The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 45

Sherman looked down. "I don't know," he said. "They were on the back seat of the car."

"Whose car?"

"Detective Martin's car."

The Angel shook his head as if now he had seen everything. "Okay, Tanooch, take him over to Gabsie."

A young white officer took Sherman by the elbow. Sherman's hand was holding up his pants, and so the elbow came up like a bird's wing. His pants were damp even in the waistband. He carried his wet jacket over his other arm. He started walking. His right foot came out of his shoe, because the strings were gone. He stopped, but the policeman kept walking, jerking his elbow forward in an arc. Sherman put his foot back in the shoe, and the policeman motioned toward the little corridor. Sherman started shuffling, so that his feet wouldn't come out of the shoes. The shoes made a squis.h.i.+ng sound because they were so wet.

Sherman was led toward the cubicle with the big windows. Now, just across the corridor, he could see inside the two cells. In one there appeared to be a dozen figures, a dozen hulks of gray and black, up against the walls. The door to the other was open. There was only one person inside, the tall man, slumped on a ledge. There was a brown mess on the floor. The odor of excrement was overpowering.

The policeman steered Sherman into the cubicle with the windows. Inside was a huge freckled policeman with a wide face and blond wavy hair, who looked him up and down. The policeman called Tanooch said, "McCoy," and handed the big one a sheet of paper. The room seemed full of metal stands. One looked like the sort of metal-detection gate you see at airports. There was a camera on a tripod. There was something that looked like a music stand except that it had nothing at the top big enough to hold a page of music.

"Okay, McCoy," said the big policeman, "step through that gate there."

Squish, squish, squish...holding his pants up with one hand and holding his wet jacket in the other, Sherman shuffled through the gate. A loud whining beep came from the machine.

"Whoa, whoa," said the policeman. "Okay, give me your coat."

Sherman handed him the jacket. The man went through the pockets and then began kneading the jacket from top to bottom. He threw the jacket over the edge of a table.

"Okay, spread your feet and put your arms straight out to the side, like this."

The policeman put his arms out as if he were doing a swan dive. Sherman stared at the policeman's right hand. He was wearing a translucent rubber surgical glove. It came halfway up his forearm!

Sherman spread his feet. When he spread his arms, his pants fell way down. The man approached him and began patting down his arms, his chest, his ribs, his back and then his hips and his legs. The hand with the rubber glove created an unpleasant dry friction. A new wave of panic...He stared at the glove in terror. The man looked at him and grunted, apparently in amus.e.m.e.nt, and then held up his right hand. The hand and the wrist were enormous. The hideous rubber glove was right in front of Sherman's face.

"Don't worry about the glove," he said. "The thing is, I gotta do your prints, and I gotta pick your fingers up one by one and put 'em on the pad...You understand?..." His tone was conversational, neighborly, as if there were just the two of them, out by the alley, and he was explaining how the engine in his new Mazda worked. "I do this all day, and I get the ink on my hands, and my skin's rough to begin with, and sometimes I don't get the ink all off, and I go home, and my wife has the whole living room done in white, and I put my hand down on the sofa or someplace, and I get up and you can see three or four fingers on the sofa, and my wife throws a fit." Sherman stared at him. He didn't know what to say. This huge fierce-looking man wanted to be liked. It was all so very odd. Perhaps they all wanted to be liked.

"Okay, walk on back through the gate."

Sherman shuffled back through the gate, and the alarm went off again.

"s.h.i.+t," said the man. "Try it again."

The alarm went off a third time.

"Beats the h.e.l.l outta me," said the man. "Wait a minute. Come here. Open your mouth."

Sherman opened his mouth.

"Keep it open...Wait a minute, turn it this way. Can't get no light." He wanted to move Sherman's head to a strange angle. Sherman could smell the rubber of the glove. "Sonofab.i.t.c.h. You got a G.o.dd.a.m.n silver mine in there. I tell you what. Bend over at the waist like this. Try to get way down."

Sherman bent over, holding up his pants with one hand. Surely he wouldn't- Surely he wouldn't- "Now back through the gate, but real slow."

Sherman started shuffling backward, bent over at an almost 90-degree angle.

"Okay, real slow, real slow, real slow-that's it...whoa!"

Sherman was now mostly through the gate. Only his shoulders and his head remained on the other side.

"Okay, back up...a little farther, a little farther, little farther, little farther..."

The alarm went off again.

"Whoa! Whoa! Right there! Stay right there!" The alarm remained on.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h!" said the big man. He began pacing around and sighing. He slapped his legs with his hands. "I had one a these last year. Okay, you can stand up."

Sherman stood up. He looked at the big man, bewildered. The man stuck his head out the door and yelled, "Hey, Tanooch! Come here! Look at this!"

Across the little corridor, a policeman was in the open cell with a hose, was.h.i.+ng down the floor. The rush of the water echoed off the tile.

"Hey, Tanooch!"

