Falconer+-+John+Cheever

Falconer 127
his thighs and his chest and mumbled to Bumpo between groans,
“Riot at The Wall. Twenty-eight hostages by the balls. Their balls
equal freedom and amnesty.” He howled, bucked with his pelvis
and then buried his face in the pillow, under which he could feel
the beginnings of his radio, safe, he guessed, because with the staff
half dead, scared and thinned, he’d bet by sick call there wouldn’t
be any search for contraband.
“You’re a great cash register,” said Bumpo clearly. “Why did the
raisin look sad?”
“Because he’s a dried prune?” asked Farragut.
“No. Because he’s a worried grape,” said Bumpo.
“No talking,” said Goldfarb.
Then Farragut couldn’t remember what he had done with the
typewriter key he had sharpened and used to cut wire. If it was
found, classed as a shiv and traced back to him with fingerprints,
he could get another three years. He tried to reenact all his
movements in Marshack’s office: he counted the plants, heard
Toledo speak about the pounds of flesh, went off to his office and
sharpened the key. He had cut the wire, stuffed it into his pants,
but haste and anxiety obscured what he had done with the key. He
had turned off the lights, limped up the tunnel and explained to
someone who didn’t exist that the humidity gave him
rheumatism. He didn’t worry about the plants and the wire—it
was the key that could incriminate him. But where was the key?
On the floor by a plant, stuck into some soil or left on Marshack’s
desk? The key, the key! He couldn’t remember. He could
remember that Marshack had said he wouldn’t be back until four
on Monday, but having said Monday he could not remember the
day of the week. Yesterday had been short arm or was it the day
before or the day before that when the Cuckold had swiped
Chicken’s Bible. He didn’t know. Then Tiny relieved Goldfarb and
read an announcement that opened with a date and Farragut was