Percy’s eyes flickered. He had been planning to cover himself by pleading ignorance, and now he saw he was hoist by his own petard. I don’t know what he might have said next, because Curtis Anderson came lunging down the stairs just then.
We heard him and drew back from Percy a little, so as not to look quite so threatening.
“What in the blue fuck was that all about? Anderson roared. “Jesus Christ, there’s puke all over the floor
up there! And the smell! I got Magnusson and Old Toot-Toot to open both doors, but that smell won’t come out for five damn years, that’s what I’m betting. And that asshole Wharton is singing about it! I can hear him!”
“Can he carry a tune, Curt?” Brutal asked. You know how you can bum off illuminating gas with a single spark and not be hurt if you do it before the concentration gets too heavy? This was like that. We took an instant to gape at Brutus, and then we were all howling. Our high, hysterical laughter flapped up and down the gloomy tunnel like bats. Our shadows bobbed and flickered on the walls. Near the end, even Percy joined in. At last it died, and in its aftermath we all felt a little better. Felt sane again.
“Okay, boys,” Anderson said, mopping at his teary eyes with his handkerchief and still snorting out an occasional hiccup of laughter, “what the hell happened?”
“An execution,” Brutal said. I think his even tone surprised Anderson, but it didn’t surprise me, at least not much; Brutal had always been good at turning down his dials in a hurry. “A successful one.”
“How in the name of Christ can you call a directcurrent abortion like that a success? We’ve got witnesses that won’t sleep for a month! Hell, that fat old broad probably won’t sleep for a year!”
Brutal pointed at the gurney, and the shape under the sheet. “He’s dead, ain’t he? As for your witnesses, most of them will be telling their friends tomorrow night that it was poetic justice – Del there burned a bunch of people alive, so we turned around and burned him alive. Except they won’t say it was us. They’ll say it was the will of God, working through us. Maybe there’s even some truth to that. And you want to know the best part? The absolute cat’s pajamas? Most of their friends will wish they’d been here to see it.” He gave Percy a look both distasteful and sardonic as he said this last.
“And if their feathers are a little ruffled, so what?” Harry asked. “They volunteered for the damn job, nobody drafted them.”
“I didn’t know the sponge was supposed to be wet,” Percy said in his robot’s voice. “It’s never wet in rehearsal.”
Dean looked at him with utter disgust. “How many years did you spend pissing on the toilet seat before someone told you to put it up before you start?” he snarled.
Percy opened his mouth to reply, but I told him to shut up. For a wonder, he did. I turned to Anderson.
“Percy fucked up, Curtis – that’s what happened, pure and simple.” I turned toward Percy, daring him to contradict me. He didn’t, maybe because he read my eyes: better that Anderson hear stupid mistake than on purpose. And besides, whatever was said down here in the tunnel didn’t matter. What mattered, what always matters to the Percy Wetmores of the world, is what gets written down or overheard by the big bugs – the people who matter. What matters to the Percys of the world is how it plays in the newspapers.
Anderson looked at the five of us uncertainly. He even looked at Del, but Del wasn’t talking. “I guess it could be worse,” Anderson said.
“That’s right,” I agreed. “He could still be alive.”
Curtis blinked – that possibility seemed not to have crossed his mind. “I want a complete report about this on my desk tomorrow,” he said. “And none of you are going to talk to Warden Moores about it until I’ve
had my chance. Are you?”
We shook our heads vehemently. If Curtis Anderson wanted to tell the warden, why, that was fine by us.