lie, even when the truth would do 'em more good. But you've got an honest face, old man, and the psychiatrist'll believe you when you lie."
"My name is Stanley. Stanley Sinkiewicz. I don't mind being called Pop, because that's what they used to call me on the line at Ford, but I don't much like 'old man.'"
"Okay, Pop, fair enough. My real name's Troy Louden, but I'm signed up in here as Robert Smith. Let me finish telling you what to do, and you'll be out of here in no time. Stick to the same story you told me, but keep it simple. Maybe, when one of the detectives questions Pammi, she'll break down and tell the truth. But whether she does or not, it's still your word against hers. I realize your wife says she saw something, but all she saw was you trying to put the girl's shorts back on. Right? Admit this much, and that'll probably be the end of it. But I can guarantee you that you won't do any time if this is your first offense. This is your first offense, isn't it? You didn't get caught with any little girls before?"
"I never did nothing with a little girl, except when I was a little boy, and I never got caught then. I worked on the line at Ford all my life, and most of the time I was sick at night from smelling paint and turpentine all day."
"You haven't got a record, then?"
"None. I never been in jail before."
"Then you're in the clear, Pop. Feel better?"
"I think so." Stanley nodded. "My lip still hurts though."
"I can't do anything about that. But when you get out, you should get a doctor to take a couple of stitches in it. Or, if they send you to the psychiatric ward in the morning, ask the nurse to get it sewed up for you. If I had a needle and thread I'd do it for you myself."
"You know how to do things like that?"
"Sure. I'm used to taking care of myself when I get hurt. I'm a professional criminal, a career criminal, and when I get hurt on the job, or someone with me does, we can't go to a doctor--not a regular one, anyway. I've set bones, and I even took a bullet out of a man's back once. If I hadn't, he'd of been paralyzed."
"How come you're in jail, Troy?"
"Call me Robert, Pop, while we're in here. Robert. After we get out, then you can call me Troy. Remember I told you I'm signed in here as Robert Smith."
"Sure, Robert. I'm sorry. I'm still upset, I guess."
"No need to be. You'll get out of this okay, Pop. But to answer your question, I'm a professional criminal, what the shrinks call a criminal psychopath. What it means is, I know the difference between right and wrong and all that, but I don't give a shit. That's the official version. Most men in prison are psychopaths, like me, and there are times-- when we don't give a shit--when we act impulsively. Ordinarily though, I'm not impulsive, because I always think a job out very carefully before I get around to doing it. But I misjudged this truck driver this morning. I thought he was a little simple-minded, in fact, just because of the way he talked. But he turned out to be devious. He didn't have much education, but apparently he had more native American intelligence than I gave him credit for-- Somebody's coming."
Troy crossed to the bars and watched the black trusty coming down the corridor with an enameled metal plate and a cup of coffee.
"Who was it missed supper?" the trusty asked as he reached the cell.
"Just pass it through. I'll give it to the old man."
"I'm not hungry," Stanley said.
"Never mind," Troy said. "Somebody'll eat it."
The trusty passed the plate and the cup through the slot in the cell door, and Troy sat beside Stanley on the bottom bunk. The plate contained beef stew, mustard greens, lime Jell-O, and a square of corn bread. There was a tablespoon in the cup of black coffee, which had been heavily sugared.
"Sure you don't want some of this, Pop? It'll be a long time till breakfast. Here, eat the corn bread, anyway."
Stanley ate the
"My name is Stanley. Stanley Sinkiewicz. I don't mind being called Pop, because that's what they used to call me on the line at Ford, but I don't much like 'old man.'"
"Okay, Pop, fair enough. My real name's Troy Louden, but I'm signed up in here as Robert Smith. Let me finish telling you what to do, and you'll be out of here in no time. Stick to the same story you told me, but keep it simple. Maybe, when one of the detectives questions Pammi, she'll break down and tell the truth. But whether she does or not, it's still your word against hers. I realize your wife says she saw something, but all she saw was you trying to put the girl's shorts back on. Right? Admit this much, and that'll probably be the end of it. But I can guarantee you that you won't do any time if this is your first offense. This is your first offense, isn't it? You didn't get caught with any little girls before?"
"I never did nothing with a little girl, except when I was a little boy, and I never got caught then. I worked on the line at Ford all my life, and most of the time I was sick at night from smelling paint and turpentine all day."
"You haven't got a record, then?"
"None. I never been in jail before."
"Then you're in the clear, Pop. Feel better?"
"I think so." Stanley nodded. "My lip still hurts though."
"I can't do anything about that. But when you get out, you should get a doctor to take a couple of stitches in it. Or, if they send you to the psychiatric ward in the morning, ask the nurse to get it sewed up for you. If I had a needle and thread I'd do it for you myself."
"You know how to do things like that?"
"Sure. I'm used to taking care of myself when I get hurt. I'm a professional criminal, a career criminal, and when I get hurt on the job, or someone with me does, we can't go to a doctor--not a regular one, anyway. I've set bones, and I even took a bullet out of a man's back once. If I hadn't, he'd of been paralyzed."
"How come you're in jail, Troy?"
"Call me Robert, Pop, while we're in here. Robert. After we get out, then you can call me Troy. Remember I told you I'm signed in here as Robert Smith."
"Sure, Robert. I'm sorry. I'm still upset, I guess."
"No need to be. You'll get out of this okay, Pop. But to answer your question, I'm a professional criminal, what the shrinks call a criminal psychopath. What it means is, I know the difference between right and wrong and all that, but I don't give a shit. That's the official version. Most men in prison are psychopaths, like me, and there are times-- when we don't give a shit--when we act impulsively. Ordinarily though, I'm not impulsive, because I always think a job out very carefully before I get around to doing it. But I misjudged this truck driver this morning. I thought he was a little simple-minded, in fact, just because of the way he talked. But he turned out to be devious. He didn't have much education, but apparently he had more native American intelligence than I gave him credit for-- Somebody's coming."
Troy crossed to the bars and watched the black trusty coming down the corridor with an enameled metal plate and a cup of coffee.
"Who was it missed supper?" the trusty asked as he reached the cell.
"Just pass it through. I'll give it to the old man."
"I'm not hungry," Stanley said.
"Never mind," Troy said. "Somebody'll eat it."
The trusty passed the plate and the cup through the slot in the cell door, and Troy sat beside Stanley on the bottom bunk. The plate contained beef stew, mustard greens, lime Jell-O, and a square of corn bread. There was a tablespoon in the cup of black coffee, which had been heavily sugared.
"Sure you don't want some of this, Pop? It'll be a long time till breakfast. Here, eat the corn bread, anyway."
Stanley ate the
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