll never grow up.”
Billy cracked his knuckles.
25
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I met Marian James, and I almost met Fred Stoon.
It happened at a party Max invited me to. He had a whole social life going on the outside, much more than any of the others, most of whom contented themselves in the outer world with their little felonies, an occasional movie, a meal in a good restaurant, every once in a while a session with one of the few local whores; they were like Navy men taking shore leave. Max, on the other hand, had integrated himself into the local community as much as possible for someone who could never invite anybody over to his place. He had a whole circle of friends and acquaintances, and was even involved in a regular Thursday night bowling league.
He was also thinking of taking an apartment somewhere in town, though the ramifications of that could get a little tricky. He talked with me about it as we walked to the party Friday night, strolling through a light fall of snow, the first of the year. After a while he asked me if I’d like to come into the deal with him. “Two of us would be better,” he said. “We could share the rent and the phone bill and everything, and there’d be somebody actually there more often. People get suspicious when there’s nobody around a place. You interested?”
“It sounds pretty good,” I said.
“Think it over,” he said.
I promised I would, but I didn’t know how much brain I was going to have left over from my main worries, which were (A) the robbery coming up two weeks from now, and (B) my fellow conspirators’ having tipped to the presence of a practical joker among them. I didn’t see anything I could do about (A) for the moment but worry, and maybe hope the world would come to an end before December 30th, but about (B) there were things I could do, at least in a negative sense. To begin with, I was performing absolutely no practical jokes. None, not in the prison and not in town. If I was caught just once, that would be the end of me. The only reason Max and Phil and the others thought there were two practical jokers was because it hadn’t occurred to them yet there might be just one practical joker who had the ability to be both inside and outside the prison. One of us eight, in fact. Guess which one.
Well, I had been hoping prison would cure me, and apparently it had. For the last three days I hadn’t even been tempted. No more. Never again.
Including the next scheduled robbery date. God knows I still didn’t want to be involved in that, but I couldn’t very well set off stink bombs in the bank every last time the gang- decided to knock it over. One coincidence they might accept, but two never. And if I couldn’t stop the robbery with one of my tricks, I couldn’t stop it at all. So it would happen.
I was almost beginning to look forward to it, just to get the damn thing done and out of the way.
I wished I didn’t have these things hanging over my head. In so many other ways life was really rather pleasant. I was in a position that was rare among prisoners in American penitentiaries-perhaps unique. There was much to enjoy in life, with the security of prison on one side and the freedom of town on the other.
Take this night, for instance. The snow drifted lazily, fat wet flakes falling straight down through the windless air, disappearing when they hit the ground. The air was crisp and cold and clear, the snow was gentle and delicate, the night was beautiful, and we were on our way to a party. A pre-Christmas party. Why couldn’t I just relax and enjoy it?
I determined to try.
The house, when we got to it, was large and white, on a corner lot, its windows flooded with light upstairs and down. Christmas music and the sound of many conversations surrounded the place like a halo. Max and I went up on the porch together, and he simply pushed the door open and walked in. I followed, and we entered a fairly large square foyer. Directly ahead was a flight of uncarpeted stairs leading up for half a flight and then turning left. On the right was a wooden bench mostly hidden beneath coats. A wide arch on the left led to a living room full of people, with a Christmas tree in a far corner. Max and I were taking off our coats, adding them to the pile on the bench, when a woman came over to us from the living room, smiling, her hand out to Max.
It was our hostess, a slender good-looking woman in her early thirties. Her dark brown hair was tied back, tightly controlled, and her clothing de-emphasized her figure. Max introduced her as Janet Kelleher, and me as Harry Kent; I smiled at her, and at the sound of my new name, and she said, “Glad to meet you, Harry.” The hand she offered was slender and pale and full of delicate bones. Max had already told me something about her, on the walk over; that she was divorced, had young twin daughters, was teaching at a local high school, and was going to bed with Max from time to time. I later learned that this kind of slightly complex thirtyish woman was his normal style, that he filled in with the Dotty Fleisches only because the Janet Kellehers were a relative rarity in this part of the world. I didn’t know Max that well then, so I was surprised at the apparent bloodlessness of this girl friend, as opposed to the raw galumphing meatiness of Dotty Fleisch.
The next hour was a strange time for me. Max and my hostess left me to my own devices, so I mostly just wandered through the crowded rooms. I was pleased to be at a happy party full of smiling faces, but on the other hand I didn’t know any of these people and very much felt my aloneness. I spent most of my time concentrating on the house instead.