The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 44

"K-I-L-L-I-A-N. Okay? This is a circus arrest circus arrest! My client has been ready at all times to appear before a grand jury to confront the charges brought against him. Instead, this circus arrest has been staged in complete violation of an agreement between the district attorney and my client."

"What was he doing in the Bronx?"

"That's the statement, and that's the whole statement."

"Are you saying he's innocent?"

"Mr. McCoy denies these charges completely, and this outrageous circus arrest shoulda never been allowed."

The shoulders of Killian's suit were drenched. The rain had gone through Sherman's s.h.i.+rt, and he could feel the water on his skin.

"Mira! Mira!" One of the Latins kept saying this word Mira! Mira!

Sherman stood there with his shoulders drenched and bowed. He could feel the sopping jacket weighing down on his wrists. Over Killian's shoulder he could see a thicket of microphones. He could hear the cameras whining away. The horrible fire in their faces! He wanted to die. He had never really wanted to die before, although, like many other souls, he had toyed with the feeling. Now he truly wanted G.o.d or Death to deliver him. That was how dreadful the feeling was, and that feeling was, in fact, a scalding shame.

"Sherman!"

"f.u.c.kface!"

"Mira! Mira!"

And then he was dead, so dead he couldn't even die. He didn't even possess the willpower to fall down. The reporters and cameramen and photographers-such vile abuse!-still here, not three feet away!-they were the maggots and the flies, and he was the dead beast they had found to crawl over and root into.

Killian's so-called statement had distracted them only for a moment. Killian!-who supposedly had his connections and was going to make sure it was not an ordinary arrest! It was not an ordinary arrest. It was death death. Every bit of honor, respect, dignity, that he, a creature named Sherman McCoy, might ever have possessed had been removed, just like that just like that, and it was his dead soul that now stood here in the rain, in handcuffs, in the Bronx, outside a mean little metal door, at the end of a line of a dozen other prisoners. The maggots called him Sherman Sherman. They were right on top of him.

"Hey, Sherman!"

"How you gonna plead, Sherman!"

Sherman looked straight ahead. Killian and the two detectives, Martin and Goldberg, continued to try to s.h.i.+eld Sherman from the maggots. A television cameraman closed in, a fat one. The camera came over his shoulder like a grenade launcher.

Goldberg wheeled toward the man and yelled, "Get that f.u.c.king thing outta my face!"

The cameraman retreated. How odd! How completely hopeless! Goldberg was now his protector. He was Goldberg's creature, his animal. Goldberg and Martin had brought their animal in, and now they were determined to see that it was delivered.

Killian said to Martin, "This is not right. You guys gotta do something."

Martin shrugged. Then Killian said in all seriousness, "My shoes are getting f.u.c.king ruined."

"Mr. McCoy."

Mr. McCoy. Sherman turned his head. A tall pale man with long blond hair was at the forefront of a pack of reporters and cameramen.

"Peter Fallow of The City Light The City Light," said the man. He had an English accent, an accent so blimpish it was like a parody of an English accent. Was he taunting him? "I've rung you up several times. I'd very much like to get your side of all this."

Sherman turned away...Fallow, his obsessive tormentor in The City Light... The City Light...No compunctions at all about walking up and introducing himself...of course not...his quarry was dead...He should have hated him, and yet he couldn't, because he loathed himself so much more. He was dead even to himself.

Finally, all the prisoners arrested in the raid on the social club were inside the door, and Sherman, Killian, Martin, and Goldberg were just outside. "Okay, Counselor," Martin said to Killian, "we'll take it from here."

Sherman looked beseechingly at Killian. (Surely you're coming inside with me!) Killian said, "I'll be upstairs when they bring you up for arraignment. Don't worry about anything. Just remember, don't make any statements, don't talk about the case, not even to anybody in the pens, especially not to anybody in the pens."

In the pens! More shouting from beyond the door. More shouting from beyond the door.

"How long will it take?" asked Sherman.

"I don't know exactly. They got these guys ahead a you." Then he said to Martin, "Look. Do the right thing. See if you can't get him through fingerprinting ahead a that bunch. I mean, f'r Chrissake."

"I'll try," said Martin, "but I already told you. For some reason they want this one step by step."

"Yeah, but you owe us," said Killian. "You owe us a lot-" He stopped. "Just do the right thing."

All at once Goldberg was pulling Sherman in by the elbow. Martin was right behind him. Sherman turned to keep Killian in sight. Killian's hat was so wet it looked black. His necktie and the shoulders of his suit were soaked.

"Don't worry," said Killian. "It's gonna be all right."

The way Killian said it, Sherman knew his own face must be a picture of pure despair. Then the door closed; no more Killian. Sherman was cut off from the world. He had thought he had no fear left, only despair. But he was afraid all over again. His heart began to pound. The door had closed, and he had disappeared into the world of Martin and Goldberg in the Bronx.

