by Stephen King
"Aw," Harry said, "po' baby."
"Should have stayed home and got the cussed thing fixed," Brutal said blandly. "We wouldn't want you straining your arm none, would we, boys?"
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Percy sneered, but I thought he seemed reassured by the relative mildness of Brutal's response. That was good. For the next few hours we'd have to walk a line with him - not too hostile, but not too friendly, either. After last night, he'd find anything even approaching warmth suspect. We weren't going to get him with his guard down, we all knew that, but I thought we could catch him with it a long piece from all the way up if we played things just right. It was important that we move fast, but it was also important - to me, at least - that nobody be hurt. Not even Percy Wetmore.
Dean came back and gave me a little nod.
"Percy," I said, "I want you to go on in the storeroom and mop down the floor. Stairs to the tunnel, too. Then you can write your report on last night."
"That should be creative," Brutal remarked, hooking his thumbs into his belt and looking up at the ceiling.
"You guys are funnier'n a fuck in church," Percy said, but beyond that he didn't protest. Didn't even point out the obvious, which was that the floor in there had already been washed at least twice that day. My guess is that he was glad for the chance to be away from us.
I went over the previous shift report, saw nothing that concerned me, and then took a walk down to Wharton's cell. He was sitting there on his bunk with his knees drawn up and his arms clasped around his shins, looking at me with a bright, hostile smile.
"Well, if it ain't the big boss," he said. "Big as life and twice as ugly. You look happier'n a pig kneedeep in shit, Boss Edgecombe. Wife give your pecker a pull before you left home, did she?"
"How you doing, Kid?" I asked evenly, and at that he brightened for real. He let go of his legs, stood up, and stretched. His smile broadened, and some of the hostility went out of it.
"Well, damn!" he said. "You got my name right for once! What's the matter with you, Boss Edgecombe? You sick or sumpin?"
No, not sick. I'd been sick, but John Coffey had taken care of that. His hands no longer knew the trick of tying a shoe, if they ever had, but they knew other tricks. Yes indeed they did.
"My friend," I told him, "if you want to be a Billy the Kid instead of a Wild Bill, it's all the same to me."
He puffed visibly, like one of those loathsome fish that live in South American rivers and can sting you almost to death with the spines along their backs and sides. I dealt with a lot of dangerous men during my time on the Mile, but few if any so repellent as William Wharton, who considered himself a great outlaw, but whose jailhouse behavior rarely rose above pissing or spitting through the bars of his cell. So far we hadn't given him the awed respect he felt was his by right, but on that particular night I wanted him tractable. If that meant lathering on the softsoap, I would gladly lather it on.
"I got a lot in common with the Kid, and you just better believe it," Wharton said. "I didn't get here for stealing candy out of a dimestore." As proud as a man who's been conscripted into the Heroes' Brigade of the French Foreign Legion instead of one whose ass has been slammed into a cell seventy long steps from the electric chair. "Where's my supper?"
"Come on, Kid, report says you had it at five-fifty. Meatloaf with gravy, mashed, peas. You don't con me that easy."
He laughed expansively and sat down on his bunk again. "Put on the radio, then." He said radio in the way people did back then when they were joking, so it rhymed with the fifties slang word "Daddy-O."
It's funny how much a person can remember about times when his nerves were tuned so tight they almost sang.
"Maybe later, big boy," I said. I stepped away from his cell and looked down the corridor. Brutal had strolled down to the far end, where he checked to make sure the restraint-room door was on the single lock instead of the double. I knew it was, because I'd already checked it myself. Later on, we'd want to be able to open that door as quick as we could. There would be no time spent emptying out the attic-type rick-rack that had accumulated in there over the years; we'd taken it out, sorted it, and stored it in other places not long after Wharton joined our happy band. It had seemed to us the room with the soft walls was apt to get a lot of use, at least until "Billy the Kid" strolled the Mile.
John Coffey, who would usually have been lying down at this time, long, thick legs dangling and face to the wall, was sitting on the end of his bunk with his hands clasped, watching Brutal with an alertness - a thereness - that wasn't typical of him. He wasn't leaking around the eyes, either.
