'The key to this first public vote', says Lally, 'is not to give too many choices. We need to pick a shortlist of prisoners, advertise them well, then open the voting lines and see who performs.'
It sounds like he's with at least three other men. The guard knocks urgently on our door, but doesn't open it, like he just wants us to shut up.
'We have a hundred and fourteen ready to go,' says another man. 'You mean put up three dozen or so, for the first vote?'
'Tch, no way. I mean put up two or three, at most. Flesh-out their characters for the audience, show interviews, reconstructions1 of their crimes, tears from the victims' families. Then give the candidates web-cam access for the last week, live to air - a head-to-head battle for sympathy.'
'I see,' says the guy. 'Kinda Big Brother, huh?'
'Precisely4, just how we sold it to the sponsors.'
'But how do we select the first two?' asks a third man.
'It doesn't really matter, provided the crimes are strong enough. I heard a concept the other day that kind of interested me, though, I think it was on a game show or something - "The last shall go first," it said. Has a ring to it, don't you think?'
'Nice,' says the fourth man. 'Top-of-mind recall.'
'Precisely.'
Their footsteps slow as they approach the cell, you hear the guard clink to attention.
'Any reason for you to be down here, Officer?' asks Lally.
The guard shuffles5 on the spot, then a shadow passes over the peephole. 'Open this door,' says Lally. The key turns, and he looks inside. 'What have we here?' He turns to the guard. 'Aren't the men supposed to be segregated7?'
'Oh sure, sure,' says the guard, fidgeting with his keys. 'It's just like, therapy, you know? A little counseling makes the living easier up on the Row.'
Lally frowns. 'This boy is a mass-murderer - surely it's a little late for counseling. Anyway, these cells are out of bounds, we're installing sound post-production down here.'
'How's your mama?' I ask Lally. The words skim from my lip like spit. 'Motherfucker.'
'Jesus, kid!' chokes the guard.
Lally stifles8 an impulse to lash9 me, his business cronies keep him chilled. I stare slow deaths at him. 'There ain't prayers enough in heaven to stop me paying your fucken ass6 back,' I hear myself whisper. Even Lasalle recoils10.
Lally just smirks11. 'Break them up.'
'Yes, sir,' says the guard. He straightens, and waves an angry hand at Lasalle and me. I try to catch Lasalle's eyes, but he just shuffles away.
'Lasalle - what's the secret?' I hiss12 after him.
'Later, kid, later.'
Lally smiles at me as I leave the room. 'Still trying to figure things out, eh, Little man?' He gives an asthma13 laugh, then his voice folds into echoes as he leads his men away. 'So, February fourteenth we launch the first vote.'
'You mean Valentine's Day?' asks another man.
'Precisely.'
Guess what: you can receive junk-mail on Death Row. The week before the first vote I get a sweepstakes letter that says I definitely won a million dollars; at least that's what it says on the envelope. I think you have to buy encyclopedias14 to get it or something, or to maybe get it. I also find a Bar-B-Chew Barn token entitling me to a Chik'n'Mix for two, at any of their branches across the State. Yeah, they're across the State now. Tomorrow the world, I guess.
I'm working on my art project when I hear Jonesy making his way down the Row towards me. Banter15 from the other cells lets you know where he is. He's bringing the phone. I stiffen16, and stash17 away my art stuff. As it happens though, the big news reaches me before Jonesy arrives with the phone. I hear it from a TV up the Row.
' … The body of the American will be flown home today. Forty refugees also died in the skirmish,' says the news. 'After the break - the end of the road for serial18 killer19 Vernon Gregory Little; we'll have the latest on that failed appeal, and also - the duck and the hamster that just won't take no for an answer!'
Jones doesn't look at me, he just passes me the phone. 'Vernon, I'm sorry,' my attorney crackles through the receiver. 'I don't have the words to tell you how I feel.'
I just stay quiet.
'There's nothing more we can do.'
'What about the Supreme20 Court?' I ask.
'In your case, I'm afraid the fast-track process puts that option out of our reach. I'm sorry …'
I put the phone down on my bunk21, hearing every crease22 of the blanket like gravel23 in my ears.
Tonight they install cameras in my cell, and remove all the TVs and radios from the Row. We ain't allowed to see how the voting's going, that's why. I just sit quiet in the darkest corner and think about things, I don't even play with the clacking balls. Eight squillion valentines turned up for me, from sickos all over the world. Somebody in the mail room was kind enough to just send up the one from Ella Bouchard. I left her on my mail list, don't ask me why. I don't open it, though. The Row is extra-quiet tonight, out of respect, I guess. They're called the worst in the land, but my Row mates know something about respect.