He was in a large low room broken up by cubicles, some of which had plate-gla.s.s windows, like the interior windows of a broadcast studio. There were no outside windows. A bright electric haze filled the room. People in uniform were moving about, but they were not all wearing the same sort of uniform. Two men with their hands manacled behind their backs stood in front of a high desk. Two young men in rags were standing beside them. One of the prisoners looked over his shoulder and saw Sherman and nudged the other, and he turned around and looked at Sherman, and they both laughed. Off to the side, Sherman could hear the cry he had heard outside, a man screaming, "Mira! Mira!" There were some cackles and then the loud flatulent sound of someone having a bowel movement. A deep voice said, "Yaggh. Filthy."

Another one said, "Okay, get 'em outta there. Hose it down."

The two men in rags were bending over behind the two prisoners. Behind the desk was a huge policeman with an absolutely bald head, a big nose, and a prognathous jaw. He appeared to be sixty years old at least. The men in rags were removing the handcuffs from the two prisoners. One of the young men in rags had on a thermal vest over a torn black T-s.h.i.+rt. He wore sneakers and dirty camouflage pants, tight at the ankles. There was a badge, a police s.h.i.+eld, on the thermal vest. Then Sherman could see the other had a badge, too. Another old policeman came up to the desk and said, "Hey, Angel, Albany's down."

"Beautiful," said the man with the bald head. "We got this bunch, and the s.h.i.+ft just started."

Goldberg looked at Martin and rolled his eyes and smiled and then looked at Sherman. He still held Sherman by the elbow. Sherman looked down. Styrofoam peanuts! The Styrofoam packing peanuts he had picked up in the back seat of Martin's car were all over the place. They were stuck to the wad of his jacket over his wrists. They were all over his tweed pants. His pants were wet, wrinkled, twisted shapelessly around his knees and his thighs, and the Styrofoam peanuts clung to them like vermin.

Goldberg said to Sherman, "You see that room in there?"

Sherman looked over into a room, through a large plate-gla.s.s window. There were filing cabinets and piles of paper. A big beige-and-gray apparatus took up the center of the room. Two policemen were staring at it.

"That's the fax machine that sends the fingerprints to Albany," said Goldberg. He said it in a pleasant sort of singsong, the way you would say something to a child who is frightened and confused. The very tone terrified Sherman. "About ten years ago," said Goldberg, "some bright fellow got the idea-was it ten years ago, Marty?"

"I don't know," said Martin. "All I know is, it was a stupid f.u.c.king idea."

"Anyway, somebody got the idea a putting all the fingerprints, for the whole f.u.c.king State a New York, in this one office in Albany...see...and then every one a the Central Bookings, they're wired into Albany, and you send the prints to Albany on the computer, and you get back your report, and the suspect goes upstairs and gets arraigned...see...Only it's a freakin' logjam in Albany, especially when the machine goes down, like right now."

Sherman couldn't take in a thing Goldberg was saying, except that something had gone wrong and Goldberg thought he was going out of his way to be nice and explain it.

"Yeah," Martin said to Sherman, "be thankful it's 8:30 in the morning and not 4:30 in the f.u.c.king afternoon. If this was the f.u.c.king afternoon, you'd probably have to spend the night at the Bronx House of Detention or even Rikers."

"Rikers Island?" asked Sherman. He was hoa.r.s.e. He barely got the words out.

"Yeah," said Martin, "when Albany goes down in the afternoon, forged-aboudit. You can't spend the night in this place, so they take you over to Rikers. I'm telling you, you're very fortunate."

He was telling him he was very fortunate. Sherman was supposed to like them now! Inside here, they were his only friends! Sherman felt intensely frightened.

Somebody yelled out, "Who died died in here, f'r Chrissake!" in here, f'r Chrissake!"

The smell reached the desk.

"Now that's that's disgusting," said the bald man called Angel. He looked around. "Hose it down!" disgusting," said the bald man called Angel. He looked around. "Hose it down!"

Sherman followed his eyes. Off to the side, down a corridor, he could make out two cells. White tiles and bars; they seemed to be constructed of white brick tiles, like a public bathroom. Two policemen stood in front of one of them.

One of them yelled through the bars, "Whatsa matter with you!"

Sherman could feel the pressure of Goldberg's huge hand on his elbow, steering him forward. He was in front of the desk, staring up at the Angel. Martin had a sheaf of papers in his hand.

The Angel said, "Name?"

Sherman tried to speak but couldn't. His mouth was utterly dry. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Name?"

"Sherman McCoy." It was barely a whisper.

"Address?"

"816 Park Avenue. New York." He added "New York" in the interest of being modest and obedient. He didn't want to act as if he just a.s.sumed people here in the Bronx knew where Park Avenue was.

"Park Avenue, New York. Your age?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Ever been arrested before?"

"No."

"Hey, Angel," Martin said. "Mr. McCoy here's been very cooperative...and uh...whyn't you let him sit out here somewheres insteada putting him in there with that buncha bats? The f.u.c.king so-called press out there, they gave him a hard enough time."

A wave of profound, sentimental grat.i.tude washed over Sherman. Even as he felt it, he knew it was irrational, but he felt it nonetheless.

