much.
An occasional cry.
An occasional scream.
The press makes a lot of noise.
They're in there a long time, or at least a lot longer than he expects.
He runs his press.
None of my business.
That's the only way you stay alive in prison.
None of my business.
When they come out, they're sweaty and sort of mussed up. They're walking fast.
Marley just sort of nods to him.
And then vanishes.
He just keeps working on his press.
None of my business.
But when it's time to grab a mid-morning Pepsi from the machine, he routes himself right past the storage closet door.
And sees the blood flooding out from beneath the door.
Man, they really must have given it to that poor bastard. Which is the really weird thing. Because while the blood he spills while cutting up his own victims doesn't bother him (murders the police know nothing about, murders that have nothing to do with his tenure in prison)—the sight of somebody else's violence sickens and scares him.
He avoids getting the blood on his shoes.
Doesn't want to be implicated in any way.
He goes and gets his Pepsi and goes back to his press and minds his own business.
After a while, this guard is cutting through the press room on his way to lunch, and he sees the blood on the floor and goes over and opens the storage closet door.
He suddenly looks real sick.
Rushes to the phone and then suddenly there are a dozen guards all over the printing room and they all take turns peeking into the storage closet and they all suddenly look sick
Seems that Marley and his buddy did the same thing to Haskins that the other white guys did to the jig in the shower.
Castrated him and then cut his throat.
Well, he supposes there's a kind of poetic justice to this, but he still can't sleep very well at night.
12
On the way back to my motel, my mind stuck on the photograph it had taken of Nora Conners's throat as she was being carried on the stretcher, the fleshy red mess of it. I had a difficult time changing the photo in the slide tray.
"Bad?" the old clerk asked after he waved me into the front office.
"Terrible." He wanted details. People in hell want ice water.
On TV, Larry King was talking to a movie star about her new autobiography.
The office looked the same, ancient and shabby, duct tape covering slices in the green vinyl couch and armchair, the diamond-patterned indoor-outdoor carpeting worn to a flat black dirty color. At one time, I think, it had been maroon.
"Somebody said she was buck-ass naked," the old guy said, still wanting scandal and gore.
"Sorry. She had all her clothes on."
"Oh."
"I'm sure it'll be in the paper tomorrow morning."
"Not here it won't. We only got the weekly."
"In the state paper, then."
"Yeah, but they never give you much detail, not like the Chicago papers. You ever read the Chicago papers?"
"Sometimes."
"They give you everything. If they're naked, they tell you they were naked."
"That's what first-class journalism is all about."
He caught my sarcasm, and for a moment looked like what he was: an old man dying out his nights at the front desk of a tiny motel in the middle of nowhere on a planet nobody but us lonely animals had as yet discovered. I was being a prig. He wanted a few juicy details, just a natural human curiosity. I'm the sort of hypocrite who scans all those tabloid covers earnestly while waiting in the supermarket line, then talks about how silly they are at dinner later that night, and how I can't imagine people wasting their time on them.
"There was a lot of blood."
"Yeah?" he said, all frayed red bow-tie and frayed polyester white shirt and frayed ancient blue cardigan. "A lot, huh?"
"Cut her throat."
"God damn."
"And she was a looker, too."
"Young, huh?"
"Young enough."
"God damn," he said to my back after I'd nodded good night and was starting out the door. "Sure wish the Chicago papers was going to cover this."
The screen door slammed behind me.
The old fart said, "Hey."
I stopped, turned
An occasional cry.
An occasional scream.
The press makes a lot of noise.
They're in there a long time, or at least a lot longer than he expects.
He runs his press.
None of my business.
That's the only way you stay alive in prison.
None of my business.
When they come out, they're sweaty and sort of mussed up. They're walking fast.
Marley just sort of nods to him.
And then vanishes.
He just keeps working on his press.
None of my business.
But when it's time to grab a mid-morning Pepsi from the machine, he routes himself right past the storage closet door.
And sees the blood flooding out from beneath the door.
Man, they really must have given it to that poor bastard. Which is the really weird thing. Because while the blood he spills while cutting up his own victims doesn't bother him (murders the police know nothing about, murders that have nothing to do with his tenure in prison)—the sight of somebody else's violence sickens and scares him.
He avoids getting the blood on his shoes.
Doesn't want to be implicated in any way.
He goes and gets his Pepsi and goes back to his press and minds his own business.
After a while, this guard is cutting through the press room on his way to lunch, and he sees the blood on the floor and goes over and opens the storage closet door.
He suddenly looks real sick.
Rushes to the phone and then suddenly there are a dozen guards all over the printing room and they all take turns peeking into the storage closet and they all suddenly look sick
Seems that Marley and his buddy did the same thing to Haskins that the other white guys did to the jig in the shower.
Castrated him and then cut his throat.
Well, he supposes there's a kind of poetic justice to this, but he still can't sleep very well at night.
12
On the way back to my motel, my mind stuck on the photograph it had taken of Nora Conners's throat as she was being carried on the stretcher, the fleshy red mess of it. I had a difficult time changing the photo in the slide tray.
"Bad?" the old clerk asked after he waved me into the front office.
"Terrible." He wanted details. People in hell want ice water.
On TV, Larry King was talking to a movie star about her new autobiography.
The office looked the same, ancient and shabby, duct tape covering slices in the green vinyl couch and armchair, the diamond-patterned indoor-outdoor carpeting worn to a flat black dirty color. At one time, I think, it had been maroon.
"Somebody said she was buck-ass naked," the old guy said, still wanting scandal and gore.
"Sorry. She had all her clothes on."
"Oh."
"I'm sure it'll be in the paper tomorrow morning."
"Not here it won't. We only got the weekly."
"In the state paper, then."
"Yeah, but they never give you much detail, not like the Chicago papers. You ever read the Chicago papers?"
"Sometimes."
"They give you everything. If they're naked, they tell you they were naked."
"That's what first-class journalism is all about."
He caught my sarcasm, and for a moment looked like what he was: an old man dying out his nights at the front desk of a tiny motel in the middle of nowhere on a planet nobody but us lonely animals had as yet discovered. I was being a prig. He wanted a few juicy details, just a natural human curiosity. I'm the sort of hypocrite who scans all those tabloid covers earnestly while waiting in the supermarket line, then talks about how silly they are at dinner later that night, and how I can't imagine people wasting their time on them.
"There was a lot of blood."
"Yeah?" he said, all frayed red bow-tie and frayed polyester white shirt and frayed ancient blue cardigan. "A lot, huh?"
"Cut her throat."
"God damn."
"And she was a looker, too."
"Young, huh?"
"Young enough."
"God damn," he said to my back after I'd nodded good night and was starting out the door. "Sure wish the Chicago papers was going to cover this."
The screen door slammed behind me.
The old fart said, "Hey."
I stopped, turned
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