Hubble flicked a despairing glance up at me. Took off his gold glasses. Held them out. The big man took them and dropped them to the floor. Crunched them under his shoe. Screwed his foot around. The glasses smashed and splintered. The big man scraped his foot back and flicked the wreckage backward into the corridor. The other guys all took turns stamping on them.
"Good boy," the big guy said. "You paid the tax. "
Hubble was trembling.
"Now come here, white boy," said his tormentor.
Hubble shuffled nearer.
"Closer, white boy," the big man said.
Hubble shuffled nearer. Until he was a foot away. He was shaking.
"On your knees, white boy," said the big guy.
Hubble knelt.
"Unzip me, whitey," he said.
Hubble did nothing. Filled with panic.
"Unzip me, white boy," the big guy said again. "With your teeth. "
Hubble gave a gasp of fear and revulsion and jumped back. He scuttled backward to the rear of the cell. Tried to hide behind the john. He was practically hugging the pan.
Time to intervene. Not for Hubble. I felt nothing for him. But I had to intervene for myself. Hubble's abject performance would taint me. We would be seen as a pair. Hubble's surrender would disqualify us both. In the status game.
"Come back, white boy, don't you like me?" the big guy called to Hubble.
I took a long silent breath. Swung my feet over the side of the bunk and landed lightly in front of the big man. He stared at me. I stared back, calmly.
"You're in my house, fat boy," I said. "But I'm going to give you a choice. "
"Choice of what?" said the big guy. Blankly. Surprised.
"A choice of exit strategies, fat boy," I said.
"Say what?" he said.
"What I mean is this," I said. "You're going to leave. That's for sure. Your choice is about how you leave. Either you can walk out of here by yourself, or these other fat boys behind you are going to carry you out in a bucket. "
"Oh yeah?" he said.
"For sure," I said. "I'm going to count to three, OK, so you better choose real quick, right?"
He glared at me.
"One," I counted. No response.
"Two," I counted. No response.
Then I cheated. Instead of counting three I headbutted him full in the face. Came off the back foot with a thrust up the legs and whipped my head forward and smashed it into his nose. It was beautifully done. The forehead is a perfect arch in all planes and very strong. The skull at the front is very thick. I have a ridge up there like concrete. The human head is very heavy. All kinds of neck muscles and back muscles balance it. It's like getting hit in the face with a bowling ball. It's always a surprise. People expect punching or kicking. A headbutt is always unexpected. It comes out of the blue.
It must have caved his whole face in. I guess I pulped his nose and smashed both his cheekbones. Jarred his little brain around real good. His legs crumpled and he hit the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. Like an ox in the slaughterhouse. His skull cracked on the concrete floor.
I stared around the knot of men. They were busy reassessing my status.
"Who's next?" I said. "But this is like Vegas now, it's double or quits. This guy is going to the hospital, maybe six weeks in a metal mask. So the next guy gets twelve weeks in the hospital, you understand that? Couple of smashed elbows, right? So who's next?"
There was no reply. I pointed at the guy in sunglasses.
"Give me the sweater, fat boy," I said.
He bent and picked up the sweater. Passed it to me. Leaned over and held it out. Didn't want to get too close. I took the sweater and tossed it onto Hubble's bunk.
"Give me the eyeglasses," I said.
He bent and swept up the twisted gold wreckage. Handed it to me. I tossed it back at him.
"They're broken, fat boy," I said. "Give me yours. "
There was a long pause. He looked at me. I looked at him. Without blinking. He took off his sunglasses and handed them to me. I put them in my pocket.
"Now get this carcass out of here," I said.
The bunch of men in their orange uniforms and their red bandannas straightened out the slack limbs and dragged the big man away. I crawled back up into my bunk. I was shaking with adrenaline rush. My stomach was churning and I was panting. My circulation had just about shut down. I felt terrible. But not as bad as I would have
felt if I hadn't done it. They'd have finished with Hubble by then and started in on me.
I DIDN'T EAT ANY BREAKFAST. NO APPETITE. I JUST LAY ON the bunk until I felt better. Hubble sat on his bed. He was rocking back and forward. He still hadn't spoken. After a while I slid to the floor. Washed at the sink. People were strolling up to the doorway and gazing in. Strolling away. The word had gotten around fast. The new guy in the cell at the end had sent a Red Boy to the hospital. Check it out. I was a celebrity.
Hubble stopped his rocking and looked at me. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Opened it for a second time.
"I can't take this," he said.
They were the first words I had heard him say since his assured banter on Finlay's speakerphone. His voice was low, but his statement was definite. Not a whine or a complaint, but a statement of fact. He couldn't take this. I looked over at him. Considered his statement for a long moment.
"So why are you here?" I asked him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything," he said. Blankly.
"You confessed to something you didn't do," I said. "You asked for this. "
"No," said Hubble. "I did what I said. I did it and I told the detective. "
"Bullshit, Hubble," I said. "You weren't even there. You were at a party. The guy who drove you home is a policeman, for God's sake. You didn't do it, you know that, everybody knows that. Don't give me that shit. "
Hubble looked down at the floor. Thought for a moment.
"I can't explain it," he said. "I can't say anything about it. I just need to know what happens next. "
I looked at him again.
