‘Morning, partner,’ Evan said, stabbing out his cigarette without taking his eyes from the apartment. The same man they’d trailed the other day stepped out. Nice-looking guy in khakis and an open-collared oxford, turning to smile at the brunette that followed him out.
‘What’s her name?’ Debbie looked over, but Evan ignored her. ‘She’s pretty.’
The woman leaned in to kiss the guy, rising up on her toes. She had her hands around his neck, and his rested onthe small of her back. It looked like a good kiss, not the usual peck you saw couples giving.
‘For people that’ve been fucking for years,’ Evan mused, ‘they sure get a kick out of each other.’
She thought of them in the zoo, the way they had lounged on a bench, the guy with his head in the woman’s lap. Evan had stayed in the car, told her to follow them, to get as close as she could. But though she’d sat on the opposite bench, she hadn’t learned much. They talked too soft, speaking just for the other. A world of two. ‘I guess they’re family.’
‘Huh?’ Evan turned to look at her.
‘Family. In love.’ She realized her voice sounded wistful, and quickly threw up her distant expression, the one she used on the guys at the bar.
You can look
, it said,
but that’s all you get
. Evan, though, was staring at her like she’d said something deep. It was the first time he’d really looked at her all morning. Her cheeks went warm, and she felt stupid to have let her guard down, exposed herself that way. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just – nothing.’
The guy had opened the door of a silver truck and tossed his bag on the passenger seat. He got in, and the woman stepped back with her hips cocked in a pose Debbie recognized from movie magazines. As the truck pulled away, the woman turned with a grin and walked back toward the apartment. Evan didn’t start the Mustang, just watched the truck roll down the street.
‘Aren’t we going to follow him?’
Evan shook his head. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he said, smiling at her, that thin smile that looked a little dangerous, the one that made her a little dizzy, ‘I just thought of a way to get rich and even at the same time.’
9. Floating on Reflections
Overhead, the El rattled along the circular tracks that gave the Loop its name. A grim rain darkened the faces of crumbling parking decks as Danny stepped out of the Harold Washington Library. Green-tarnished gargoyles loomed eight stories above him, eerie personifications of the confusion he felt. Of the many thoughts jostling for his attention, one overwhelmed the others.
Coming here had been a stupid idea.
What on earth had motivated him to leave work early, drive downtown, pay the rapacious parking fees, and spend three hours researching prison? What would you call that? Shame? Guilt? Idiocy?
People always talked about the value of firsthand knowledge, and they were right. No book could convey the lonely terror of waking in an eight-foot cell, the way living so intimately with fear marked you. No amount of sunshine and fresh air ever truly wiped away the stain on your soul. Almost ten years since his last fall, but some mornings he still mistook the buzzing alarm clock for cell count, and he still spent midnight moments reconstructing himself after a dream casually obliterated his life. No doubt about it, firsthand knowledge was a bitch.
But there was a special awfulness to secondhand knowledge, too. Sharing a table with a bum dozing on a pillow of unopened books, Danny had read scholarly prose that set his demons howling. The information from the Bureau of Justice alone was staggering. America imprisoned more people than any other nation – even Russia, for chrissake –with close to two million inmates. Many states spent more money on jails than schools. Amnesty International had actually condemned the American prison system.
And the devil was in the details. Seventy percent of inmates
‘What’s her name?’ Debbie looked over, but Evan ignored her. ‘She’s pretty.’
The woman leaned in to kiss the guy, rising up on her toes. She had her hands around his neck, and his rested onthe small of her back. It looked like a good kiss, not the usual peck you saw couples giving.
‘For people that’ve been fucking for years,’ Evan mused, ‘they sure get a kick out of each other.’
She thought of them in the zoo, the way they had lounged on a bench, the guy with his head in the woman’s lap. Evan had stayed in the car, told her to follow them, to get as close as she could. But though she’d sat on the opposite bench, she hadn’t learned much. They talked too soft, speaking just for the other. A world of two. ‘I guess they’re family.’
‘Huh?’ Evan turned to look at her.
‘Family. In love.’ She realized her voice sounded wistful, and quickly threw up her distant expression, the one she used on the guys at the bar.
You can look
, it said,
but that’s all you get
. Evan, though, was staring at her like she’d said something deep. It was the first time he’d really looked at her all morning. Her cheeks went warm, and she felt stupid to have let her guard down, exposed herself that way. ‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just – nothing.’
The guy had opened the door of a silver truck and tossed his bag on the passenger seat. He got in, and the woman stepped back with her hips cocked in a pose Debbie recognized from movie magazines. As the truck pulled away, the woman turned with a grin and walked back toward the apartment. Evan didn’t start the Mustang, just watched the truck roll down the street.
‘Aren’t we going to follow him?’
Evan shook his head. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he said, smiling at her, that thin smile that looked a little dangerous, the one that made her a little dizzy, ‘I just thought of a way to get rich and even at the same time.’
9. Floating on Reflections
Overhead, the El rattled along the circular tracks that gave the Loop its name. A grim rain darkened the faces of crumbling parking decks as Danny stepped out of the Harold Washington Library. Green-tarnished gargoyles loomed eight stories above him, eerie personifications of the confusion he felt. Of the many thoughts jostling for his attention, one overwhelmed the others.
Coming here had been a stupid idea.
What on earth had motivated him to leave work early, drive downtown, pay the rapacious parking fees, and spend three hours researching prison? What would you call that? Shame? Guilt? Idiocy?
People always talked about the value of firsthand knowledge, and they were right. No book could convey the lonely terror of waking in an eight-foot cell, the way living so intimately with fear marked you. No amount of sunshine and fresh air ever truly wiped away the stain on your soul. Almost ten years since his last fall, but some mornings he still mistook the buzzing alarm clock for cell count, and he still spent midnight moments reconstructing himself after a dream casually obliterated his life. No doubt about it, firsthand knowledge was a bitch.
But there was a special awfulness to secondhand knowledge, too. Sharing a table with a bum dozing on a pillow of unopened books, Danny had read scholarly prose that set his demons howling. The information from the Bureau of Justice alone was staggering. America imprisoned more people than any other nation – even Russia, for chrissake –with close to two million inmates. Many states spent more money on jails than schools. Amnesty International had actually condemned the American prison system.
And the devil was in the details. Seventy percent of inmates
Similar Books