I need another date with Lasalle. As the first public vote gets underway, I find myself thinking hard on some of that stuff he said. Not that it made a whole lot of sense, back when I had a chance to live. But it laid an egg in my mind that started growing. Face my God. In between trading junk-mail, the other cons3 get talking about this week's public vote, laying bets who'll be first to go. That's what they do in between griping for their TVs and radios. They don't bet on anyone from this Row, but you know the feeling of being the last one in the dentist's waiting-room? That's me right now. The problem with the voting is that you don't get to hear if it's you until the last day. You have to stay prepared. Sometimes I get grand schemes to be wacky for my execution, wear socks on my ears or something, or say something bizarre for my last statement. Then I just bawl24 a little. These days I'm bawling25 way too much really, for a man, I know it.
By the last day of voting, I can't bear it anymore. In an hour the world will know who's going to die. I bitch to Jonesy about some more time with Lasalle, but he ain't interested. He argues with another guard over who gets to mind the governor's phone-line in the execution chamber26, for the first executions. Occasionally he snaps down the Row at me.
'Mr Laid-his-ma ordered no more visits,' he says. 'Anyway, in a while you mayn't have to worry about nothin no more.'
In the end I take up clacking the metal balls again, until the other cons join in griping. All it does is ruffle27 Jonesy's feathers. 'Which one a you fucks got a million bucks28 to pay for special favors?'
'Git outta here,' yell the cons.
I just sigh. The swirl29 of musty air rustles31 a paper on my bench. An idea rustles with it. 'Jonesy,' I say, gabbing32 the sweepstakes letter. 'Here's your million.'
'Yeah, right,' he says.
'I ain't fooling - look,' I hold up the envelope.
'You think I was born yesterday?' snorts Jonesy. 'I just about have to shovel33 that mail-order fuckin bullshit off my driveway every mornin.'
I try a hooshy laugh on him. 'We-ell,' I hoosh. 'O-kay - but this is a legally binding34 promise for a million bucks - you know they can't say it unless it's true, and they say it right here in red and white.'
'Hey, Little!' calls a con2. 'You sayin you got the latest sweepstakes letter?'
'That's right.'
'Does it have black writin on it, or red writin?'
'It's the red one, all right.'
'God, Jesus in Heaven - I'll give you two hundred for that letter,' he says.
'Lemme see that,' Jonesy snatches the letter through my grille. He studies it a second, then says, 'It's got your name on it, that ain't no good to me.'
'Officer Jones,' I say, like a schoolteacher or something, 'my execution-kit has a last will and testament35 in it - I can leave it to you, see?'
'Little, wait!' yells another con. 'I'll give you three hundred for that letter.'
'Fuck that,' hollers another, 'I'll make it five!'
'Pipe the fuck down,' shouts Jonesy. 'Didn't y'all hear he gave it to me?' He checks his watch, then points through the grille at my slippers36. 'Get ready.'
When the clinking of his keychain is out of earshot, a giggle37 flutters along the Row. 'Hrr-hrr-hr, fuckin Jonesy,' go the cons.
'Little,' says the con next door. 'You finally learnin how to git along.'
Officer Jones personally marches me along the Row, and down the stairs to find Lasalle. We have to sidestep a porter pushing a trolley38 loaded with TVs and radios on their way back to the cells. That means the vote is over. Behind the appliances struts39 the dark-suited man with the execution papers. It's his job to deliver the papers to the head warden40 of a Row, so that he can deliver them to the condemned41 man. As the suited man passes, I see Jonesy flash him an eyebrow42, almost imperceptibly. The man just as imperceptibly shakes his head, and walks right on by.
'None of my boys dyin today,' says Jones. My gut43 relaxes. I live again, for now. When we reach the floor below, a different floor this time, Jones sticks his head into a regular-looking room, but nobody's there. He calls to a guard up the Row.
'Lasalle around?'
'In the cans,' says the guard, 'takin a dump.'
Jonesy takes me to the shower block on the floor below, and marches me right inside.
'Ain't we gonna wait for him to come out?' I ask.
'No time - it's execution day, I have to get downstairs. You got five minutes.' He casts a shifty eye around, then he leaves me with this echoey drip of brown-sounding water, and goes to stand outside the door.
