under the big black sun: a fable
Martin has contacted the public assistance lawyer he'd located for Mac and received all clearances and permission to visit the cell.
Mac seems pleased. They shake hands through the bars; Mac is interested for news of everyone at the Coney Island. He doesn't ask how they reacted to his arrest but remembers Paletello's scheduled doctor's appointment and inquires as to the results. Negative—good news from Paletello's colon.
"Man, I sure could use a chili-cheese dog about now. How's Kelly?"
"I haven't seen her. Listen, Mac, I've got to ask you something. Does she have anything to do with this?"
"Huh?"
"Did you ever talk to her, tell her what you said in that note? Before you gave it to Tim?"
Mac has to think a while. "No," he says pleasantly.
"I know she's my sister and all, and it's none of my business, but did she think all this up? Tell you what to do, what to say, the note, promise you another TV interview?"
"Hey buddy. It's okay. I told them I did it."
"But you didn't. Did you?"
"Yeah." Mac meets him full-gazed, affable, uncomplicated. Then his tone is grave: "They'll probably execute me, huh, Martin?"
"They probably won't."
Mac seems puzzled. Martin tells Mac how many prisoners are on death row in the State of Louisiana at the moment, watching obliquely for some unguarded reaction. "One guy has been there twenty six years. Waiting. Just waiting. The court stays him every time. Because of a literacy issue."
Mac nods, eyes glassy, stifling a yawn; then in a sweep he becomes optimistic again; "Hey—I still feel bad about that TV thing, before, remember? I promise: Anything, you know, any stories, I'll give 'em to you—just you."
"Aw, man. That's not important now. I'm here now to see about getting you out of this thing, this place."
The look of confusion pains Martin, makes him impatient. "I mean I'll do a story if you want me to, they can't make me, but. If it's best for you, I'm saying, to do it. I will." Mac nodding unsurely.
"I'll be back. I promise."
"Martin—"
"Yeah, sure?"
"Nothing."
"C'mon. What?"
"It's just—I was going to ask you if that gold GTO was still on the lot at the corner of Louisville and North Sixth. But then I remembered it doesn't matter anymore."
"No. I'll find out for you. Next time I come. Even if—"
"Martin, it doesn't matter. And you know, I'm glad. I really am."
Martin is hesitant to look directly at Mac. Afraid that if he does, he will start to believe him.
