was a lot or a little to them.
Page 35
Then High Voice laughed. “You got a family?”
“I’m not telling you anything about them.” This was defiant.
“You got a family ?”
Arthur Rhyme was looking away, at the wall nearby, where a nail protruded from mortar between cinder blocks, meant to hold a sign, he assumed, that had been taken down or stolen years ago. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” He tried to make his voice forceful. But he sounded like a girl approached by a nerd at a dance.
“We trying to make civil conversation, man.”
He actually said that? Civil conversation ?
Then he thought, Hell, maybe they are just trying to be pleasant. Maybe they could’ve been friends, watched his back for him. Christ knew he needed all the friends he could get. Could he salvage this? “I’m sorry. It’s just, this’s a really weird thing for me. I’ve never been in any trouble before. I’m just—”
“What you wife do? She a scientist too? She a smart girl?”
“I…” The intended words evaporated.
“She got big titties?”
“You fuck her in the ass?”
“Listen up, Science Fuck, here’s how it gonna work. You smart wife, she goin’ to get some money from the bank. Ten thousand. And she gonna take a drive up to my cousin in the Bronx. An’—”
The tenor voice faded.
A black prisoner, six-two, massive with muscle and fat, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up, approached the trio. He was gazing at the two Latinos and squinting mean.
“Yo, Chihuahuas. Get the fuck outa here.”
Arthur Rhyme was frozen. He couldn’t have moved if someone had started shooting at him, which wouldn’t have surprised him, even here in the realm of the magnetometers.
“Fuck you, nigger,” Earring Man said.
“Piece of shit.” From High Voice, drawing a laugh from the black guy, who put an arm around Earring Man and led him away, whispering something to him. The Latino’s eyes glazed and he nodded to his buddy, who joined him. The two walked to the far corner of the area, feigning indignity. If Arthur weren’t so frightened he would have thought this was amusing—faced-down bullies from his children’s school.
The black man stretched and Arthur heard a joint pop. His heart was thudding even harder. A half-formed prayer crossed his mind: for the coronary to take him away now, right now.
“Thanks.”
Page 36
The black guy said, “Fuck you. Them two, they pricks. They gotta know the way it is. You unnerstand what I’m saying?”
No, no clue. But Arthur Rhyme said, “Still. My name’s Art.”
“I know the fuck yo’ name. Ever’body know ever’thing round here. ’Cept you. You don’ know shit.”
But one thing Arthur Rhyme knew, and knew it with certainty: He was dead. And so he said, “Okay, then tell me who the fuck you are, asshole.”
The huge face turned toward him. Smelling sweat and smoky breath, Arthur thought of his family, his children first and then Judy. His parents, mother first, then father. Then, surprisingly, he thought of his cousin, Lincoln. Recalling a footrace through a hot Illinois field one summer when they were teenagers.
Race you to that oak tree. See it, that one over there. On three. You ready? One… two… three…
go!
But the man just turned away and stalked across the hall to another black prisoner. They tapped fists together and Arthur Rhyme was forgotten.
He sat watching their camaraderie, feeling more and more forlorn. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. Arthur Rhyme was a scientist. He believed that life advanced via the process of natural selection; divine justice played no role.
But now, sunk in a depression as relentless as winter tides, he couldn’t help wondering if some system of retribution, as real and invisible as gravity, existed and was now at work, punishing him for the bad he’d done in his life. Oh, he’d done much good. Raised children, taught them open-minded values and tolerance, been a good companion to his
Page 35
Then High Voice laughed. “You got a family?”
“I’m not telling you anything about them.” This was defiant.
“You got a family ?”
Arthur Rhyme was looking away, at the wall nearby, where a nail protruded from mortar between cinder blocks, meant to hold a sign, he assumed, that had been taken down or stolen years ago. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you.” He tried to make his voice forceful. But he sounded like a girl approached by a nerd at a dance.
“We trying to make civil conversation, man.”
He actually said that? Civil conversation ?
Then he thought, Hell, maybe they are just trying to be pleasant. Maybe they could’ve been friends, watched his back for him. Christ knew he needed all the friends he could get. Could he salvage this? “I’m sorry. It’s just, this’s a really weird thing for me. I’ve never been in any trouble before. I’m just—”
“What you wife do? She a scientist too? She a smart girl?”
“I…” The intended words evaporated.
“She got big titties?”
“You fuck her in the ass?”
“Listen up, Science Fuck, here’s how it gonna work. You smart wife, she goin’ to get some money from the bank. Ten thousand. And she gonna take a drive up to my cousin in the Bronx. An’—”
The tenor voice faded.
A black prisoner, six-two, massive with muscle and fat, his jumpsuit sleeves rolled up, approached the trio. He was gazing at the two Latinos and squinting mean.
“Yo, Chihuahuas. Get the fuck outa here.”
Arthur Rhyme was frozen. He couldn’t have moved if someone had started shooting at him, which wouldn’t have surprised him, even here in the realm of the magnetometers.
“Fuck you, nigger,” Earring Man said.
“Piece of shit.” From High Voice, drawing a laugh from the black guy, who put an arm around Earring Man and led him away, whispering something to him. The Latino’s eyes glazed and he nodded to his buddy, who joined him. The two walked to the far corner of the area, feigning indignity. If Arthur weren’t so frightened he would have thought this was amusing—faced-down bullies from his children’s school.
The black man stretched and Arthur heard a joint pop. His heart was thudding even harder. A half-formed prayer crossed his mind: for the coronary to take him away now, right now.
“Thanks.”
Page 36
The black guy said, “Fuck you. Them two, they pricks. They gotta know the way it is. You unnerstand what I’m saying?”
No, no clue. But Arthur Rhyme said, “Still. My name’s Art.”
“I know the fuck yo’ name. Ever’body know ever’thing round here. ’Cept you. You don’ know shit.”
But one thing Arthur Rhyme knew, and knew it with certainty: He was dead. And so he said, “Okay, then tell me who the fuck you are, asshole.”
The huge face turned toward him. Smelling sweat and smoky breath, Arthur thought of his family, his children first and then Judy. His parents, mother first, then father. Then, surprisingly, he thought of his cousin, Lincoln. Recalling a footrace through a hot Illinois field one summer when they were teenagers.
Race you to that oak tree. See it, that one over there. On three. You ready? One… two… three…
go!
But the man just turned away and stalked across the hall to another black prisoner. They tapped fists together and Arthur Rhyme was forgotten.
He sat watching their camaraderie, feeling more and more forlorn. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. Arthur Rhyme was a scientist. He believed that life advanced via the process of natural selection; divine justice played no role.
But now, sunk in a depression as relentless as winter tides, he couldn’t help wondering if some system of retribution, as real and invisible as gravity, existed and was now at work, punishing him for the bad he’d done in his life. Oh, he’d done much good. Raised children, taught them open-minded values and tolerance, been a good companion to his
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