Failure generates resignation. Although I don’t have a precise day and hour of execution, the more that time goes by, receding from the future and galloping pell-mell into the past, the more I am aware of its running out.

I haven’t seen Valerie for ten days, maybe eleven. Does Abdul have a lock on her? Or—a far worse possibility shivers me—is her absence a personal decision that Abdul has nothing to do with?

I hear footsteps like the muffled beat of a drum coming down the dark corridor. Could it possibly be Val, checking in at long last? Or is this my appointed hour of doom, time to get shafted on the stakes? Who else could be calling? Anybody, but nobody I could put a name to.

I freeze in a stupor of anxiety. The thick crossbar that bolts me inside the jug disengages. Slowly the door creaks open, like the promise of doom in a horror flick, and I cannot believe I’m staring at Derek. He says, “Hi,” as if we were neighbors meeting in the supermarket. Then he says, “How’s tricks?” Before he can ask, “What’s new in your line?” or some such fatuous question, I cut in.

“There’s something,” I predict, “you’d like me to do for you?”

Immediately, he gets to the point. “I need money,” he says. “I figured you wouldn’t be needing what you got, so…?”

“What for?”

“Well,” he said, “I’m kind of hooked a little on drugs…”

“Hard stuff?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

He shrugs. “I get ’em from the witch lady who runs the head shop. We don’t speak the same language.”

“You got any idea where Val is?”

“No. I could get you some uplift from the old bag.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got to keep alert in case—”

“You could feed it to the guard. And when you get past him you slip it to Abdul.”

“How could I do that?”

Again he shrugs. “Maybe your friend, the blind old geezer in the palace, would help.” He’s getting carried away, like any gutter punk talking smack, and he isn’t through yet. “Then,” he goes on, “you might stir a little into Grady’s ice cream.”

“I doubt if I could.”

“How do you know if you won’t give it a whack? Jesus,” his eyes sweep upward, appealing to an invisible authority. “He’s about to get hit with an axe and he’s squeamish. Don’t you at least want to see what she’s peddling?”

It’s my turn to shrug, and suddenly I’m drained. His chumminess exhausts me.

“How much do you want?” I ask.

“As much as you can spare. The more the better.” he looks at me, flushing with monstrous sincerity. “I really appreciate it,” he says as, thank Christ, he leaves. The night closes in, black as hell.