The policeman who had brought Sherman into the room came from down the corridor.

"Look at this, Tanooch." Then he said to Sherman, "Okay, bend over and do that again. Back through the gate, real slow."

Sherman bent over and did as he was told.

"Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa...Now you see that, Tanooch? So far, nothing. Okay, now back up a little more, little more, little more..." The alarm went off. The big man was beside himself again. He paced about and sighed and put his hands together. "Dja see that, Tanooch! It's his head! head! Swear to Christ!...It's the fellow's head!...Okay, stand up. Open your mouth...That's it. No, turn it this way." He moved Sherman's head again, to get more light. "Look in there! You wanna see some metal?" Swear to Christ!...It's the fellow's head!...Okay, stand up. Open your mouth...That's it. No, turn it this way." He moved Sherman's head again, to get more light. "Look in there! You wanna see some metal?"

The one called Tanooch said not a word to Sherman. He looked in his mouth, like someone inspecting a crawl s.p.a.ce in a cellar.

"Jesus Christ," said Tanooch. "You're right. Set a teeth look like a change maker." Then he said to Sherman, as if noticing him for the first time, "They ever let you on a airplane?"

The big one cracked up over this. "You're not the only one," he said. "I had one like you last year. Drove me outta my mind. I couldn't figure out...what da f.u.c.k...you know?" Suddenly it was the casual fellow-out-back-on-Sat.u.r.day mode of conversation again. "This machine is very sensitive, but you do have a whole head fulla metal, I gotta tell you that."

Sherman was mortified, completely humiliated. But what could he do? Maybe these two, if he played along with them, could keep him out of...the pens! With With those people! those people! Sherman just stood there, holding up his pants. Sherman just stood there, holding up his pants.

"What's that stuff all over your pants?" asked Tanooch.

"Styrofoam," said Sherman.

"Styrofoam," said Tanooch, nodding his head, but in an uncomprehending fas.h.i.+on. He left the room.

Then the big man stood Sherman in front of a metal stand and took two pictures of him, one from the front and one from the side. It dawned on Sherman that this was what was known as a mug shot. This great huge bear had just taken his mug shot, while Sherman stood there holding up his pants. He led him over to a counter and took Sherman's fingers one by one and pressed them into an ink pad and then rolled them onto a printed form. It was a surprisingly rough operation. He gripped each of Sherman's fingers as if he were picking up a knife or a hammer and plunged it into the ink pad. Then he apologized.

"You have to do all the work yourself," he said to Sherman. "You can't expect n.o.body comes in here to lift a G.o.dd.a.m.ned finger for you."

From across the corridor came the furious sound of someone retching. Three of the Latins were at the bars of the pen.

"Ayyyyyy!" yelled one of them. "The man puking! He puking plenty!"

Tanooch was the first policeman there.

"Oh, f'r Chrissake. Oh, beautiful. Hey, Angel! This guy's a one-man garbage barge. Whaddaya wanna do?"

"He the same one?" said the Angel.

Then the smell of vomit began to spread.

"Ayyyyyyyy, whaddaya whaddaya," said the Angel. "Hose it down and leave 'im in there."

They opened the bars, and two policemen stood by outside while a third went inside with the hose. The prisoners hopped this way and that, to keep from getting wet.

"Hey, Sarge," said the policeman. "Guy puked all over his pants."

"The fatigues?"

"Yeah."

"f.u.c.k it. Hose 'em down. This ain't a laundry."

Sherman could see the tall man sitting on the ledge with his head down. His knees were covered in vomit, and his elbows were on his knees.

The big man was watching all this through the window of the fingerprint room. He was shaking his head. Sherman went up to him.

"Look, Officer, isn't there some other place I can wait? I can't go in there. I'm-I just can't do it."

The big man stuck his head out of the fingerprint room and yelled, "Hey, Angel, whaddaya wanna do with my man here, McCoy?"

The Angel looked over from his desk and stared at Sherman and rubbed his hand over his bald head.

"Welllll..." Then he motioned with his hand toward the cell. "That's it."

Tanooch came in and took Sherman by the arm again. Someone opened up the bars. Tanooch steered Sherman inside, and he went shuffling onto the tile floor, holding up his pants. The bars shut behind him. Sherman stared at the Latins, who were sitting on the ledge. They stared back, all but the tall one, who still had his head down, rolling his elbows in the vomit on his knees.

The entire floor slanted in toward the drain in the middle. It was still wet. Sherman could feel the slant now that he was standing on it. A few driblets of water were still rolling down the drain. That was it. It was a drainpipe, where mankind sought its own level, and the meat spigot was on.

He heard the bars slide shut behind him, and he stood there in the cell holding his pants up with his right hand. He cradled his jacket with his left arm. He didn't know what to do or even where to look, and so he picked out an empty s.p.a.ce on the wall and tried to take a look at...them...with peripheral vision. Their clothes were a blur of gray and black and brown, except for their sneakers, which created a pattern of stripes and swashes along the floor. He knew they were watching him. He glanced toward the bars. Not a single policeman! Would they even move a muscle if anything...

