Chapter 18

'What did you say that golf pro's name was?'
'Quentin,' Charlie answered back, all confused and upset by now. He later said that the kid was as white as a truce flag, 'Glenn Quentin, I think. Something like that, anyway-' 'Here now, here now,' Homer Jessup roared, his neck as red as a rooster's comb. 'Get them sheets in cold water! Get quick! Get quick, by Jesus, you -'
'Glenn Quentin, oh my God,' Tommy Williams said, and that was all he got to say because Homer Jessup, that least peaceable of men, brought his billy down behind his ear. Tommy hit the floor so hard he broke off three of his front teeth. When he woke up he was in solitary, and confined to same for a week, riding a boxcar on Sam Norton's famous grain and drain train. Plus a black mark on his report card.
That was in early February in 1963, and Tommy Williams went around to six or seven other long-timers after he got out of solitary and got pretty much the same story. I know; I was one of them. But when I asked him why he wanted it, he just clammed up.
Then one day he went to the library and spilled one helluva big budget of information to Andy Dufresne. And for the first and last time, at least since he had approached me about the Rita Hayworth poster like a kid burying his first pack of Trojans, Andy lost his cool ... only this time he blew it entirely.
I saw him later that day, and he looked like a man who has stepped on the business end of a rake and given himself a good one, whap between the eyes. His hands were trembling, and when I spoke to him, he didn't answer. Before that afternoon was out he had caught up with Billy Hanlon, who was the head screw, and set up an appointment with Warden Norton for the following day. He told me later that he didn't sleep a wink all that night; he just listened to a cold winter wind howling outside, watched the searchlights go around and around, putting long, moving shadows on the cement walls of the cage he had called home since Harry Truman was President and tried to think it all out. He said it was as if Tommy had produced a key which fitted a cage in the back of his mind, a cage like his own cell. Only instead of holding a man, that cage held a tiger, and that tiger's name was Hope. Williams had produced the key that unlocked the cage and the tiger was out, willy-nilly, to roam his brain.
Four years before, Tommy Williams had been arrested in Rhode Island, driving a stolen car that was full of stolen merchandise. Tommy turned in his accomplice, the DA played ball, and he got a lighter sentence ... two to four, with time served. Eleven months after beginning his term, his old cellmate got a ticket out and Tommy got a new one, a man named Elwood Blatch. Blatch had been busted for burglary with a weapon and was serving six to twelve.
'I never seen such a high-strung guy,' Tommy said. 'A man like that should never want to be a burglar, specially not with a gun. The slightest little noise, he'd go three feet into the air ... and come down shooting, more likely than not. One night he almost strangled me because some guy down the hall was whopping on his cell bars with a tin cup.
'I did seven months with bun, until they let me walk free. I got time served and time off, you understand. I can't say we talked because you didn't, you know, exactly hold a conversation with El Blatch. He held a conversation with you. He talked all the time. Never shut up. If you tried to get a word in, he'd shake his fist at you and roll his eyes. It gave me the cold chills whenever he done that. Big tall guy he was, mostly bald, with these green eyes set way down deep in the sockets. Jeez, I hope I never see him again.
'It was like a talkin' jag every night. When he grew up, the orphanages he run away from, the jobs he done, the women as fucked, the crap games he cleaned out I just let him run on. My face ain't much, but I didn't want it, you know, rearranged for me.
'According to him, he'd burgled over two hundred joints. It was hard for me to believe, a guy like him who went off like a firecracker every time someone cut a loud fart, but he swore it was true. Now ... listen to me, Red. I know guys sometimes make things up after they know a thing, but even before I knew about this golf pro guy, Quentin, I remember thinking that if El Blatch ever burgled my house, and I found out about it later, I'd have to count myself just about the luckiest motherfucker going still to be alive. Can you imagine him in some lady's bedroom, sifting through her jool'ry box, and she coughs in her sleep or turns over quick? It gives me the cold chills just to think of something like that, I swear on my mother's name it does.'
