Castle Garden by Bill Albert

Author:Bill Albert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-05-30T13:24:49+00:00

9

The light is starting to fade in the warden’s office. Short days of the Idaho winter closing in. Harry has just left the cabin for the long walk down those wooden stairs to Wallace. Probably on his way to Cedar Street to get jug-steamed and wick-trimmed. I pause and look up at the ceiling thinking how to get on to the next part of the story without using up this warm time too quickly.

McParland clears his throat. I pull my eyes back down to the paper and then sneak a look across the table. The old man is staring at me, milky boiled eyes over the top of his glasses. On the other side Charlie seems asleep but I know he isn’t. I dip the pen in the ink pot and hold it poised above the paper like I was thinking, which of course I am, although not about what I’m supposed to be thinking.

“You got another problem, son?” McParland asks softly.

I hear the menace. A drop of ink from the pen falls onto the white paper. I smile the best I can and shake my head.

“Some light? Maybe that’d help you along.”

He nods at Charlie, who gets up, stretches and then walks over to the door and snaps a switch. In the center of the ceiling the electric chandelier suddenly glares, the harsh light from the four bulbs giving me nowhere else to go but back to the story they want me to tell them.

McParland reaches over and yanks the ink-blotted paper from under my hand, balls it up and lays it carefully in front of him.

Someone’s knocking at the door. He gets up. A chance to escape from under his damn stare for a few minutes. A guard sticks his head into the room.

“Mr. McParland?”

“Right.”

“Got a message for you here. Just come in over the telegraph wire.”

“Right.”

He takes the yellow paper, reads it, then folds it in half and sticks it in his waistcoat pocket. He glances over at me, but I can’t read anything about the telegram in his face. All the same I got a real bad feeling about it. And why not? I’ve never seen a telegram that had anything but grief in it for me.

“Got any reply you wanna make, sir?”

“No, nothing,” McParland snaps. “And I don’t want any more interruptions. You just hold everything till I say different.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, closing the door slowly behind him.

“Don’t understand anything about how to go about this kinda thing,” McParland grumbles. “And you, boy, there’s no call for any of your lollygagging there. Get on with it!”

Old bastard! Too much depending on his goddamned story. And I’m too damn tired out with all this goddamned carry on. McParland pushing at me, Charlie staring at me, the electric light hitting those shiny brass reflectors and burning down at me, and Montana Jim waiting out there somewhere to settle my Christ-killing Jew account for good and all. My left hand is throbbing again. And what’s in

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