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to while away the time until his company, if company could be arranged for,
should arrive.
When he reached the room to which he had been assigned the
bellboy was looking curiously at the garish cover of the top Bible in
the carton.
Just like the Gideons, huh? he asked. Only bigger.
That s right, Ferron said. He took off his overcoat and hat. How s
the woman situation? And I don t mean bags. Something young, under
twenty, and blonde, without too many miles on her.
The bellboy grinned. I had you wrong. I took you for a Holy
Joe. But as for a woman He shook his head. Uh uh. Since that
society call ring broke, the town has gotten so moral a guy can t
make a fast buck.
Ferron folded a twenty-dollar bill lengthwise. How about a fast
twenty? And say a hundred for the girl. That is, a hundred for all night.
The bellboy weakened. Well, in that case He looked at Ferron
sharply. You ain t one of them vice crusaders or anything like that, are
you? He answered his own question. No. I see you ain t. You got a racket
of some kind.
That s right, Ferron admitted.
The man took the bill from his fingers. Okay. It ll take me about an
hour. But, believe me, mister, the little babe I have in mind is worth waiting
for. He described her with his hands.
I know how women are built, Ferron said. He loosened the knot in his
tie and unbuttoned his shirt. And while you re at it, send up a room service
waiter with some setups and a menu.
Yes, sir, the bellboy said.
The room was in the front of the hotel, and too hot. Ferron cracked the
window a trifle and stood looking down at the swarm of people on the
street. Under the blaze of blinking neon, they crawled this way and that
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SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL
through the ankle deep slush the harassed street cleaning department was
trying to clear away by steam-hosing it down the sewers. Ferron took off his
shirt and hung it on the back of a chair. The chumps didn t know they were
living. They should see New Hope after a snow, see it as he had seen it
from the window of his schoolhouse.
He opened a package of cigarettes and lighted one. The smoke was hot
and foul in his mouth. It made him cough. It tasted more like dry cow dung
than tobacco. Ferron eyed the burning cigarette suspiciously. Either the taste
of cigarettes had changed, or he had. He attempted to rinse the foul taste out
of his mouth with a drink of whiskey. The bonded rye, at $7.89 a fifth,
tasted even worse than the cigarette.
Ferron was amused. He chuckled. His chuckle became a laugh. The
explanation was simple. His taste buds had been deactivated. He d lived
like a cow so long that anything stronger than milk irritated the delicate
membranes of his throat and stomach.
He forced himself to take a big drink from the neck of the bottle. There
was no resulting glow. The drink lay heavy in his stomach. He thought for a
moment it was going to bounce. It didn t. He forced a third drink down his
throat. He still didn t feel any glow but it tasted more like whiskey should
taste.
He lay down on the bed and looked at the lurid covers on the true crime
magazines. All of them had two things in common. The only difference was
that some were larger than others. He cracked one and tried to read but
couldn t concentrate. It was the same old crap. Some guy killed a doll or
some doll killed a guy in front of fifty witnesses and the lad handling the
typewriter had one hell of a time trying to make the cop or cops who made
the pinch appear halfway bright.
The room service waiter arrived with ice and ginger ale and a menu.
Ferron ordered a filet mignon, medium rare, whipped potatoes, and a
salad. Then, when the man had gone, he lay back on the bed to read the
evening papers until either his meal or the babe arrived.
The rye was still doing unpleasant things to his stomach. The cigarette
still tasted and smelled like burning cow dung. The smoke got in his eyes
and made them smart. Ferron brushed the smoke aside and looked at a small
box on the front page of the newspaper he was holding.
Governor refuses stay for former United States Army Staff Sergeant
James
Roberts who was convicted early last fall and condemned to die for the
brutal
murder of Whit Bennett, one-time New York City detective. His last
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SLEEP WITH THE DEVIL
hope of
executive clemency gone, Roberts will die in the electric chair of
Ossining
Monday.
Smoke continued to get in Ferron s eyes. He tried to laugh, and
couldn t. He tried to tell himself it didn t matter, that it was better it happen
to the big sergeant than to him and made the bathroom just in time. He d
never been so sick. He lost everything he d eaten since morning, including
the mince pie that Mrs. Page had baked for him because she was so pleased
over Naomi s progress.
When he could, he walked back to the bed and looked at another of the
evening papers. It had a brief re-hash of the trial and the conviction. Ferron
looked in still a third paper. It merely reported the refusal of executive
clemency in much the same vein that the first paper had. So a man was
going to die. So?
Ferron read every word about the case in all three papers. None of them
mentioned his name, nor did they mention the pretty high brown widow of
the condemned man s dead brother.
Ferron wondered how Shirley was taking it. She must know that her
brother-in-law hadn t killed Whit. He read and re-read the account of the
trial. It seemed incredible that any twelve men in their sane minds could
have convicted Roberts on the meager evidence which the State had pre-
sented. But there it was in black and white. The big sergeant was to die
Monday at the place and in the manner as prescribed by law.
Ferron was still reading the account when the room waiter brought
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