Brutal tried the door to the restraint room, then came on back up the Mile. Hie glanced at Coffey as he passed Coffey's cell, and Coffey said a curious thing: "Sure. I'd like a ride." As if responding to something Brutal had said.
Brutal's eyes met mine. He knows, I could almost hear him saying. Somehow he knows.
I shrugged and spread my hands, as if to say Of course he knows.
5.
Old Toot-Toot made his last trip of the night down to E Block with his cart at about quarter to nine. We bought enough of his crap to make him smile with avarice.
"Say, you boys seen that mouse?" he asked.
We shook our heads.
"Maybe Pretty Boy has," Toot said, and gestured with his head in the direction of the storage room, where Percy was either washing the floor, writing his report, or picking his ass.
"What do you care? It's none of your affair, either way," Brutal said. "Roll wheels, Toot. You're stinkin the place up."
Toot smiled his peculiarly unpleasant smile, toothless and sunken, and made a business of sniffing the air. "That ain't me you smell," he said. "That be Del, sayin so-long."
Cackling, he rolled his cart out the door and into the exercise yard. And he went on rolling it for another ten years, long after I was gone - hell, long after Cold Mountain was gone - selling Moon Pies and pops to the guards and prisoners who could afford them. Sometimes even now I hear him in my dreams, yelling that he's fryin, he's fryin, he's a done tom turkey.
The time stretched out after Toot was gone, the clock seeming to crawl. We had the radio for an hour and a half, Wharton braying laughter at Fred Allen and Allen's Alley, even though I doubt like hell he understood many of the jokes. John Coffey sat on the end of his bunk, hands clasped, eyes rarely leaving whoever was at the duty desk. I have seen men waiting that way in bus stations for their buses to be called.
Percy came in from the storage room around quarter to eleven and handed me a report which had been laboriously written in pencil. Eraser-crumbs lay over the sheet of paper in gritty smears. He saw me run my thumb over one of these, and said hastily: "That's just a first pass, like. I'm going to copy it over. What do you think?"
What I thought was that it was the most outrageous goddam whitewash I'd read in all my born days. What I told him was that it was fine, and he went away, satisfied.
Dean and Harry played cribbage, talking too loud, squabbling over the count too often, and looking at the crawling hands of the clock every five seconds or so. On at least one of their games that night, they appeared to go around the board three times instead of twice. There was so much tension in the air that I felt I could almost have carved it like clay, and the only people who didn't seem to feel it were Percy and Wild Bill.
Then it got to be ten of twelve, I could stand it no longer and gave Dean a little nod. He went into my office with a bottle of R.C. Cola bought off Toot's cart, and came back out a minute or two later. The cola was now in a tin cup, which a prisoner can't break and then slash with.
I took it and glanced around. Harry, Dean, and Brutal were all watching me. So, for that matter, was John Coffey. Not Percy, though. Percy had returned to the storage room, where he probably felt more at ease on this particular night. I gave the tin cup a quick sniff and got no odor except for the R.C., which had an odd but pleasant cinnamon smell back in those days.
I took
it down to Wharton's cell. He was lying on his bunk. He wasn't masturbating - yet, anyway - but had raised quite a boner inside his shorts and was giving it a good healthy twang every now and again, like a dopey bass-fiddler hammering an extrathick E-string.
"Kid," I said.
"Don't bother me," he said.
"Okay," I agreed. "I brought you a pop for behaving like a human being all night - damn near a record for you - but I'll just drink it myself."
I made as if to do just that, raising the tin cup (battered all up and down the sides from many angry bangings on many sets of cell bars) to my lips. Wharton was off the bunk in a flash, which didn't surprise me. It wasn't a high-risk bluff; most deep cons - lifers, rapists, and the men slated for Old Sparky - are pigs for their sweets, and this one was no exception.
"Gimme that, you clunk," Wharton said. He spoke as if he were the foreman and I was just another lowly peon. "Give it to the Kid."
I held it just outside the bars, letting him be the one to reach through. Doing it the other way around is a recipe for disaster, as any long-time prison screw will tell you. That was the kind of stuff we thought of without even knowing we were thinking of it - the way we knew not to let the cons call us by our first names, the way we knew that the sound of rapidly jingling keys meant trouble on the block, because it was the sound of a prison guard running and prison guards never run unless there's trouble in the valley. Stuff Percy Wetmore was never going to get wise to.
