“Come on out,” I said. “And let’s move along brisk, folks. I want to get two run-throughs in, and we don’t have much time.”
Old Toot-Toot, looking as bright-eyed and bushytailed as ever, came out, walked to Delacroix’s cell, and strolled in through the open door. “Sittin down,” he said. “I’m sittin down, I’m sittin down, I’m sittin down.”
This is the real circus, I thought, closing my eyes for a second. This is the real circus right here, and we’re all just a bunch of trained mice. Then I put the thought out of my mind, and we started to rehearse.
8.
The first rehearsal went well, and so did the second. Percy performed better than I could have hoped for in my wildest dreams. That didn’t mean things would go right when the time really came for the Cajun to walk the Mile, but it was a big step in the right direction. It occurred to me that it had gone well because Percy was at long last doing something he cared about. I felt a surge of contempt at that, and pushed it away. What did it matter? He would cap Delacroix and roll him, and then both of them would be gone. If that wasn’t a happy ending, what was? And, as Moores had pointed out, Delacroix’s nuts were going to fry no matter who was out front.
Still, Percy had shown to good advantage in his new role and he knew it. We all did. As for me, I was too relieved to dislike him much, at east or the time being. It looked as if things were going to go all right. I was further relieved to find that Percy actually listened when we suggested some things he could do that might improve his performance even more, or at least cut down the possibility of something going wrong. If you want to know the truth, we got pretty enthusiastic about it – even Dean, who ordinarily stood well back from Percy – physically as well as mentally, if he could. None of it that surprising, either, I suppose – for most men, nothing is more flattering than having a young person actually pay attention to his advice, and we were no different in that regard. As a result, not a one of us noticed that Wild Bill Wharton was no longer looking up at the ceiling. That includes me, but I know he wasn’t. He was looking at us as we stood there by the duty desk, gassing and giving Percy advice. Giving him advice! And him pretending to listen! Quite a laugh, considering how things turned out!
The sound of a key rattling into the lock of the door to the exercise yard put an end to our little postrehearsal critique. Dean gave Percy a warning glance. “Not a word or a wrong look,” he said. “We don’t want him to know what we’ve been doing. It’s not good for them. Upsets them.”
Percy nodded and ran a finger across his lips in a mum’s-the-word gesture that was supposed to be funny and wasn’t. The exercise-yard door opened and Delacroix came in, escorted by Brutal, who was carrying the cigar box with the colored spool in it, the way the magician’s assistant in a vaudeville show might carry the boss’s props offstage at the end of the act. Mr. Jingles was perched on Delacroix’s shoulder.
And Delacroix himself? I -tell you what – Lillie Langtry couldn’t have looked any glowier after performing at the White House. “They love Mr. Jingles!”
Delacroix proclaimed. “They laugh and cheer and clap they hands!”
“Well, that’s aces,” Percy said. He spoke in an indulgent, proprietary way that didn’t sound like the old Percy at all. “Pop on back in your cell, old-timer.”
Delacroix gave him a comical look of distrust, and the old Percy came busting out. He bared his teeth in a mock snarl and made as if to grab Delacroix. It was a joke, of course, Percy was happy, not in a serious grabbing mood at all, but Delacroix didn’t know that. He jerked away with an expression of fear and dismay, and tripped over one of Brutal’s big feet. He went down hard, hitting the linoleum with the back of his head. Mr. Jingles leaped away in time to avoid being crushed, and went squeaking off down the Green Mile to Delacroix’s cell.