track. When Vanessa’s door was shut, Hodge turned, found Clumly at his back, and shook his hand. “Keep up the good work,” Hodge said. “Give ’em heck.”
“I’ll do that,” Clumly said. He followed Hodge around to his side. Hodge shook hands with him again, then opened his door and climbed in. “Hot,” he said, closing the door.
Clumly nodded. “Listen.” He put his hands on the window-frame. Hodge waited with his fingers on the ignition key, his teeth resting on his drawn-in lower lip, and Clumly tipped his head and squinted at him. “What do you think made him burn all the papers in his billfold?”
“Him?”
“The bearded one.”
Hodge gazed through the windshield and thought about it—not as seriously, Clumly saw, as he’d have had to do if he were wearing Clumly’s shoes. Vanessa sat looking at them wearily, like an old woman waiting for a bus.
“What’s your theory?” Hodge said.
“Well, I don’t think he’s crazy, if that’s what you mean,” Clumly said.
Hodge switched on the ignition and started the truck. “Well, I guess time will tell,” he said.
“Here,” Clumly said. “Look. Look at this.” He searched through his pockets and found among his various notes to himself the folded yellow paper and shook it under Hodge’s face. Hodge studied him, frowning, then took the paper, held it away a little, and looked at it. Clumly got up on the narrow strip of running board and poked in his head and looked too.
“That’s what we got when we examined him,” Clumly said. “Not just me. Miller was there too. Those are the answers he gave us. You can’t tell me he’s insane. Too pat. Look.” Clumly leaned closer to the paper and read aloud, pointing with his finger.
MILLER: What’s your name?
PRISONER: Puddin Tane.
MILLER: Look, don’t be smart. It makes us irritable, and when your supper comes, no Jell-O.
CLUMLY: Do you know your social security number?
PRISONER: Pick-up-sticks shut-the-door gone-to-heaven …
MILLER: Come on, Chief, nobody knows their social security number.
CLUMLY: You think not? My number’s 287–40–0839.
MILLER: Mister, you’ve committed a serious crime. You aware of that?
CLUMLY: What have you to say for yourself?
PRISONER: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
MILLER: Mine too. Praise. Now tell us who you are and where you live, and maybe I’ll take it back about the Jell-O.
PRISONER: I’ve told you. I’m Captain Marvel.
MILLER: Right. But we got a lot of them. What are you for short?
PRISONER: I’m called the Sunlight Man.
MILLER: Good. Now we’re getting places. You spread sunlight in the world, that it?
PRISONER: No.
MILLER: Are you self-employed?
PRISONER: Definitely not.
CLUMLY: Miller, this is stupid.
PRISONER: You ask the wrong questions.
MILLER: Get him out of here.
Hodge was smiling, but thoughtfully.
Clumly said, “What do you think?”
“Is this a joke?” Hodge asked. He gave the paper back.
“A joke?” Clumly exclaimed. “You can call it a joke, if you think it’s funny. I don’t, myself. I’ve seen wiseguys before—but this one, he can’t be broken. He’s an educated man, you can see. Could be he’s a college professor.” He got down off the running board. Hodge was still watching him, and Vanessa had her fingertips over her mouth, the other hand over her heart. Clumly said, “You can make them talk sense, most of them. We have our ways. But with him, nothing.”
“Miller doesn’t seem worried,” Hodge said.
Chief Clumly dismissed it with a wave. “Miller can make mistakes too.” It sounded pointlessly bitter, and he regretted saying it.
“If you want my advice, Chief,” Hodge began. Clumly waited, absurdly eager to hear what Ben Hodge would advise. But Hodge thought better of whatever it was he had intended to say. Or perhaps his mind wandered.
“I think he comes from California,” Clumly said.
Hodge mused on this, too. “I have a boy in California,” he said.
“I’ll do that,” Clumly said. He followed Hodge around to his side. Hodge shook hands with him again, then opened his door and climbed in. “Hot,” he said, closing the door.
Clumly nodded. “Listen.” He put his hands on the window-frame. Hodge waited with his fingers on the ignition key, his teeth resting on his drawn-in lower lip, and Clumly tipped his head and squinted at him. “What do you think made him burn all the papers in his billfold?”
“Him?”
“The bearded one.”
Hodge gazed through the windshield and thought about it—not as seriously, Clumly saw, as he’d have had to do if he were wearing Clumly’s shoes. Vanessa sat looking at them wearily, like an old woman waiting for a bus.
“What’s your theory?” Hodge said.
“Well, I don’t think he’s crazy, if that’s what you mean,” Clumly said.
Hodge switched on the ignition and started the truck. “Well, I guess time will tell,” he said.
“Here,” Clumly said. “Look. Look at this.” He searched through his pockets and found among his various notes to himself the folded yellow paper and shook it under Hodge’s face. Hodge studied him, frowning, then took the paper, held it away a little, and looked at it. Clumly got up on the narrow strip of running board and poked in his head and looked too.
“That’s what we got when we examined him,” Clumly said. “Not just me. Miller was there too. Those are the answers he gave us. You can’t tell me he’s insane. Too pat. Look.” Clumly leaned closer to the paper and read aloud, pointing with his finger.
MILLER: What’s your name?
PRISONER: Puddin Tane.
MILLER: Look, don’t be smart. It makes us irritable, and when your supper comes, no Jell-O.
CLUMLY: Do you know your social security number?
PRISONER: Pick-up-sticks shut-the-door gone-to-heaven …
MILLER: Come on, Chief, nobody knows their social security number.
CLUMLY: You think not? My number’s 287–40–0839.
MILLER: Mister, you’ve committed a serious crime. You aware of that?
CLUMLY: What have you to say for yourself?
PRISONER: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
MILLER: Mine too. Praise. Now tell us who you are and where you live, and maybe I’ll take it back about the Jell-O.
PRISONER: I’ve told you. I’m Captain Marvel.
MILLER: Right. But we got a lot of them. What are you for short?
PRISONER: I’m called the Sunlight Man.
MILLER: Good. Now we’re getting places. You spread sunlight in the world, that it?
PRISONER: No.
MILLER: Are you self-employed?
PRISONER: Definitely not.
CLUMLY: Miller, this is stupid.
PRISONER: You ask the wrong questions.
MILLER: Get him out of here.
Hodge was smiling, but thoughtfully.
Clumly said, “What do you think?”
“Is this a joke?” Hodge asked. He gave the paper back.
“A joke?” Clumly exclaimed. “You can call it a joke, if you think it’s funny. I don’t, myself. I’ve seen wiseguys before—but this one, he can’t be broken. He’s an educated man, you can see. Could be he’s a college professor.” He got down off the running board. Hodge was still watching him, and Vanessa had her fingertips over her mouth, the other hand over her heart. Clumly said, “You can make them talk sense, most of them. We have our ways. But with him, nothing.”
“Miller doesn’t seem worried,” Hodge said.
Chief Clumly dismissed it with a wave. “Miller can make mistakes too.” It sounded pointlessly bitter, and he regretted saying it.
“If you want my advice, Chief,” Hodge began. Clumly waited, absurdly eager to hear what Ben Hodge would advise. But Hodge thought better of whatever it was he had intended to say. Or perhaps his mind wandered.
“I think he comes from California,” Clumly said.
Hodge mused on this, too. “I have a boy in California,” he said.
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