Tonight, however, Wharton had no interest in grabbing or choking. He snatched the tin cup, downed the pop in three long swallows, then voiced a resounding belch. "Excellent!" he said.
I held my hand out. "Cup."
He held it for a moment, teasing with his eyes. "Suppose I keep it?"
I shrugged. "We'll come in and take it back. You'll go down to the little room. And you will have drunk your last R.C. Unless they serve it down in hell, that is."
His smile faded. "I don't like jokes about hell, screwtip." He thrust the cup out through the bars. "Here. Take it."
I took it. From behind me, Percy said: "Why in God's name did you want to give a lugoon like him a soda-pop?"
Because it was loaded with enough infirmary dope to put him on his back for forty-eight hours, and he never tasted a thing, I thought.
"With Paul," Brutal said, "the quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven."
"Huh?" Percy asked, frowning.
"Means he's a soft touch. Always has been, always will be. Want to play a game of Crazy Eights, Percy?"
Percy snorted. "Except for Go Fish and Old Maid, that's the stupidest card-game ever made."
"That's why I thought you might like a few hands," Brutal said, smiling sweetly.
"Everybody's a Wisenheimer," Percy said, and sulked off into my office. I didn't care much for the little rat parking his ass behind my desk, but I kept my mouth shut.
The clock crawled. Twelve-twenty; twelve-thirty. At twelve-forty, John Coffey got up off his bunk and stood at his cell door, hands grasping the bars loosely. Brutal and I walked down to Wharton's cell and looked in. He lay there on his bunk, smiling up at the ceiling. His eyes were open, but they looked like big glass balls. One hand lay on his chest; the other dangled limply off the side of his bunk, knuckles brushing the floor.
"Gosh," Brutal said, "from Billy the Kid to Willie the Weeper in less than an hour. I wonder how many of those morphine pills Dean put in that tonic."
"Enough," I said. There was a little tremble in my voice. I don't know if Brutal heard it, but I sure did. "Come on. We're going to do it."
"You don't want to wait for beautiful there to pass out?"
"He's passed out now, Brute. He's just too buzzed to close his eyes."
"You're the boss." He looked around for Harry, but Harry was already there. Dean was sitting boltupright at the duty desk, shuffling the cards so hard and fast it was a wonder they didn't catch fire, throwing a little glance to his left, at my office, with every flutter-shuffle. Keeping an eye out for Percy.
"Is it time?" Harry asked. His long, horsey face was very pale above his blue uniform blouse, but he looked determined.
"Yes," I said. "If we're going through with it, it's time."
Harry crossed himself and kissed his thumb. Then he went down to the restraint room, unlocked it, and came back with the straitjacket. He handed it to Brutal. The three of us walked up the Green Mile. Coffey stood at his cell door, watching us go, and said not a word. When we reached the duty desk, Brutal put the straitjacket behind his back, which was broad enough to conceal it easily.
"Luck," Dean said. He was as pale as Harry, and looked just as determined.
Percy was behind my desk, all right, sitting in my chair and frowning over the book he'd been toting around with him the last few nights - not Argosy or Stag but Caring for the Mental Patient in Institutions. You would have thought, from the guilty, worried glance he threw our way when we walked in, that it had been The Last Days of Sodom and Gomorrah.
"What?" he asked, closing the book in a hurry. "What do you want?"
"To talk to you, Percy," I said, "that's all."
But he read a hell of a lot more than a desire to talk on our faces, and was up like a shot, hurrying - not quite running, but almost - toward the open door to the storeroom. He thought we had come to give him a ragging at the very least, and more likely a good roughing up.
Harry cut around behind him and blocked the doorway, arms folded on his chest.
"Saaay!" Percy turned to me, alarmed but trying not to show it. "What is this?"
"Don't ask, Percy," I said. I had thought I'd be okay - back to normal, anyway-once we actually got rolling on this crazy business, but it wasn't working out that way. I couldn't believe what I was doing. It was like a bad dream. I kept expecting my wife to shake me awake and tell me I'd been moaning in my sleep. "It'll be easier if you just go along with it.