I crouch44 on the wet concrete floor, and scan under the cubicles45 for evidence of life. Two cubicle46 doors are shut, not that you can lock them or anything. Under one door hangs a pair of jail slippers, and regular jail pants. Under the other is a pair of polished black shoes, and blue suit pants. I knock on that cubicle.
'Lasalle - it's Vern.'
'Aw Jesus. What you think I can do for you from a prison fuckin toilet?'
'Uh - help me face my God.' I hoosh it ironically. I guess it's ironic47, hooshing when you're in the prison shithouse on some poor bastard's execution day.
'Shit,' he gripes.
Everybody's tense today, see. Tension even buzzes through this can door, like we just met in the freezer section of Death-Mart or something. Waves rise to engulf48 me.
'Really wanna meet you God?' says Lasalle. 'Then git on you damn fuckin knees.'
'Uh - it's kinda wet out here, actually, Lasalle …'
'Then make a fuckin wish to Santa. Ask for what you most want in this damn world.'
I think for a second, mostly wondering if I should just leave. Then, after a moment, I hear Lasalle's clothes rustle30 inside the cubicle. The toilet flushes. He opens the door. His ole turkey neck appears, poking49 out of a collar and tie. His bottom lip juts50 dumb.
'Well?' he says, looking around. 'You a free man?' I look around, like a dumbo, while he straightens his tie, and raises a polite hand to the door. 'Officer Jones,' he calls, 'any news on the boy's pardon?' Jonesy just laughs, a real dirty laugh. Lasalle glares at me. 'So much for fuckin Santa.'
'Some preacher you are,' I say. I turn for the door but he grips my arm and spins me around. One tubular vein51 stands out from his neck, throbbing52 like it lives on a reproductive organ.
'Blind, dumb shit,' he spits, his breath like hot sandpaper in my ear. 'Where's this God you talk about? You think a caring intelligence would wipe out babies from hunger, watch decent folk scream and burn and bleed every second of the day and night? That ain't no God. Just fuckin people. You stuck with the rest of us in this snake-pit of human wants, wants frustrated53 and calcified54 into needs, achin and raw.'
The outburst takes me aback. 'Everybody needs something,' I mutter.
'Then don't come cryin to me becausen you got in the way of another man's needs.'
'But, Lasalle …'
'Why you think the world chewin its own legs off? Becausen the goodies are right there, but we can't fuckin get 'em. Why can't we get 'em? Becausen the market for promises need us not to. That ain't the work of no God. That's human work, animals who dreamed up an outside God to take the heat.' Lasalle pokes55 a trembling lip at my face. 'Wise the fuck up. Intermingling needs make this world go round. Serve that intermingling, and you needs can get fulfilled. Ever hear say, "Give the people what they want?"'
'Sure, but - where's that leave God?'
'Boy you really missed the boat. I'll make it simple, so's even fuckin you can understand. Papa God growed us up till we could wear long pants; then he licensed56 his name to dollar bills, left some car keys on the table, and got the fuck outta town.' Water rushes to his eye-holes. 'Don't be lookin up at no sky for help. Look down here, at us twisted dreamers.' He takes hold of my shoulders, spins me around, and punches me towards the mirror on the wall. 'You're the God. Take responsibility. Exercise your power.'
Four men appear at the door: two guards, a chaplain, and the guy in the dark suit. 'Time for the final event,' says the suit.
My eyes snap to the cubicle where the other prisoner takes a quiet dump, but the men walk right past it and grab hold of Lasalle. His lip juts dumb again, his shoulders droop57. Through the corner of my eye I see Jonesy calling me out.
'Lasalle? You a con?' I ask.
'Not for long,' he says softly. 'Looks like not for long.'
'C'mon, Little,' calls Jones from the door. 'Lasalle won the first vote.'
'But Lasalle, was that like - the secret of life?'
He tuts and shakes his head as the group march him to the door.
'I mean - what's the practical …?'
He holds a hand up to the guards. They stop. 'You mean, how do you do it? Big yourself up - watch any animal for clues. As for us humans - check this …' He pulls a lighter58 from his pocket, and motions us to hush59. He clicks the lighter once, softly, then cranes an ear toward the toilet cubicles, where the other con still sits out of sight. After a moment, you hear rustling60 in the cubicle. Then a lighter clicks inside. We watch a puff61 of smoke rise up, as the con drags on a cigarette he didn't even know he wanted. The power of suggestion. Lasalle turns to me with a smile, and clicks his lighter in the air. 'Learn their needs, and they'll dance to any fuckin tune62 you play.'