'He said he'd killed people, too. People that gave him shit. At least that's what he said. And I believed him. He sure looked like a man that could do some killing. He was just so fucking high-strung! Like a pistol with a sawed-off firing pin. I knew a guy who had a Smith & Wesson Police Special with a sawed-off firing pin. It wasn't no good for nothing, except maybe for something to jaw about. The pull on that gun was so light that it would fire if this guy, Johnny Callahan, his name was, if he turned his record-player on full volume and put it on top of one of the speakers. That's how El Blatch was. I can't explain it any better. I just never doubted that he had greased some people.'
'So one night, just for something to say, I go: "Who'd you kill?" Like a joke, you know. So he laughs and says, "There's one guy doing time up Maine for these two people I killed.
It was this guy and the wife of the slob who's doing time. I was creeping their place and the guy started to give me some shit."
'I can't remember if he ever told me the woman's name or not,' Tommy went on.
'Maybe he did. But hi New England, Dufresne's like Smith or Jones in the rest of the country, because there's so many Frogs up here. Dufresne, Lavesque, Ouelette, Poulin, who can remember Frog names? But he told me the guy's name. He said the guy was Glenn Quentin and he was a prick, a big rich prick, a golf pro. El said he thought the guy might have cash in the house, maybe as much as five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then, he says to me. So I go, "When was that?" And he goes, "After the war. Just after the war."
'So he went in and he did the joint and they woke up and the guy gave him some trouble. That's what El said. Maybe the guy just started to snore, that's what I say.
Anyway, El said Quentin was in the sack with some hotshot lawyer's wife and they sent the lawyer up to Shawshank State Prison. Then he laughs this big laugh. Holy Christ, I was never so glad of anything as I was when I got my walking papers from that place.'

