your humanity itself which condemned you, wasn’t it? Because you could’ve said
no
. A man can always say
no
.
Luther looked ahead as he walked, and his features softened a little. Arnold McCardle, fat as life and fatter, was waiting for him outside his office door.
McCardle sank deep into Luther’s leather sofa. His white shirt bellied wide out of his gray jacket. The arc of it made his red tie fall so far short of his belt buckle that it looked, Luther thought, like a clown’s tie. Sure enough, the deputy superintendent was a right jolly fellow, with sparkling eyes in a great block of a face. Round his bulbous, beer-veined nose, his puffed cheeks glowed as he blew across the rim of his coffee mug. The mug was nearly hidden by the huge pawthat held it. His other hand tapped a manila folder absently against his knee.
Luther, with a mug of his own, tilted back behind his great mahogany desk. He dipped his bland smile into the steam of the coffee.
“I got a feeling,” he said, “it’s gonna be a real asshole of a day.”
“Can’t see why not,” said Arnold with a wink.
“Any surprises last night?”
“Nary a one, no sir. Prisoner watched a movie, fell asleep round midnight. Slept soundly till about six. I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble.”
“I hope not,” said Luther. Then he changed the subject. “Skycock in?”
“I think he stopped off in execution block. To nurse his baby,” Arnold added dryly. Reuben Skycock was the prison’s maintenance engineer. He was responsible for the lethal injection equipment and he did tend to fuss at the thing like a mother hen. The day before, they had run through the whole procedure, using CO Allen as the prisoner because he matched Frank Beachum’s size and weight. Allen made the usual nervous jokes, lying there strapped onto the gurney, but Reuben never even cracked a smile. Checking his toggles, his stopwatch, his signal lights. His head bobbing from one of them to the other—just like a mother hen.
“Rehearsal went well though,” Luther said, finishing the thought aloud.
“Oh, yeah.” Arnold gave another of his trademark winks. “I promised Allen we’d give him a Christian burial.”
Luther let his smile broaden. Arnold settled his vast beam this way and that on the sofa, working out an itch in his ass.
“How about the state?” Luther said after a while. “They got their act together finally?”
Arnold drew a page out of his manila folder and slipped it onto the desk. “Guest list all finalized. Security passes made up. Duty roster—Whelan asked off it, did I tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“Says his wife doesn’t like it.”
Arnold smirked, but Luther, looking over the guest list now, said: “Fair enough. My Daisy’s not too fond of it herself.”
“The badges’ll go down to the gate at nine,” Arnold went on. “Got the witness list. What else? Roadblocks are up. There’ll be some demonstrators out there, pro and con, but just the usual.”
Luther let the page drop onto his blotter, raised his eyes. “We ever decide about that mining road?”
“Yup,” said Arnold. “You were right. It comes into sight when you widen the perimeter. It’s all secure.”
They sat quietly then for a while. The McCardle mountain expanded as he drew a contemplative breath, as he glanced down at his folder, holding it half open in one hand. “I guess we got it pretty much covered here, Mr. P,” he said finally. “Even have
Debbie Does Dallas
for the troops.” He snapped the folder shut.
Luther snorted.
Debbie Does Dallas
. It was SOP on execution nights to play a few soft-core porno films on the cell-block TVs. Give the inmates something else to think about, keep them from getting crazy. They didn’t really show
Debbie Does Dallas
, but Arnold liked to say that. He liked the sound of the title. He thought it was a hoot.
“How about the phones?” said Luther then. But he said it hazily, and he didn’t listen to the answer. His mind
no
. A man can always say
no
.
Luther looked ahead as he walked, and his features softened a little. Arnold McCardle, fat as life and fatter, was waiting for him outside his office door.
McCardle sank deep into Luther’s leather sofa. His white shirt bellied wide out of his gray jacket. The arc of it made his red tie fall so far short of his belt buckle that it looked, Luther thought, like a clown’s tie. Sure enough, the deputy superintendent was a right jolly fellow, with sparkling eyes in a great block of a face. Round his bulbous, beer-veined nose, his puffed cheeks glowed as he blew across the rim of his coffee mug. The mug was nearly hidden by the huge pawthat held it. His other hand tapped a manila folder absently against his knee.
Luther, with a mug of his own, tilted back behind his great mahogany desk. He dipped his bland smile into the steam of the coffee.
“I got a feeling,” he said, “it’s gonna be a real asshole of a day.”
“Can’t see why not,” said Arnold with a wink.
“Any surprises last night?”
“Nary a one, no sir. Prisoner watched a movie, fell asleep round midnight. Slept soundly till about six. I don’t think he’ll give us any trouble.”
“I hope not,” said Luther. Then he changed the subject. “Skycock in?”
“I think he stopped off in execution block. To nurse his baby,” Arnold added dryly. Reuben Skycock was the prison’s maintenance engineer. He was responsible for the lethal injection equipment and he did tend to fuss at the thing like a mother hen. The day before, they had run through the whole procedure, using CO Allen as the prisoner because he matched Frank Beachum’s size and weight. Allen made the usual nervous jokes, lying there strapped onto the gurney, but Reuben never even cracked a smile. Checking his toggles, his stopwatch, his signal lights. His head bobbing from one of them to the other—just like a mother hen.
“Rehearsal went well though,” Luther said, finishing the thought aloud.
“Oh, yeah.” Arnold gave another of his trademark winks. “I promised Allen we’d give him a Christian burial.”
Luther let his smile broaden. Arnold settled his vast beam this way and that on the sofa, working out an itch in his ass.
“How about the state?” Luther said after a while. “They got their act together finally?”
Arnold drew a page out of his manila folder and slipped it onto the desk. “Guest list all finalized. Security passes made up. Duty roster—Whelan asked off it, did I tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“Says his wife doesn’t like it.”
Arnold smirked, but Luther, looking over the guest list now, said: “Fair enough. My Daisy’s not too fond of it herself.”
“The badges’ll go down to the gate at nine,” Arnold went on. “Got the witness list. What else? Roadblocks are up. There’ll be some demonstrators out there, pro and con, but just the usual.”
Luther let the page drop onto his blotter, raised his eyes. “We ever decide about that mining road?”
“Yup,” said Arnold. “You were right. It comes into sight when you widen the perimeter. It’s all secure.”
They sat quietly then for a while. The McCardle mountain expanded as he drew a contemplative breath, as he glanced down at his folder, holding it half open in one hand. “I guess we got it pretty much covered here, Mr. P,” he said finally. “Even have
Debbie Does Dallas
for the troops.” He snapped the folder shut.
Luther snorted.
Debbie Does Dallas
. It was SOP on execution nights to play a few soft-core porno films on the cell-block TVs. Give the inmates something else to think about, keep them from getting crazy. They didn’t really show
Debbie Does Dallas
, but Arnold liked to say that. He liked the sound of the title. He thought it was a hoot.
“How about the phones?” said Luther then. But he said it hazily, and he didn’t listen to the answer. His mind
Similar Books
