“Give me an opportunity to prove I can do it. That’s not much to ask, is it? And if I fuck it up it’s my fault, see? Just a chance, that’s all I’m asking.”
Toy looked up at him with something like condolence in his face. Was it all over then? Had he made up his mind already-one wrong answer and the whole thing goes sour-was he already mentally packing up his briefcase and returning the Strauss, M. file into Somervale’s clammy hands to be slotted back between one forgotten con and another?
Marty bit his tongue, and sat back in the uncomfortable chair, fixing his gaze on his trembling hands. He couldn’t bear to look at the bruised elegance of Toy’s face, not now that he’d opened himself up so wide. Toy would see in oh yes, to all the hurt and the wanting, and he couldn’t bear that.
“At your trial . . .” Toy said.
What now? Why was he prolonging the agony? All Marty wanted was to go to his cell, where Feaver would be sitting on the bunk and playing with his dolls, where there was a familiar dullness that he could take refuge ‘n. But Toy wasn’t finished; he wanted the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.
“At your trial you testified that your prime motivation for involvement in the robbery was to pay off substantial gambling debts. Am I correct?”
Marty had moved his attention from his hands to his shoes. The laces were undone, and though they were long enough to be double-knotted he never had the patience to work at complicated knots. He liked a simple bow. When you needed to untie a bow you pulled and behold-like magic-it was gone.
“Is that right?” Toy asked again.
“Yes; that’s right,” Marty told him. He’d got so far; why not finish the story? “There were four of us. And two guns. We tried to take a security van. Things got out of hand.” He glanced up from his shoes; Toy was watching intently. “The driver was shot in the stomach. He died later. It’s all in the file, isn’t it?” Toy nodded. “And about the van? Is that in the file too?” Toy didn’t reply. “It was empty,” Marty said. “We had it wrong from the beginning. The fucking thing was empty.”
“And the debts?”
“Huh?”
“Your debts to Macnamara. They’re still outstanding?”
The man was really beginning to get on Marty’s nerves. What did Toy care if he owed a few grand here and there? This was just sympathetic camouflage, so that he could make a dignified exit.
“Answer Mr. Toy, Strauss,” Somervale said.
“What’s it to you?”
“Interest,” said Toy, frankly.
“I see.”
Sod his interest, Marty thought, he could choke on it. They’d had as much of a confessional as they were going to get.
“Can I go now?” he said.
He looked up. Not at Toy but at Somervale, who was smirking behind his cigarette smoke, well satisfied that the interview had been a disaster.
“I think so, Strauss,” he said. “As long as Mr. Toy doesn’t have any more questions.”
“No,” said Toy, the voice dead. “No; I’m well satisfied.”
Marty stood up, still avoiding Toy’s eyes. The small room was full of ugly sounds. The chair’s heels scraping on the floor, the rasp of Somervale’s smoker’s cough. Toy was shunting away his notes. It was all over.
Somervale said: “You can go.”
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Strauss,” Toy said to Marty’s back as he reached the door, and Marty turned around without thinking to see the other man smiling at him, his hand extended to be shaken. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Strauss.
Marty nodded and shook hands.
“Thank you for your time,” Toy said.
Marty closed the door behind him and made his way back to his cell, escorted by Priestley, the landing officer. They said nothing.
Marty watched the birds swooping in the roof of the building, alighting on the landing rails for tidbits. They came and they went when it suited them, finding niches to nest in, taking their sovereignty for granted. He envied them nothing. Or if he did, now wasn’t the time to admit to it.