Nobody's Fool

surprise a lot of people, though not Sully.
    â€œListen. Tell The Bank I’ll get out upstairs as soon as I can. My lawyer says I could get out as soon as tomorrow, though he’s been known to be mistaken.”
    â€œI’ll handle Clive,” she said, then to Wirf, “Just don’t let him punch the judge.”
    â€œYou want to ride with us?”
    â€œNo, I’m going with Mrs. Gruber,” Miss Beryl told him.
    â€œAlice knew Hattie?”
    â€œNot to my knowledge,” she admitted. “She just hates to miss anything.”
    Outside on the porch, Sully noticed the corner of the envelope Miss Beryl had given him sticking out of the pocket of Wirf’s overcoat. “She finally signing the house over to Clive?” he asked.
    â€œNone of your business,” Wirf said, not unexpectedly, pushing the envelope out of sight.
    â€œYou sure are a secretive prick, you know that?”
    Wirf shrugged. “You ever hear of confidentiality?”
    â€œHere I’ve known you all these years and today I find out your name is Abraham.”
    â€œYou didn’t know that?” Wirf said. “It’s on the door of my office.”
    â€œYou have an office?”
    â€œSully, Sully, Sully.”
    Wirf put his gloves on and grabbed the porch railing, which wobbled at the base where Carl Roebuck, the rat, had removed the screws. Sully made a mental note to fix it as soon as he got out of jail, lest Miss Beryl kill herself and he find himself responsible for the death of two old women.
    Organ music, vaguely religious, was being played throughout the funeral home at a volume designed, it seemed to Sully, to get just under the skin. It was slightly louder in the tiny bathroom he’d been shown to so he could change his pants and put on the socks he’d bought at the men’s store. The cramped room was about the size of a closet, containing a commode, a tiny sink, a warped mirror. Above, in one corner, was a small speaker from which the organ music leaked. When Sully sat on the commode, his knees nearly touched the door he’d closed behind him when he entered. His knee, defying logic as usual, seemed to have gotten worse in jail, and changing his pants and putting on the new socks proved a slow, awkward, painful task. He’d worked up a full sweat when the door he’d forgotten to lock opened, catching him sitting on the commode in his undershorts, one sock on, one sock off.
    â€œJesus Christ,” Jocko said, going scarlet and quickly closing the door again. Then, just his voice through the door, “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that you don’t have to take your pants completely off to relieve yourself?”
    â€œDon’t go away,” Sully said to the door. “I want to talk to you.”
    Sully pulled on the second sock, then the suit pants that matched his jacket. The dry cleaner, one of two in Bath, was located right next door to the men’s store where he’d bought his socks, so he had talked Wirf into stopping in on the off chance. “That’s them, right there,” Sully’d pointed when the pants came by, recognizing them among the first batch of items that creaked past them on the overhead chain.
    â€œUnbelievable,” Wirf had muttered.
    The girl blinked when she read the date on the ticket. “Nineteen eighty-two?” she read. “You brought these in two years ago?”
    â€œDon’t tell me they’re not done yet, either,” Sully warned her. “I need them right now.”
    Jocko was still standing guard outside when Sully finally emerged, zipping his fly for emphasis. “I thought you were in jail,” Jocko said.
    â€œI was,” Sully admitted. “I’ve been given a three-hour furlough. Since I’m a bearer.”
    Jocko snorted at this. “God, I love small towns,” he said. “You even been arraigned?”
    â€œTomorrow,” Sully told him.
    â€œDidn’t I tell you to watch out for that cop?” Jocko said.
    â€œI don’t know, did you?”
    Jocko made a gurgling sound in his throat. “How are you going to plead?”
    â€œTemporary insanity,” Sully told him. “We’re going to contend that those pills of yours made me crazy.”
    All the blood drained out of Jocko’s face.
    â€œSpeaking of which”—Sully grinned at him—“I’m almost out again.”
    â€œYou’re a bad