Stephen King - Coffey's Hands

“Yeah? What that got to do with me?”

“Well,” Harry said, “Boss Anderson’s heard about your mouse, Del, and wants to see him perform. He and about six other fellows are over in Admin, just waiting for you to show up. Not just plain old bluesuit guards, either. These are pretty big bugs, just like Brute said. One of them, I believe, is a politician all the way from the state capital.”

Delacroix swelled visibly at this, and I saw not so much as a single shred of doubt on his face. Of course they wanted to see Mr. Jingles; who would not?

He scrummed around, first under his bunk and then under his pillow. He eventually found one of those big pink peppermints and the wildly colored spool. He looked at Brutal questioningly, and Brutal nodded.

“Yep. It’s the spool trick they’re really wild to see, I guess, but the way he eats those mints is pretty damned cute, too. And don’t forget the cigar box. You’ll want it to carry him in, right?”

Delacroix got the box and put Mr. Jingles’s props in it, but the mouse he settled on the shoulder of his shirt. Then he stepped out of his cell, his puffed-out chest leading the way, and regarded Dean and Harry. “You boys coming?”

“Naw,” Dean said. “Got other fish to fry. But you knock em for a loop, Del—show em what happens when a Louisiana boy puts the hammer down and really goes to work.”

“You bet.” A smile shone out of his face, so sudden and so simple in its happiness that I felt my heart break for him a little, in spite of the terrible thing he had done. What a world we live in—what a world!

Delacroix turned to John Coffey, with whom he had struck up a diffident friendship not much different from a hundred other deathhouse acquaintances I’d seen.

“You knock em for a loop, Del,” Coffey said in a serious voice. “You show em all his tricks.”

Delacroix nodded and held his hand up by his shoulder. Mr. Jingles stepped onto it like it was a platform, and Delacroix held the hand out toward Coffey’s cell. John Coffey stuck out a huge finger, and I’ll be damned if that mouse didn’t stretch out his neck and lick the end of it, just like a dog.

“Come on, Del, quit lingerin,” Brutal said. “These folks’re settin back a hot dinner at home to watch your mouse cut his capers.” Not true, of course—Anderson would have been there until eight o’clock on any night, and the guards he’d dragged in to watch Delacroix’s “show” would be there until eleven or twelve, depending on when their shifts were scheduled to end. The politician from the state capital would most likely turn out to be an office janitor in a borrowed tie. But Delacroix had no way of knowing any of that.

“I’m ready,” Delacroix said, speaking with the simplicity of a great star who has somehow managed to retain the common touch. “Let’s go.” And as Brutal led him up the Green Mile with Mr. Jingles perched there on the little man’s shoulder, Delacroix once more began to bugle, “Messieurs et mesdames! Bienvenue au cirque de mousie!” Yet, even lost as deeply in his own fantasy world as he was, he gave Percy a wide berth and a mistrustful glance.

Harry and Dean stopped in front of the empty cell across from Wharton’s (that worthy had still not so much as stirred). They watched as Brutal unlocked the door to the exercise yard, where another two guards were waiting to join him, and led Delacroix out, bound for his command performance before the grand high poohbahs of Cold Mountain Penitentiary. We waited until the door was locked again, and then I looked toward my office. That shadow was still lying on the floor, thin as famine, and I was glad Delacroix had been too excited to see it.

“Come on out,” I said. “And let’s move along brisk, folks. I want to get two run-throughs in, and we don’t have much time.”

Old Toot-Toot, looking as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, came out, walked to Delacroix’s cell, and strolled in through the open door. “Sittin down,” he said. “I’m sittin down, I’m sittin down, I’m sittin down.”

This is the real circus, I thought, closing my eyes for a second. This is the real circus right here, and we’re all just a bunch of trained mice. Then I put the thought out of my mind, and we started to rehearse.

THE FIRST REHEARSAL went well, and so did the second. Percy performed better than I could have hoped for in my wildest dreams. That didn’t mean things would go right when the time really came for the Cajun to walk the Mile, but it was a big step in the right direction. It occurred to me that it had gone well because Percy was at long last doing something he cared about. I felt a surge of contempt at that, and pushed it away. What did it matter? He would cap Delacroix and roll him, and then both of them would be gone. If that wasn’t a happy ending, what was? And, as Moores had pointed out, Delacroix’s nuts were going to fry no matter who was out front.

Still, Percy had shown to good advantage in his new role and he knew it. We all did. As for me, I was too relieved to dislike him much, at least for the time being. It looked as if things were going to go all right. I was further relieved to find that Percy actually listened when we suggested some things he could do that might improve his performance even more, or at least cut down the possibility of something going wrong. If you want to know the truth, we got pretty enthusiastic about it—even Dean, who ordinarily stood well back from Percy… physically as well as mentally, if he could. None of it that surprising, either, I suppose—for most men, nothing is more flattering than having a young person actually pay attention to his advice, and we were no different in that regard. As a result, not a one of us noticed that Wild Bill Wharton was no longer looking up at the ceiling. That includes me, but I know he wasn’t. He was looking at us as we stood there by the duty desk, gassing and giving Percy advice. Giving him advice! And him pretending to listen! Quite a laugh, considering how things turned out!

The sound of a key rattling into the lock of the door to the exercise yard put an end to our little post-rehearsal critique. Dean gave Percy a warning glance. “Not a word or a wrong look,” he said. “We don’t want him to know what we’ve been doing. It’s not good for them. Upsets them.”

Percy nodded and ran a finger across his lips in a mum’s-the-word gesture that was supposed to be funny and wasn’t. The exercise-yard door opened and Delacroix came in, escorted by Brutal, who was carrying the cigar box with the colored spool in it, the way the magician’s assistant in a vaudeville show might carry the boss’s props offstage at the end of the act. Mr. Jingles was perched on Delacroix’s shoulder. And Delacroix himself? I tell you what—Lillie Langtry couldn’t have looked any glowier after performing at the White House. “They love Mr. Jingles!” Delacroix proclaimed. “They laugh and cheer and clap they hands!”

“Well, that’s aces,” Percy said. He spoke in an indulgent, proprietary way that didn’t sound like the old Percy at all. “Pop on back in your cell, old-timer.”

Delacroix gave him a comical look of distrust, and the old Percy came busting out. He bared his teeth in a mock snarl and made as if to grab Delacroix. It was a joke, of course, Percy was happy, not in a serious grabbing mood at all, but Delacroix didn’t know that. He jerked away with an expression of fear and dismay, and tripped over one of Brutal’s big feet. He went down hard, hitting the linoleum with the back of his head. Mr. Jingles leaped away in time to avoid being crushed, and went squeaking off down the Green Mile to Delacroix’s cell.

Delacroix got to his feet, gave the chuckling Percy a single hate-filled glance, then scurried off after his pet, calling for him and rubbing the back of his head. Brutal (who didn’t know that Percy had shown exciting signs of competency for a change) gave Percy a wordless look of contempt and went after Del, shaking his keys out.