“Did you feed Rudy yet?”
“I was just about to before you woke me up. Where’d you go? I thought you were still back there.”
“Went to visit Nina and Simon.”
Fry gave him a blank stare; then he understood. “Shit, it’s the twenty-fourth, isn’t it?”
Eustace shrugged. What was there to say?
“I can look after things here if you want,” Fry offered. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“And do what?”
“Sleep or something. Get drunk.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”
Eustace carried Rudy’s breakfast back to his cell: a couple of stale biscuits and a raw potato cut into slices.
“Rise and shine, partner.”
Rudy lifted his emaciated frame off his bunk. Thieving, fighting, being a general, all-around pain in the ass: the man was in jail so often he actually had a favorite cell. This time the charge was drunk and disorderly. With a lurid snort he excavated a wad of phlegm, hawked it into the bucket that served as a toilet, and shuffled to the bars, beltless pants hoisted in his fist. Maybe I should let him keep his belt next time, Eustace thought. The man might do us all a favor and hang himself. Eustace slid the plate through the slot.
“That’s it? Biscuits and a potato?”
“What do you want? It’s March.”
“The service isn’t what it used to be around this place.”
“So stay out of trouble for once.”
Rudy sat on the bunk and took a bite of one of the biscuits. The man’s teeth were disgusting, brown and wobbly-looking, though Eustace was hardly one to talk. Crumbs spurted from his mouth as he spoke. “When’s Abel coming?”
Abel was the judge. “How should I know?”
“I need a clean bucket, too.”
Eustace was halfway down the hall.
“I’m serious!” Rudy yelled. “It stinks in here!”
Eustace returned to the front and sat behind his desk. Fry was wiping down his revolver, something he did about ten times a day. The thing was like his pet. “What’s his problem?”
“Didn’t care much for the cuisine.”
Fry frowned with contempt. “He should be grateful. I didn’t get much more than that myself.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”
“Hey, assholes,” Rudy yelled from the back, “got a present for you!”
Rudy was standing in his cell holding the now-empty bucket with a triumphant look on his face. Shit and piss were running down the hallway in a brown river.
“This is what I think of your fucking potato.”
“Goddamnit,” Fry yelled, “you’re cleaning this up!”
Eustace turned to his deputy. “Hand me the key.”
Fry unhooked the ring from his belt and passed it to Eustace. “I mean it, Rudy.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “You’re in a heap of trouble, my friend.”
Eustace unlocked the door, stepped into the cell, closed the door behind himself, reached with the keys back through the bars, and locked the door again. Then he deposited the ring deep in his pocket.
“What the hell is this?” Rudy asked.
“Gordon?” Fry looked at him cautiously. “What are you doing?”
“Just give me a sec.”
Eustace drew his revolver, spun it around in his hand, and slapped the butt across Rudy’s face. The man stumbled backward and toppled to the floor.
“Are you out of your mind?” Rudy scrabbled backward until he was against the wall of the cell. He worked his tongue around and spat a bloodied tooth into his palm. He held it up by its long, rotten root. “Look at this! How am I supposed to eat now?”
“I doubt you’ll miss it much.”
“You had that coming, you piece of shit,” Fry said. “Come on, Gordo, let’s get this asshole a mop. I think he’s learned his lesson.”
Eustace didn’t think so. Teach the man a lesson—what did that actually mean? He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it was coming to him. Rudy was holding out his tooth with a look of righteous indignation on his face. The sight of it was thoroughly disgusting; it seemed to encapsulate everything wrong with Eustace’s life. He reholstered his gun, letting Rudy think the worst was over, then hauled him to his feet and slammed his face against the wall. A damp crunch, like a fat cockroach popping underfoot: Rudy released a howl of pain.
“Gordon, seriously,” Fry said. “Time to open that door.”