The Angel puffed up his cheeks and stared off, as if ruminating. Then he said, "Can't do it, Marty." He closed his eyes and lifted his huge chin upward, as if to say, "The people upstairs."

"Whadda they worrying about? The f.u.c.king TV viruses got him standing out there in the rain for a f.u.c.king half an hour. Look at him. Looks like he crawled in here through a pipe."

Goldberg chuckled. Then, so as not to offend Sherman, he said to him, "You're not looking your best. You know know that." that."

His only friends! Sherman wanted to cry, and all the more so because this horrible, pathetic feeling was genuine.

"Can't do it," said the Angel. "Gotta do the whole routine." He closed his eyes and lifted his chin again. "You can take the cuffs off."

Martin looked at Sherman and twisted his mouth to one side. (Well, friend, we tried.) Goldberg unlocked the handcuffs and took them off Sherman's wrists. There were white rings on his wrists where the metal had been. The veins on top of his hands were engorged with blood. My blood pressure has gone through the roof My blood pressure has gone through the roof. There were Styrofoam peanuts all over his pants. Martin handed him his soggy jacket. Styrofoam peanuts all over the soggy jacket, too.

"Empty your pockets and hand me the contents," said the Angel.

On the advice of Killian, Sherman hadn't brought much with him. Four $5 bills, about a dollar in change, a key to the apartment, a handkerchief, a ballpoint pen, his driver's license-for some reason he thought he should have identification. As he handed over each item, the Angel described it aloud-"twenty dollars in bills," "one silver ballpoint pen"-and handed it to someone Sherman couldn't see.

Sherman said, "Can I...keep the handkerchief?"

"Let me see it."

Sherman held it up. His hand was shaking terribly.

"Yeah, you can keep it. But you gotta give me the watch."

"It's only-it's just a cheap watch," said Sherman. He held up his hand. The watch had a plastic case and a nylon band. "I don't care what happens to it."

"No can do."

Sherman undid the band and surrendered the little watch. A new spasm of panic went through him.

"Please," said Sherman. As soon as the word left his mouth, he knew he shouldn't have said it. He was begging. "How can I figure-can't I keep the watch?"

"You got an appointment or something?" The Angel attempted a smile to show he didn't mean it as much more than a pleasantry. But he didn't return the watch. Then he said, "Okay, and I need your belt and your shoestrings."

Sherman stared at him. He realized his mouth was open. He looked at Martin. Martin was looking at the Angel. Now Martin closed his eyes and lifted his chin, the way the Angel had, and said, "Oh boy." (They really do do have it in for him.) have it in for him.) Sherman unbuckled the belt and pulled it out of the loops. As soon as he did, the pants fell down around his hips. He hadn't worn the tweed suit in a long time, and the waist was much too big. He pulled the pants up and stuffed his s.h.i.+rt back inside, and they fell down again. He had to hold them up in front. He squatted down to take off the shoelaces. Now he was an abject creature crouched at the feet of Martin and Goldberg. His face was close to the Styrofoam peanuts on his pants. He could see the crinkles on them. Some sort of horrible beetles or parasites! The heat of his body and the woolly funk of the pants gave off an unpleasant odor. He was aware of the humid smell of his armpits under the clammy s.h.i.+rt. A total mess. No two ways about it. He had the feeling that one of them, Martin, Goldberg, the Angel, would just step on him, and, pop pop, that would be the end of that. He pulled out the shoestrings and stood up. Standing up from the crouch made him lightheaded. For an instant he thought he might faint. His pants were falling down again. He pulled them up with one hand and handed the Angel the shoestrings with the other. They were like two little dried dead things.

The voice behind the desk said, "Two brown shoestrings."

"Okay, Angel," said Martin, "all yours."

"Right," said the Angel.

"Well, good luck, Sherman," said Goldberg, smiling in a kindly fas.h.i.+on.

"Thanks," said Sherman. It was horrible. He actually appreciated it.

He heard a cell door slide open. Down the little corridor stood three police officers herding a group of Latins out of one cell and into the one next to it. Sherman recognized several of the men who had been in line ahead of him outside.

"All right, knock it off, and get in there."

"Mira! Mira!"

One man remained in the corridor. A policeman had him by the arm. He was tall, with a long neck, and his head lolled about. He seemed very drunk. He was muttering to himself. Then he threw his eyes to the heavens and screamed, "Mira!" He was holding up his pants the same way Sherman was.

"Hey, Angel, whadda I do with this one? It's all over his pants pants!" The policeman said "pants" with great disgust.

"Well, s.h.i.+t," said the Angel. "Take the pants off him and bury bury 'em, and then wash him off, too, and give him some a those green fatigues." 'em, and then wash him off, too, and give him some a those green fatigues."

"I don't even wanna touch him, Sarge. You got any a those things they take the cans off the shelf in the supermarket with?"

"Yeah, I got some," said the Angel, "and I'm gonna take your can off."

The policeman jerked the tall man back toward the first cell. The tall man's legs were like a marionette's.

The Angel said, "Whaddaya got all over your your pants?" pants?"