Jonesy grabs my arm as the group turns to the corridor. I wrassle free, and pounce63 a couple of steps after Lasalle, but Jonesy threads his arms through mine, Deadlocking64 me from behind. It's what he needs. I don't struggle.
'Thanks, Lasalle,' I holler.
'No sweat, Vernon God,' comes the voice.
'Boy,' says Jonesy, when he gets me to the stairs, 'you really bought his bullshit.'
'Somebody told me he was a preacher.'
'Yeah, right. Clarence Lasalle, the fuckin axe-murderer.'
I lie awake on my bunk tonight as Lasalle's execution buzzes from the TVs along the row. I expect to hear Taylor's voice, but one of my fellow inmates65 says she left the show to try and be a roving reporter. She has all the contacts now, I guess. Just needs that one big story. Anyway, we only catch the last hour of the show. Lasalle doesn't make any final statement, which seems kind of cool. He chooses 'I Got You under my Skin' for his final tune. What a guy.
This view of my ceiling grows familiar over the rest of the week, I even work on my art project, underneath66 a towel, lying here on my back. The entertainment appliances disappear again, right after Lasalle's event, and I get to thinking about his last talkings. It all sounded too simple, like a TV-movie or something, like just any ole thing they'd run violin music to. It gets me thinking though, about my wasted ole damn life. They don't even have job descriptions for the kind of talents I have. I guess the tragedy is that I should've been up there as the prosecutor67, or even Brian Dennehy - I'm the one that can sense stuff about people, and situations and all. Sure, I'm not a great student or anything, or athlete or anything, but I have these talents, I'm sure I have. I guess the way their powerdimes mount up against mine, the final tally69 of dimes68 in the power system means they go through, and I don't. One learning, though: my big flaw is fear. In a world where you're supposed to be a psycho, I just didn't yell loud enough to get ahead. I was too darn embarrassed to play God.
Watch any animal, said Lasalle. Give them what they want, and watch any animal. I can understand the giving thing, but I spend nights all the way to the Ides of March, I survive two, then three more execution votes, trying to place the animal clues. I end up watching these useless brown moths70 that thwack around the light in my cell, felty71 splinters torn from nighttime, lost and confused. I guess they're animals. I hear moths are actually programmed to fly a straight line, steered72 by the moon. But these supermarket kind of lights mess up their navigation. Now look at them. I watch one snag behind the light cage, spanking73 dust off its wings in puffs74. Then, 'Thp,' it spins to the floor, broken. The light just buzzes on. So much for the moon. I can relate to moths, boy.
Fantasy animals start to infect my dreams, linen75 spaniels that romp76 with Jesus, but in daylight I struggle to make sense of Lasalle's concept. I guess the only permanent animal I know is Kurt the dog, and I ain't sure he counts when it comes to the Secret of Everything. Ole Kurt, who drives himself crazy with the smell of next door's barbecue, who props77 up his self-esteem by being president of the barking circuit. You know he wouldn't be president of anything, if the circuit knew how damn measly he was. He would've been laughed out of town, if they knew. But they don't.
I sit up on the bunk. Kurt gets by with the bark of a much bigger dog.
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reconstructions
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| 重建( reconstruction的名词复数 )； 再现； 重建物； 复原物 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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segregated
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| 分开的； 被隔离的 | |
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stifles
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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recoils
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| n.（尤指枪炮的）反冲，后坐力( recoil的名词复数 )v.畏缩( recoil的第三人称单数 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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smirks
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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encyclopedias
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| n.百科全书， （某一学科的）专科全书( encyclopedia的名词复数 ) | |
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banter
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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stash
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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bunk
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crease
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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rustle
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rustles
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gabbing
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯( gab的现在分词 ) | |
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shovel
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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cubicles
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| n.小卧室，斗室( cubicle的名词复数 ) | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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50
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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51
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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53
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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54
calcified
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| v.（使）钙化，（使）硬化( calcify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pokes
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| v.伸出( poke的第三人称单数 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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56
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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57
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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58
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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59
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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60
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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62
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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63
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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deadlocking
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| 停顿（deadlock的现在分词形式） | |
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65
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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66
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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67
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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68
dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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69
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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71
felty
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| adj.毡状的 | |
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72
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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73
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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74
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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75
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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