"Uh-huh."
"In China," Popcorn continued solemnly, "they give you a bullet to the back of the brain soon as they find you guilty. Then they send your folks a bill for the bullet. You know what a bullet costs in Red China? Thirteen cents. Hell, the bullet I used on Condoleeza. couldn't have set me back more than a nickel. But that's communism for you. Even bullets cost more."
"I thought you said you cut her."
"I did. I cut her, then I shot her. I was honked off, okay?"
Remo stared into his orange juice. This time, there were no little flecks of pulp, which told him it was probably diluted from concentrate. He decided it was better than nothing and started to sip it slowly, hoping it wouldn't burn his tongue and throat.
Popcorn's voice rose. "In France, they used to use a guillotine. It supposed to be quick, but I read once of a dude who had his head taken off for real, who died so quick and slick his brain didn't know it. Chuck went that guillotine. Sluck went his ol' head. Plop it go, into the basket. And there it lay, blinking and trying to talk through the blood that come up from his poor mouth. Except the poor sucker ain't got no windpipe to blow his words out with."
Halfway through the orange juice, Remo wondered how many times he'd have to flush the toilet before the water was fit to drink. He decided, reluctantly, that the answer was a disappointing never.
"Hanging's worse, though," Popcorn went on in a merry voice. "You hang, and not only do you strangle to death, but your neck done break and you get a headache and a hard-on at the same time. You probably piss your pants to boot. Nobody should die hanging, not even a Puerto Rican."
By that remark, Remo took it to mean that as in New Jersey, Puerto Rican inmates were considered the lowest rung of the prison social ladder. He could never figure out why that was. He had known an Eskimo up in Trenton who was doing a dime for manslaughter. A minority of one, but everyone liked him.
"I am not a fan of gassin', either," Popcorn was saying. His chipper tone of voice rose in inverse proportion to the cheerfulness of his topic. "They strap you down in a little room and the cowards pull a lever in another room, droppin' these cyanide crystals into a bedpan of acid. Least, I heard it said it was a bedpan. That's where you get your gas. Imagine sitting there with those clouds billowing up around your hangdog face, knowin' that even if you held your breath, you were only prolongin' the agony."
"I hear you go quick that way," Remo said.
"Yeah?" Popcorn said testily. "Well, I hear your eyes bug out of your head, you go all purply in the face and drool like fuckin' Howdy Doody. No way I wanna go out drooling. I had my dignity in life. I wanna go the same way, with a little style, Jim. A touch of class. The chair ain't so bad when you think about it. You get to sit down and you kinda go out on your own throne." He allowed himself a dry chuckle.
"I take it you changed your mind about throwing yourself at Crusher McGurk," Remo said airily. "What, and cut my days short? No chance, Jim." Down the corridor, the electronic doors began to buzz and roll, presaging approaching guards. "Damn!" Popcorn said. "He be early for these trays. I been talkin' when I shoulda been eatin'. You know, this ol' prison food never tasted as good to me as it does now."
The door sounds grew closer. Two pairs of footsteps became audible through the remaining door. Voices along the row, mostly men talking to themselves, suddenly hushed.
"I don't think they're here for the trays," Remo said.
"I think you be right, Jim."
Remo drifted up to the bars of his cell. Maybe it was news of his appeal.
Officiously a guard swept past his cell. Accompanying him was a heavyset sixtyish man in a civilian work uniform. The man moved furtively, his hand up to his face to shield it, as if he were a convicted felon. He was not manacled.
The two men swept out of view.
"No, man," Popcorn protested. "It's too soon. I don't go till Tuesday. Tuesday, you hear!" His voice jumped to an excitable high C.
"Pipe down," the guard growled. "We'll get around to you."
The sound of a wheel turning told Remo that the iron door to the electric-chair room had been opened. It was closed by a huge wheel like on a submarine hatch. There was a medieval sound to the door swinging on seldom-used hinges.
"Just tap on the glass when you're done, Haines," the guard said. "I'll be right here."
The door squealed shut.
"How you doing, Popcorn?" the guard asked in good humor.
"I was fuckin' chipper until a minute ago, hack," Popcorn said uneasily. "I was the chipperest Dead Man you ever saw. Now I don't know."
"You'll feel plenty hot, homeboy, once they got your throne all wired up." The guard's laugh was derisive, full-throated.
"I was just thinking that the chair ain't a bad way to go," Popcorn muttered. "Now I ain't so sure."
"Oh, it's not bad. Lethal injection is better, though." The guard's voice was matter-of-fact, just slightly tinged with cheerfulness.
"You don't say," Popcorn's voice was saying as Remo settled back on his cot.
"Yeah, once they cannulate the vein, the worst is over."
"What's 'cannulate'?"
"It means they plug in an intravenous line. It's fascinating to watch how they do it. They plug you in and the execution technician stands on the other side of a wall. First he pumps in something to knock you out. Then they squirt in the curare to paralyze your muscles. And then comes the show-stopper, potassium chloride to arrest your heart action."
"Doesn't sound all that quick to me," Popcorn said doubtfully.
"It's quicker than Sparky. Sometimes-"
"Don't tell me no more!" Popcorn said quickly. "I know all about Sparky. They zap you and you breathe your last right then and there. If you lucky."
"They never go that quick," the guard said informatively. "Remember that big black buck, Shango?"
"Now, don't you be callin' Shango no buck!" Popcorn snapped. "He was a righteous dude."
"Remember when the lights flickered the morning he went?"
"Yeah."
"Remember how many times?"
"No! Stop talkin' at me! I can't think no more!"
"Four times, Popcorn, Count 'em. Four. The first time the leather strap holding the electrode to his leg burned clean away. They had to shut off the juice to fix it. And Shango sat there all strapped in for his last ride, his head lolling off to one side, and there was smoke coming out of his ears."
"No way! No way, man! Shango went out wearin' a hood. No way you could tell if his ears be smokin'. You lyin' to me, motherfuck, you tryin' to rattle me."
"Now that you mention it," the guard admitted, "the smoke was coming up out from under the hood. We only found out after they took the hood off that it was coming out of his ears. The executioner said it was the first time he'd ever seen it. Usually smoke comes out of the mouth or up from the shirt collar. I guess the chest hairs burn or something. But you don't have to worry about that, boy. You're too young to have much chest hair."
Popcorn said nothing.
The guard went on. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. They jolted him again once they replaced the strap, but the doc found a heartbeat. So they had to hit him four times."
"Did he move?" Popcorn asked in a pathetic voice. "Did he say anything while this was happenin' to him?"
"He couldn't. The electricity, it freezes the muscles. Paralyzes your lungs too. You sit there, can't move, can't breathe, smelling the smoke of your own burning hair while your brains cook like eggs."