It was good, having old friends greet me. They all stood at the doors of their cells watching. A few of them nodded. I walked down the wide corridor, between the high tiers. Behind Stanley, who used to tell me about his kids and the old Dodge he barely kept running. I was thinking how all my life I never felt I belonged anywhere. Now I knew I did. I belonged here.
I HIT SAVE, backed the last twenty or so pages onto a disk to join the rest, then started a printout.
My letter to Vicky, which had turned into a reinvention of The Old Man, then into a memoir of LaVerne, later into some Cocteauesque fantasy of men in black tuxedos and women in white dresses emerging from cave mouths or subways, had resolved with absolute simplicity, in a matter of twelve or fourteen intense, ever-surprising hours, into a sequel to my prison novel, Mole.
I woke on the floor.
The printer had stopped for lack of paper. The phone had stopped too-a couple of times at least, I realized. But now it was ringing again.
"You there?" Walsh said when I picked up. "Hello? Intelligent life?"
"Semi, anyway. Listen, Don, I haven't got any sleep yet. Not so you'd notice it, anyway. You want to call me back later?"
"Sure I do. Guess I'll have to, to get your sorry ass off the dime. But if you haven't been sleeping, then just what the hell is it you have been doing?"
"I'm as surprised as you are, believe me-but I guess I've just finished a new book."
"A new book. Another book. No hope for you, is there, Lew? I leave you alone for just a few hours-I mean, I figurethis is safe, we'll both grab some sleep, get out there and take care of business-but no. You decide to spend your time on a book."
"Just what my mother used to say. Only then it wasreadingbooks, not writing them."
"Yeah, you told me. Also told me your mother was flat-out bonkers. So." Don paused-to drink coffee, from the sound of it "This a good one?"
"Never sure at first I think it is."
Don made an ambiguous sound somewhere between grunt and laugh. "Call me when you're back up to speed?"
"Half-speed may be the best I'll manage for a while."
"Know what you mean. Good enough, though."
"You at home?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
He knew what I was asking. That's the thing about old friends. So many of your most important conversations are silent.
"It's gonna take time, Lew. But listen."
"Yeah?"
"DeSalle called. Rauch is gonna walk. We scrambled, but there's no way we can make a hard enough case to get him bound over, everything circumstantial like it is. So we have him on disorderly and possession and that's about it. We could hold on to him for another twenty-four to forty-eight horn's, but what's the point? You see any?"
"Guess not. What about Delany?"
"Back in the bosom of his family even as we speak."
Guess that was one phone call I'd waited too long to make.
"Thanks, Don."
"Lights out, then. You want, I could sing you a lullaby."
"Not at this point in time."
"Right. Well, I offered."
I loaded the printer with paper, hit Retry and heard it hum into action. Rolled into the tray. Short book. Publisher'd have to leave lots of space everywhere: borders, margins, between lines and