It seemed to Clinton that the old man was not entirely unhappy about this situation. Nor was he himself. After all, the idea of Berry-berry’s being in jail was not without its virtues: maybe he could get down to Covington before they released him and . . .

“Where do I send it?” The old man turned to Clinton: “Get me a pencil.” Clinton gave him paper and a pencil, and Ralph wrote down an address.

Annabel said: “Maybe the State of Kentucky doesn’t realize it yet, but this country has a Bill of Rights and a Constitution! This is not a police state! Ralph. Tell Berry-berry this is not a police state and he should demand . . .”

“Son?” Ralph said. “Your mother wants to say Merry Christmas. Now hold on a minute. Can you hold on?” He handed the receiver to Annabel. “Just say Merry Christmas, will you; he doesn’t want to hear about the Constititution.”

“Berry-berry, listen,” Annabel began, “I knew you’d call, I had this truly amazing letter from Bernice O’Brien. —What? —Oh, all right, Merry Christmas, and don’t worry. If we have to, we’ll mortgage this house so fast . . . ! All right, all right! —Clinton? A quick Merry Christmas to your brother; they’re breathing down his neck, so hurry!”

Clinton took the phone: “Berry-berry?”

There was a pause. Annabel said, “What’s he saying?”

Bewildered, Clinton placed the receiver in its cradle. “Nothing. He— He wasn’t there. I grabbed the phone and I said ‘Berry-berry,’ and he was just—he wasn’t there any more.”

Ralph was studying a blank space on the wall. Annabel moved quickly into his line of vision. “Will you please speak?” she said.

Ralph forced his mind to return from some great distance. “Oh, it’s nothin’. I’m to go to the Western Union and wire him fifty dollars, that’s all. It’s for bail.”

“Bail? What for? What are they holding him for?”

“Annabel, these things happen all the time. It’s just a matter of—well, they call it vagrancy. He got in a scrape in some bar, and one thing led to another . . .”

“Ralph. I’m going to insist, I have a right!”

“The connection wasn’t any good and you kept squawking all the time, so . . .”

“You heard plenty.”

“All right, he was sitting there, and somebody come up and started to bother him. So he took a poke at this—person. There’s not gonna be any pressing of charges, but there was some damage to the pinball machine, and the bird that operates this place got sore and I don’t know what-all. Give me my coat.”

“Are you holding back something dreadful?”

“Listen, if I was holding back something dreadful, the bail’d be one helluva lot worse than fifty smackers, so don’t get your hopes up.” He studied the scrap of paper: “Prob’ly a bail bondsman or some shyster lawyer. Anyway, I’m to send it to this bozo, and I’m to send it right away by Western Union. —Come on, Clint, you ride downtown with me.”