　　“你说那个高尔夫球教练叫什么名字？”
　　“昆丁，”查理回答，一脸困惑沮丧的样子。他事后说，汤米的脸色好像战败投降时竖起的白旗一样。“好像是格林·昆丁——之类的。”
　　“嘿！嘿！注意！”霍姆的脖子胀得好像鸡冠一样红，“被单放回冷水里，动作快一点，老天爷，你——”
　　“格林·昆丁，天哪！”汤米说，他也只能说出这几个字，因为霍姆用警棍在他后脑勺上狠狠敲了一记，汤米倒在地上，撞掉了三颗门牙。当他醒来时，人已在禁闭室中。他被单独监禁了一星期，只准喝水、吃面包，还被记上一笔。
　　那是一九六三年二月的事，放出禁闭室以后，汤米又去问了六七个老犯人，听到的故事都差不多。我也是被问的人之一，但是当我问他为何关心这事时，他只是不答腔。
　　有一天，他去图书馆对安迪说了一大堆。自从安迪走过来问我买丽塔·海华丝的海报以后，这是安迪第一次、也是最后一次失去了镇定……只不过这次他完全失控。
　　那天我后来看见他的时候，他仿佛被重重打了一耙，正中眉心一样。他两手发抖，当我跟他说话时，他没答腔。那天傍晚，他跑去找警卫队长比利·汉龙，约好第二天求见典狱长诺顿。事后他告诉我，他那晚整夜没有合眼，听着隆冬的冷风在外面怒号，看着探照灯的光芒在周围扫射，在牢笼的水泥墙上划出一道道移动的长影，从杜鲁门主政时期开始，这个牢笼就成了他的家。他脑中拼命思考着整件事情。他说，就好像汤米手上有把钥匙，正好开启了他内心深处的牢笼，他自我禁锢的牢笼。那个牢笼里关的不是人，而是一只老虎，那只老虎的名字叫“希望”。汤米给的这把钥匙正好可以打开牢笼，放出希望的老虎，在他脑中咆哮着。
　　四年前，汤米在罗德岛被捕，那时他正开着一辆偷来的车，里面放满赃物。汤米招出同党，换取减刑，因此只需服二到四年徒刑。在他入狱将近一年时，他的室友出狱了，换成另一个囚犯和他同住，名叫艾乌·布拉契。布拉契是因为持械闯入民宅偷窃，而被判六至十二年徒刑。
　　“我从来没有看过这么神经过敏的人，”汤米告诉我，“这样的人根本不该干小偷的，至少不应该带枪行窃。只要周遭有一点点声音，他很可能就会跳到半空中，拔枪就射。有一天晚上，只不过因为有人在另一个牢房中，拿着铁杯子刮他们牢房的铁栅，他就差点勒死我。
　　“在重获自由之前，我跟他同住了七个月。我不能说我们谈过话，因为你知道，你不可能真的和布拉契交谈，每次我们谈话，总是他滔滔说个不完，我只有听的份儿。他从不停嘴，如果你想打个岔，他会两眼一翻，对你挥舞着拳头。每次他这样便让我背脊发凉。他身材高大，几乎秃顶，一对绿眼珠嵌在深陷的眼眶中。老天，我希望这一生不要再看到他。
　　“他每晚都说个不停：他在哪里长大的、他如何从孤儿院逃走、他干过什么事，还有他搞过的女人、他赢过的扑克牌；我只有不动声色地听他说。我的脸虽然不怎么样，不过我并不想整形。
　　“照他所说，他至少抢过两百个地方，真是令人难以置信，连有人放个响屁，都会使他像鞭炮般惊跳起来，但他发誓是真的。……听着，雷德，我知道有的人听说了一些事以后会编造故事，但是在我听说这个叫昆丁的高尔夫球教练之前，我记得我就曾经想过，假如有一天布拉契潜入我家偷东西的话，我若事后才发现，就算是万幸了。我真不敢想象，当他潜入一个女人的房间翻珠宝盒时，她若在睡梦中咳嗽一声或翻个身，会有什么后果？单单想到这件事，都令人不寒而栗。
　　“他说他杀过人，杀过那些惹毛他的人，至少这是他说的，而我相信他的话，他看起来确实像会杀人。他实在太他妈的神经过敏、太紧张了，就像一把锯掉了撞针的枪，随时会发射出去。我认识一个家伙，他有一把锯掉撞针的警用手枪。这样做没什么好处，纯粹是无聊而已，因为手枪的扳机变得十分灵敏，只要他把音响开到最大声，把枪放在喇叭箱上，很可能就会自动发射。布拉契就是这样一个人。我无法说得更清楚了，总之我相信他轰过些什么人。
　　“所以一天晚上，我心血来潮，问他杀过谁？我只当听笑话罢了，你知道。他大笑说道：‘有个家伙正因为我杀了两个人而在缅因州服刑。我杀的是这个笨蛋的太太和另一个家伙，我偷偷潜入他的房子，那家伙跟我过不去。’我不记得他是否曾告诉我那女人的名字，”汤米接着说，“也许他说过，但在新英格兰，杜佛尼这个姓就像其他地方的史密斯和琼斯一样普通。但是，他确实把他杀掉的那个家伙的名字告诉我了，他说那家伙叫格林·昆丁，是个讨厌鬼，有钱的讨厌鬼，职业高尔夫球选手。他说他觉得那家伙应该在屋子里放了不少现金，可能有五千美金，在当时，那可是一大笔钱。所以我问：‘事情是什么时候发生的？’他说：‘在战后，战争刚结束没多久。’
　　“所以，他闯进他们屋里，两个人被他吵醒，昆丁还给了他一些麻烦，他是这么说的。我则认为，说不定那家伙只不过开始打鼾。他还告诉我，昆丁和一个名律师的老婆鬼混，结果法院把那个律师送进了肖申克监狱。他说完后大笑不已。老天，当我终于可以出狱、离开那个牢房时，真是觉得谢天谢地。”