Jack (Gilead #4)(58)

“Just browsing,” he had said to the clerk, though the better word would have been “casing.” Then he sauntered out to the sidewalk, saw the cop, bought a newspaper from a stack on the street, folded it lengthwise, and read, with an eye on the cop. Here was the problem. He knew that, since he was aware of official attention, if he tried to walk away, he would appear to skulk. If he tried to look vigorous and purposeful, he would look as if he were leaving the scene, as they say. He had taken nothing. He was pretty sure no stray trinket had clung to his sleeve. So the wisest thing in ridiculous circumstances was simply to stand there and read about mounting tensions in Belgium. The cop would have to wander off sometime.

As it happened, however, a gentleman emerged from the pawnshop who clearly also saw the cop, bumped into Jack, begged pardon more sincerely than the situation seemed to require, and walked off, leaving Jack with a definite weight in his jacket pocket. Then another man came out, slapping his own pockets the way people do when they can’t believe they have lost what they have lost. And there was law enforcement, just when needed, as was too often the case. The officer noticed and interpreted the citizen’s distress, not remarkable considering the incredulous slapping, and he crossed the street. “My wallet!” the man said. The official gaze turned on Jack.

“Sir,” the officer said.

Jack said, “A man just bumped into me. He must have put something in my pocket. To conceal evidence, I believe.”

“Would you please show me what you have in your pocket, sir.”

It was red morocco, hand-stitched, expensive but very lean. Jack should not have looked at it appraisingly. He handed it to the officer, who checked the name of the injured party against a business card that seemed to be the one thing in it. So, petty larceny. That was a relief.

But the policeman said, “Is there anything missing from your billfold, sir?”

“About five hundred dollars is missing! That’s what’s missing!” the citizen said, inflating his importance and making Jack a felon. The larceny was now grand.

Jack said, “If there was any money, the other man must have taken it.”

“If there was any money! You calling me a liar?” said the citizen, shoving Jack against the wall in his indignation.

The cop said, “Calm down or I’ll arrest you, too.”

“Too.” The word was a dagger in Jack’s heart. And as he was pulling himself together, he realized that there was, again, a weight in his pocket. His amazement overwhelming his good sense, he slipped his fingers in and felt something round, metal, with a fine chain attached to it.

“Sir,” the policeman said, “would you please empty your pockets.” So out came a handkerchief, a quarter and a dime, and a necklace, maybe gold, set with what might have been precious stones. The policeman said, “Okay,” and took it from him. It lay there in his hand, gleaming quietly, clearly valuable. The citizen gave Jack a look and shrugged almost imperceptibly, the gist being that he had a life that was incompatible with jail time.

Of course! That is the whole point of jail time! Jack said, “Officer, this fellow put that necklace in my pocket when he shoved me!”

“This happened to you twice in what? Five minutes?”

“Yes, Officer. It did.”

“So the first fellow was a pickpocket who had robbed a thief.”

“This appears to have been the case, Officer.” His verb forms became exact under pressure.

“So now I’m the thief!” said the citizen.

“Calm down,” said the policeman. “We’ll step into the shop and see what the clerk has to say about this.”

So Jack returned to that world that still seemed his somehow, even with a policeman at his shoulder. All the oddly deployed shine and detail, the kinds of things that reward prowlers for their trouble. There were the clocks, variously quartering the hour, time being one more dubious commodity. He was the suspect. The clerk, a stranger, glanced at him with bland hostility. Clearly this was a man practiced in negotiating desperation, nostalgia, the plain worth of a thing, haste, embarrassment, guilt, all of them leveraged against the naked hopes of the customer. This sly, cold arbiter of the fates of the bail-seeking and the creditor-pursued looked at Jack as if he were weary of him. “I wondered why this guy was hanging around in here,” said the clerk to the officer. “Of course, I had my suspicions.” He identified the wallet and the necklace.

“You see!” Jack said. “This fellow said the wallet was his! And in fact it was stolen!”

“No,” the clerk said. “He paid for it.”

“You have a bigger problem, anyway, sir,” the officer said.

Meanwhile, the citizen, as if vindicated, took the wallet and left the store.

“Somebody took the tag off this necklace,” said the clerk. “I’d get about three hundred for it.”

Disaster. Jack was stunned. He went along quietly with the policeman, who looked very fit and could certainly outrun him.

So, jail until his day in court, which was over in about ten minutes. He had, in fact, no visible means of support, your honor. No ties to the community. “Unfortunate,” the judge said. “And then the added misfortune that stolen items seem to materialize in your pockets.” He shook his head at the pathos of it, banged his gavel, and said what sounded like “Five years,” and something about the state penitentiary. Jack wanted to ask him to repeat what he had said. Shock had interfered somehow with his hearing. But the judge was on to other business.