"What happens next?" I said. "You stay here until Monday morning, and then you go back to Margrave. Then I guess they'll let you go. "
"Will they?" he said. Like he was debating with himself.
"You weren't even there," I said again. "They know that. They might want to know why you confessed, when you didn't do anything. And they'll want to know why the guy had your phone number. "
"What if I can't tell them?" he said.
"Can't or won't?" I asked him.
"I can't tell them," he said. "I can't tell anybody anything. "
He looked away and shuddered. Very frightened.
"But I can't stay in here," he said. "I can't stand it. "
Hubble was a financial guy. They give out their phone numbers like confetti. Talking to anybody they meet about hedge funds or tax havens. Anything to transfer some guy's hard-earned dollars their way. But this phone number was printed on a scrap of torn computer paper. Not engraved on a business card. And hidden in a shoe, not stuffed in a wallet. And playing in the background like a rhythm section was the fear coming out of the guy.
"Why can't you tell anybody?" I asked him.
"Because I can't," he said. Wouldn't say anything more.
I was suddenly weary. Twenty-four hours ago I had jumped off a Greyhound at a cloverleaf and walked down a new road. Striding out happily through the warm morning rain. Avoiding people, avoiding involvement. No baggage, no hassle. Freedom. I didn't want it interrupted by Hubble, or by Finlay, or by some tall guy who got himself shot in his shaved head. I didn't want any part of it. I just wanted some peace and quiet and to go looking for Blind Blake. I wanted to find some eighty-year-old who might remember him from some bar. I should be talking to that old guy who swept up around the prison, not Hubble. Yuppie asshole.
He was thinking hard. I could see what Finlay had meant. I had never seen anybody think so visibly. His mouth was working soundlessly and he was fiddling with his fingers. Like he was checking off positives and negatives. Weighing things up. I watched him. I saw him make his decision. He turned and looked over at me.
"I need some advice," he said. "I've got a problem. "
I laughed at him.
"Well, what a surprise," I said. "I'd never have guessed. I thought you were here because you were bored with playing golf on the weekend. "
"I need help," he said.
"You've had all the help you're going to get," I said. "Without me, you'd be bent forward over your bed right now, with a line of big horny guys forming at the door. And so far you haven't exactly overwhelmed me with gratitude for that. "
He looked down for a moment. Nodded.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm very grateful. Believe me, I am. You saved my life. You took care of it. That's why you've got to tell me what to do. I'm being threatened. "
I let the revelation hang in the air for a moment.
"I know that," I said. "That's pretty obvious. "
"Well, not just me," he said. "My family as well. "
He was getting me involved. I looked at him. He started thinking again. His mouth was working. He was pulling on his fingers. Eyes flicking left and right. Like over here was a big pile of reasons, and over there was another big pile of reasons. Which pile was bigger?
"Have you got family?" he asked me.
"No," I said. What else could I say? My parents were both dead. I had a brother whom I never saw. So I had no family. No idea whether I wanted one, either. Maybe, maybe not.
"I've been married ten years," Hubble said. "Ten years last month. Had a big party. I've got two children. Boy, age nine, girl, age seven. Great wife, great kids. I love them like crazy. "
He meant it. I could see that. He lapsed into silence. Misting over as he thought about his family. Wondering how the hell he came to be in here without them. He wasn't the first guy to sit in this cell wondering that. And he wouldn't be the last.
"We've got a nice place," he said. "Out on Beckman Drive. Bought there five years ago. A lot of money, but it was worth it. You know Beckman?"
"No," I said again. He was afraid to get to the point. Pretty soon he'd be telling me about the wallpaper in the downstairs half bath. And how he planned to pay for his daughter's orthodonture. I let him talk. Prison conversation.
"Anyway," he said eventually. "It's all falling apart now. "
He sat there in his chinos and his polo shirt. He had picked up his white sweater and wrapped it around his shoulders again. Without his glasses he looked older, more vacant. People who wear glasses, without them they always look defocused, vulnerable. Out in the open. A layer removed. He looked like a tired old man. One leg was thrust forward. I could see the patterned sole of his shoe.
What did he call a threat? Some kind of exposure or embarrassment? Something that might blow away the perfect life he'd described on Beckman Drive? Maybe it was his wife who was involved in something. Maybe he was covering for her. Maybe she'd been having an affair with the tall dead guy. Maybe lots of things. Maybe anything. Maybe his family was threatened by disgrace, bankruptcy, stigma, cancellation of country club membership. I went around in circles. I didn't live in Hubble's world. I didn't share his frame of reference. I had seen him trembling and shaking with fear. But I had no idea how much it took to make a guy like that afraid. Or how little. When I first saw him at the station house yesterday he had looked upset and agitated. Since then he had been from time to time trembling, paralyzed, staring with fear. Sometimes resigned and apathetic. Clearly very afraid of something. I leaned on the cell wall and waited for him to tell me what.
"They're threatening us," he said again. "If I ever tell anybody what's going on, they said they'll break into our house. Round us all up. In my bedroom. They said they'll nail me to the wall and cut my balls off. Then they'll make my wife eat them. Then they'll cut our throats. They said they'll make our children watch and then they'll do things to them after we're dead that we'll never know about. "