361 by Donald E. Westlake Page B

stories with a guy who’d been stationed in Japan. If he was telling the truth, he had a better time in Japan than I did in Germany. If I was telling the truth, so did I.
    In the morning, we checked out again and drove the fifteen miles to Dannemora.
    Dannemora is a little town. In most of it, you wouldn’t know there was a penitentiary around at all. The town doesn’t look dirty enough, or mean enough. But the penitentiary’s there, a high long wall next to the sidewalk along the street. The sidewalk’s cracked and frost-heaved over there. On the other side, it’s cleaner and there’s half a dozen bars with neon signs that say Budweiser and Genesee. National and local beers on tap. Bill had Budweiser and I had Genesee. It tasted like beer.
    The bar was dark, but it was done in light wood lightly varnished and it was wider than it should have been for its depth. You got the feeling the bar wasn’t dark at all really, you were just slowly going blind. The bartender was a short wide man with a black mustache. There were two other customers, in red-and-black hunting jackets and high leather boots. They were local citizens, and they were drinking bar scotch with Canada Dry ginger ale.
    The Post had said Eddie Kapp would be a free man at noon, but we didn’t know for sure. We got to town shortly before ten and sat on high stools in this bar where we could see the metal door in the wall across the way. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize Eddie Kapp. The picture in the Post was blurred and twenty-five years old. But he was sixty-one years of age. And how many people would be getting out all in one day?
    We sat there and nursed our beers. I wore my shirt-tail out, and when I sat leaning forward with my elbows on the bar, the butt of Smitty’s gun stuck into my lowest rib. Bill had the same problem with the Luger.
    At eleven-thirty a tan-and-cream Chrysler slid to the curb in front of the bar. Bill looked at it and turned to me and said, “Is that them? Is that the ones who killed Dad?”
    I didn’t say anything. I was looking at the guy in the right front seat. I knew him when.
    I started to get down from the stool, flipping the shirt-tail out of the way, but Bill grabbed my elbow and whispered, “Don’t be a jerk. Wait till Kapp comes out.”
    I stood there, not moving one way or the other. The gun butt felt funny in my hand. The side that had been against my skin was hot and moist. The other side was cold and dry.
    Then I said, “All right. You’re right.” He let me go and I said, “I’ll be right back.” I let go of the gun and smoothed the shirt-tail and walked down the length of the bar past the other two customers, who were talking to the bartender about trout. I went into the head. There was one stall. I went in there and latched the door and took the gun out from under my belt so I could lean over. Then I threw up in the toilet. I washed my mouth out at the sink and got back to the stall just in time to throw up again. I waited a minute, and then washed my mouth out again. There was a bubbled dirty mirror over the sink and I saw myself in it. I looked pale and young and unready. The gun barrel was cold against my hairless belly. I was a son of a bitch and a bad son.
    I went back out and sat down at the stool and held my glass without drinking. Bill said, “Nothing new.” I didn’t answer him.
    After a while, I got fantastically hungry, all of a sudden. I waited, but a little before one I asked the bartender what sandwiches he had and he said he had a machine that made hamburgers in thirty seconds. I ordered two and Bill ordered one. The machine was down at the other end of the bar, a chrome-sided infra-red cooker.
    I was halfway through the second hamburger when the door across the street opened and an old man without a hat came out.
    His suit, even from across the street, looked expensive and up to the minute. It hadn’t been given him by the government. It was gray and flattering. His shoes were black