and maybe in shape. He had a sidearm on his hip and a cap set on his desk. The anteroom was exactly the size of Ms. Stieglitz’s office. A really big man might feel claustrophobic in such a space.
“I’m here to talk to Bell,” I said.
“I don’t have any—”
Before the nameless guard could voice his doubts the door behind him opened.
“Mr. Rawlins?” an egg-shaped man in a natty, dark blue uniform said. He had his cap on his head.
“Yes,” I replied. “Mr. Bell?”
“Warden Bell,” he corrected. “Miss Stieglitz says that a lawyer has caused a snafu for your visitation.”
“So it seems.”
“Come in, young man,” he said, though he was probably younger than I. “Come in.”
10
The administrator’s office was opulent compared to those of his receptionist and assistant. It was a large room with a dark blue carpet and lavender-colored walls from which hung various diplomas, photographs, and one painting. The painting was a portrait of Administrator Bell in the same dress uniform he was wearing that day.
He settled behind a broad mahogany desk gesturing at three yellow padded chairs that were set out as if for visiting dignitaries.
“What can we do for you at our little prison?” he asked when we were both seated.
The most dangerous people in the world were men like Desmond Bell. They became SS officers and postmasters; church deacons and cops. In their minds there was always a marching band playing the tune that they stepped to.
He was an administrator of a detainment center but called himself the warden of a prison. He was supposed to wear a suit, not a uniform. But I wasn’t there to treat the incurable ills of megalomania.
“I was sent to meet with Rufus Tyler,” I said.
“Ms. Stieglitz says that paperwork is most likely lost.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“What is your business with Inmate Tyler?”
“His lawyer needs me to ask him a series of questions and he’s too busy to conduct the deposition himself.”
“What questions?”
“Sorry,” I said, “but that’s client-attorney privilege.”
“I don’t understand,” Administrator Bell said. His skin color tended, ever so slightly, toward yellow and I believed that his head was bald under that hat. “Mr. Tyler pled guilty in court and has already served more than half of an eighty-seven-day sentence. I haven’t heard that he’s contesting the decision.”
“Another case completely,” I said, believing that brief was better with Administrator Bell.
His eyes were deep blue and his lips both small and protruding, like a cartoonist’s rendering of a personified baby duck.
Pursing those lips further he said, “Is there anything that I should know?”
“I don’t get you,” I said, affecting an innocent stare.
“Does this visit have anything to do with Avett?”
“Not in the least,” I assured him. “Mr. Tyler was married at one time and the ex-wife has taken him to court. That’s all.”
“And are you a lawyer?”
“No. I’m just a man with a high school diploma and a list of questions.”
Bell tapped the long, manicured nails of his pudgy fingers on the desktop.
I was thinking that the whole encounter so far was like a comic interpretation of Franz Kafka, one of Jackson Blue’s favorite writers.
Bell pressed a button on a console to the left of his emerald green blotter.
“Stoltzman,” he said.
“Yes, Warden Bell,” a disembodied voice said.
“Have Willow come to my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Stieglitz said that she spoke to the lawyer in question,” Bell then said to me.
“Yes she did.”
“She’s got quite a body, don’t you think?”
“She never stood up,” I said.
“That’s a shame. You know sometimes she wears those Jayne Mansfield sweaters and soft fabric bras. On cold mornings you can see her nipples from down the hall.”
I liked nipples. I liked Miss Stieglitz. Desmond Bell, on the other hand, would be detestable in any color,
“I’m here to talk to Bell,” I said.
“I don’t have any—”
Before the nameless guard could voice his doubts the door behind him opened.
“Mr. Rawlins?” an egg-shaped man in a natty, dark blue uniform said. He had his cap on his head.
“Yes,” I replied. “Mr. Bell?”
“Warden Bell,” he corrected. “Miss Stieglitz says that a lawyer has caused a snafu for your visitation.”
“So it seems.”
“Come in, young man,” he said, though he was probably younger than I. “Come in.”
10
The administrator’s office was opulent compared to those of his receptionist and assistant. It was a large room with a dark blue carpet and lavender-colored walls from which hung various diplomas, photographs, and one painting. The painting was a portrait of Administrator Bell in the same dress uniform he was wearing that day.
He settled behind a broad mahogany desk gesturing at three yellow padded chairs that were set out as if for visiting dignitaries.
“What can we do for you at our little prison?” he asked when we were both seated.
The most dangerous people in the world were men like Desmond Bell. They became SS officers and postmasters; church deacons and cops. In their minds there was always a marching band playing the tune that they stepped to.
He was an administrator of a detainment center but called himself the warden of a prison. He was supposed to wear a suit, not a uniform. But I wasn’t there to treat the incurable ills of megalomania.
“I was sent to meet with Rufus Tyler,” I said.
“Ms. Stieglitz says that paperwork is most likely lost.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“What is your business with Inmate Tyler?”
“His lawyer needs me to ask him a series of questions and he’s too busy to conduct the deposition himself.”
“What questions?”
“Sorry,” I said, “but that’s client-attorney privilege.”
“I don’t understand,” Administrator Bell said. His skin color tended, ever so slightly, toward yellow and I believed that his head was bald under that hat. “Mr. Tyler pled guilty in court and has already served more than half of an eighty-seven-day sentence. I haven’t heard that he’s contesting the decision.”
“Another case completely,” I said, believing that brief was better with Administrator Bell.
His eyes were deep blue and his lips both small and protruding, like a cartoonist’s rendering of a personified baby duck.
Pursing those lips further he said, “Is there anything that I should know?”
“I don’t get you,” I said, affecting an innocent stare.
“Does this visit have anything to do with Avett?”
“Not in the least,” I assured him. “Mr. Tyler was married at one time and the ex-wife has taken him to court. That’s all.”
“And are you a lawyer?”
“No. I’m just a man with a high school diploma and a list of questions.”
Bell tapped the long, manicured nails of his pudgy fingers on the desktop.
I was thinking that the whole encounter so far was like a comic interpretation of Franz Kafka, one of Jackson Blue’s favorite writers.
Bell pressed a button on a console to the left of his emerald green blotter.
“Stoltzman,” he said.
“Yes, Warden Bell,” a disembodied voice said.
“Have Willow come to my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Miss Stieglitz said that she spoke to the lawyer in question,” Bell then said to me.
“Yes she did.”
“She’s got quite a body, don’t you think?”
“She never stood up,” I said.
“That’s a shame. You know sometimes she wears those Jayne Mansfield sweaters and soft fabric bras. On cold mornings you can see her nipples from down the hall.”
I liked nipples. I liked Miss Stieglitz. Desmond Bell, on the other hand, would be detestable in any color,
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