‘Maybe,’ McFarland says, turning back to the picture. It shows a man and a woman sitting in a room and apparently working hard not to look at each other. ‘Maybe not.’
‘My boss doesn’t like me,’ Morris says. He knows he sounds like he’s whining, probably he is whining. ‘I know four times as much as he does about how the computer system in this place works, and it pisses him off. He’d love to see me gone.’
‘You sound a weensy bit paranoid,’ McFarland says. His hands are again clasped above his truly awesome buttocks, and all at once Morris understands why McFarland is here. McFarland followed him to the motorcycle shop where Charlie Roberson works and has decided he’s up to something. Morris knows this isn’t so. He knows it is.
‘What are they doing, anyway, letting a guy like me screw with their files? A parolee? If I do the wrong thing, and I almost did, I could cost them a lot of money.’
‘What did you think you’d be doing on the outside?’ McFarland says, still examining the Hopper painting, which is called Apartment 16-A. He seems fascinated by it, but Morris isn’t fooled. McFarland is watching his reflection again. Judging him. ‘You’re too old and too soft to shift cartons in a warehouse or work on a gardening crew.’
He turns around.
‘It’s called mainstreaming, Morris, and I didn’t make the policy. If you want to wah-wah-wah about it, find somebody who gives a shit.’
‘Sorry,’ Morris says.
‘Sorry what?’
‘Sorry, Mr McFarland.’
‘Thank you, Morris, that’s better. Now let’s step into the men’s room, where you will pee in the little cup and prove to me that your paranoia isn’t drug-induced.’
The last stragglers of the office staff are leaving. Several glance at Morris and the big black man in the loud sportcoat, then quickly glance away. Morris feels an urge to shout That’s right, he’s my parole officer, get a good look!
He follows McFarland into the men’s, which is empty, thank God. McFarland leans against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, watching as Morris unlimbers his elderly thingamajig and produces a urine sample. When it doesn’t turn blue after thirty seconds, McFarland hands the little plastic cup back to Morris. ‘Congratulations. Dump that, homie.’
Morris does. McFarland is washing his hands methodically, lathering all the way to his wrists.
‘I don’t have AIDS, you know. If that’s what you’re worried about. I had to take the test before they let me out.’
McFarland carefully dries his big hands. He studies himself in the mirror for a moment (maybe wishing he had some hair to comb), then turns to Morris. ‘You may be substance-free, but I really don’t like the way you look, Morrie.’
Morris keeps silent.
‘Let me tell you something eighteen years in this job has taught me. There are two types of parolees, and two only: wolves and lambs. You’re too old to be a wolf, but I’m not entirely sure you’re hip to that. You may not have internalized it, as the shrinks say. I don’t know what wolfish shit you might have on your mind, maybe it’s nothing more than stealing paper clips from the supply room, but whatever it is, you need to forget about it. You’re too old to howl and much too old to run.’
Having imparted this bit of wisdom, he leaves. Morris heads for the door himself, but his legs turn to rubber before he can get there. He wheels around, grasps a washbasin to keep from falling, and blunders into one of the stalls. There he sits down and lowers his head until it almost touches his knees. He closes his eyes and takes long deep breaths. When the roaring in his head subsides, he gets up and leaves.
He’ll still be here, Morris thinks. Staring at that damned picture with his hands clasped behind his back.
But this time the lobby is empty save for the security guard, who gives Morris a suspicious look as he passes.
25
The Hogs-Dragons game doesn’t start until seven, but the buses with BASEBALL GAME 2NITE in their destination windows start running at five. Morris takes one to the park, then walks back to Statewide Motorcycle, aware of each car that passes and cursing himself for losing his shit in the men’s room after McFarland departed. If he’d gotten out sooner, maybe he could have seen what the sonofabitch was driving. But he didn’t, and now any one of these cars might be McFarland’s. The PO would be easy enough to spot, given the size of him, but Morris doesn’t dare look at any of the passing cars too closely. There are two reasons for this. First, he’d look guilty, wouldn’t he? Yes indeed, like a man who’s got wolfish shit on his mind and has to keep checking his perimeter. Second, he might see McFarland even if McFarland isn’t there, because he’s edging ever closer to a nervous breakdown. It isn’t surprising, either. A man could only stand so much stress.