The Latinos had taken every seat on the ledge. He chose a spot about four feet from the end of the ledge and leaned his back up against the wall. The wall hurt his spine. He lifted his right foot, and his shoe fell off. He slipped his foot back into it as casually as he could. Looking down at his foot on the bright tile made him feel as if he was going to keel over with vertigo. The Styrofoam peanuts! They were still all over his pants legs.

He was seized with the terrible fear that they would take him to be a lunatic, the sort of hopeless case they could slaughter at their leisure. He was aware of the smell of vomit...vomit and cigarette smoke...He lowered his head, as if he were dozing, and cut his eyes toward them. They were staring at him! They were staring at him and smoking their cigarettes. The tall one, the one who had kept saying, "Mira! Mira!" still sat on the ledge with his head down and his elbows on his knees, which were covered in vomit.

One of the Latinos was rising up from the ledge and walking toward him! He could see him out of the corner of his eye. Now it was starting! They weren't even waiting!

The man was settling up against the wall, right next to him, leaning back the same way Sherman was. He had thin curly hair, a mustache that curved down around his lips, a slightly yellowish complexion, narrow shoulders, a little potbelly, and a crazy look in his eyes. He must have been about thirty-five. He smiled, and that made him look crazier still.

"Hey, man, I see you outside."

See me outside!

"With the TV, man. Why you here?"

"Reckless endangerment," said Sherman. He felt as if he were croaking out his last words on this earth.

"Reckless endangerment?"

"That's...hitting somebody with your car."

"With you car? You hit somebody with you car, and the TV come here?"

Sherman shrugged. He didn't want to say anything more, but his fear of appearing aloof got the better of him.

"What are you here for?"

"Oh, man, 220, 265, 225." The fellow threw his hand out, as if to take in the entire world. "Drugs, handguns, gambling paraphernalia-ayyyyyy, every piece a bulls.h.i.+t, you know?"

The man seemed to take a certain pride in this calamity.

"You hit somebody with you car?" he asked once more. He apparently found this trivial and unmanly. Sherman raised his eyebrows and nodded wearily.

The man returned to the seating ledge, and Sherman could see him talking to three or four of his comrades, who looked at Sherman once more and then looked away, as if bored by the news. Sherman had the feeling that he had let them down. Very odd! And yet that was what he felt.

Sherman's fear was rapidly supplanted by tedium. The minutes crawled by. His left hip joint began to hurt. He s.h.i.+fted his weight to the right, and his back hurt. Then his right hip joint hurt. The floor was tile. The walls were tile. He rolled up his jacket to create a cus.h.i.+on. He put it on the floor, next to the wall, and sat down and leaned back. The jacket was damp, and so were his pants. His bladder was beginning to fill, and he could feel little knives of gas in his bowels.

The little man who had come over to talk to him, the little man who knew the numbers, walked to the bars. He had a cigarette in his mouth. He took the cigarette out, and he yelled, "Ayyyyyy! I need a light!" No response from the policeman beyond. "Ayyyyyy, I need a light!"

Finally, the one called Tanooch came up. "What's your problem?"

"Ayyy, I need a light." He held up his cigarette.

Tanooch dug a book of matches out of his pocket and lit one and held it about four feet away from the bars. The little man waited, then put the cigarette between his lips and pressed his face against the bars so that the cigarette protruded outside. Tanooch was motionless, holding the burning match. The match went out.

"Ayyyyyy!" said the little man.

Tanooch shrugged and let the match fall to the floor.

"Ayyyyyy!" The little man turned around toward his comrades and held the cigarette up in the air. (See what he did?) One of the men sitting on the ledge laughed. The little man made a face at this betrayal of sympathies. Then he looked at Sherman. Sherman didn't know whether to commiserate or look the other way. He ended up just staring. The man walked over and squatted down beside him. The unlit cigarette was hanging out of his mouth.

"Dja see that?" he asked.

"Yes," said Sherman.

"You wanna light, they suppose a give you a light. Son a mab.i.t.c.h. Ayyy...you got cigarettes?"

"No, they took everything away from me. Even my shoestrings."

"No s.h.i.+t?" He looked at Sherman's shoes. He himself still had on shoelaces, Sherman noticed.

Sherman could hear a woman's voice. She was angry about something. She appeared in the little corridor outside the cell. Tanooch was leading her. She was a tall thin woman with curly brown hair and dark tan skin, wearing black pants and an odd-looking jacket with very big shoulders. Tanooch was escorting her toward the fingerprint room. All at once she wheeled about and said to someone Sherman couldn't see, "You big bag a..." She didn't complete the phrase. "Least I don't sit in 'is sewer here all day long, way you do! Think about it, fat boy!"

Much derisive laughter from the policemen in the background.

"Watch it or he'll flush you down, Mabel."