"What's Howell got behind his back?" Percy asked in a ragged voice. turning to get a better look at Brutal.
"Nothing," Brutal said. "Well ... this, I suppose-!"
He whipped the straitjacket out and shook it beside one hip, like a matador shaking his cape to make the bull charge.
Percy's eyes widened, and he lunged. He meant to run, but Harry grabbed his arms and a lunge was all he was able to manage.
"Let go of me!" Percy shouted, trying to jerk out of Harry's grasp. It wasn't going to happen, Harry outweighed him by almost a hundred pounds and had the muscles of a man who spent most of his spare time plowing and chopping, but Percy gave it a good enough effort to drag Harry halfway across the room and to rough up the unpleasant green carpet I kept meaning to replace. For a moment I thought he was even going to get one arm free panic can be one hell of a motivator.
"Settle down, Percy," I said. "It'll go easier if - "
"Don't you tell me to settle down, you ignoramus!" Percy yelled, jerking his shoulders and trying to free his arms. "Just get away from me! All of you! I know people! Big people! If you don't quit this, you'll have to go all the way to South Carolina just to get a meal in a soup kitchen!"
He gave another forward lunge and ran his upper thighs into my desk. The book he'd been reading, Caring for the Mental Patient in Institutions, gave a jump, and the smaller, pamphlet-sized book which had been hidden inside it popped out. No wonder Percy had looked guilty when we came in. It wasn't The Last Days of Sodom and Gomorrah, but it was the one we sometimes gave to inmates who were feeling especially horny and who had been well-behaved enough to deserve a treat. I've mentioned it, I think - the little cartoon book where Olive Oyl does everybody except Sweet Pea, the kid.
I found it sad that Percy had been in my office and pursuing such pallid porn, and Harry - what I could see of him from over Percy's straining shoulder - looked mildly disgusted, but Brutal hooted with laughter, and that took the fight out of Percy, at least for the time being.
"Oh Poicy," he said. "What would your mother sa
y? For that matter, what would the governor say?"
Percy was blushing a dark red. "Just shut up. And leave my mother out of it."
Brutal tossed me the straitjacket and pushed his face up into Percy's. "Sure thing. Just stick out your arms like a good boy."
Percy's lips were trembling, and his eyes were too bright. He was, I realized, on the verge of tears. "I won't," he said in a childish, trembling voice, "and you can't make me." Then he raised his voice and began to scream for help. Harry winced and so did I. If we ever came close to just dropping the whole thing, it was then. We might have, except for Brutal. He never hesitated. He stepped behind Percy so he was shoulder to shoulder with Harry, who still had Percy's hands pinned behind him. Brutal reached up and took Percy's ears in his hands.
"Stop that yelling," Brutal said. "Unless you want to have a pair of the world's most unique teabag caddies."
Percy quit yelling for help and just stood there, trembling and looking down at the cover of the crude cartoon book, which showed Popeye and Olive doing it in a creative way I had heard of but never tried. "Oooh, Popeye!" read the balloon over Olive's head. "Uck-uck-uck-uck!" read the one over Popeye's. He was still smoking his pipe.
"Hold out your arms," Brutal said, "and let's have no more foolishness about it. Do it now."
"I won't," Percy said. "I won't, and you can't make me."
"You're dead wrong about that, you know," Brutal said, then clamped down on Percy's ears and twisted them the way you might twist the dials on an oven. An oven that wasn't cooking the way you wanted, Percy let out a miserable shriek of pain and surprise that I would have given a great deal not to have heard. It wasn't just pain and surprise, you see; it was understanding. For the first time in his life, Percy was realizing that awful things didn't just happen to other people, those not fortunate enough to be related to the governor. I wanted to tell Brutal to stop, but of course I couldn't. Things had gone much too far for that. All I could do was to remind myself that Percy had put Delacroix through God knew what agonies simply because Delacroix had laughed at him. The reminder didn't go very far toward soothing the way I felt. Perhaps it might have, if I'd been built more along the lines of Percy.