Free Regiment of Women by Thomas Berger Page A

got everything now. You get doors opened for you and never have to pick up a check.” She grimaced, got a dirty toothpick from her pocket, and began to chew on it.
    â€œConspiracy?” asked Cornell. “Conspiracy for what?”
    â€œAw shit, Georgie,” Stedman said, pushing back her chair. “You’re in Men’s Lib up to your titties.”
    Cornell covered his gaping mouth. Stedman leered, reached over, and grabbed at his groin. Involuntarily he seized her wrist, twisted it, and felt some diabolical pleasure as she howled and went sideways. He leaned across the table; his hand was large and powerful on her slender tube of bones. She cried out for Corelli.
    Someone came in behind Cornell and brought a blunt instrument down upon his borrowed wig. His own hair, packed underneath, proved insufficient protection, and an explosion of ink obscured his brain.
    When Cornell awoke, he found himself on a cot in a jail cell. His head did not hurt until he turned his neck to look about, and then it felt as if it belonged to someone else: not exactly painful, but unearthly. His probing fingers discovered that Charlie’s wig was gone, and that beneath his own hair was a tender protuberance.
    Another man lay in another cot to his left. To the right was a wall of concrete blocks; in back (oo! dizzy), a little ventilating grille, high up; ahead, an iron door. He turned his head with his hands and looked again at his cellmate, who wore a gray prison dress and felt slippers.
    The man’s eyes were open but fixed on the ceiling, in the center of which, flush with its surface, was a source of incandescent light.
    Cornell said: “Are you awake?”
    The man turned his head on the folded gray blanket that served as pillow and answered: “Hi, welcome aboard. I’m Harry.” His hair was red, worn in pageboy style, and cut in bangs.
    â€œGeorgie Cornell.”
    â€œYou don’t look too good. You want to throw up or something?” Cornell nodded. “Maybe.”
    Harry got up and found a tin bucket in the corner.
    â€œHere,” he said. He turned his back and plugged his ears. But Cornell’s nausea failed to crest.
    â€œFalse alarm,” Cornell said, but Harry did not hear him. He pulled at the hem of Harry’s dress.
    â€œThat’s the effect of the shot,” said Harry, sitting down on his own cot.
    â€œI was hit in the head.”
    â€œBut it’s the shot that makes you sick to your stomach.” “Did I get one while I was unconscious?”
    â€œProbably,” Harry said. “They always give you one even if you’re willing to talk. They never trust you.”
    Cornell raised his arms to look for punctures and saw the gray sleeves of his own prison uniform. Then he clutched the bucket and vomited into it.
    Harry groaned. “You took me by surprise.” He went to the other bucket in the corner below his bed. It was filled with water. He wet a towel in it and returned to Cornell.
    â€œWhat kind of shot?” Cornell asked, after he had wiped his mouth. Then: “Owl My head’s thumping now. Could you give me another wet towel?”
    â€œThat’s your only towel all week,” said Harry. “And,” pointing to the bucket, “that’s our only water supply for the day.”
    Cornell fell back on the cot.
    â€œTruth serum,” said Harry. “Whatever you are hiding, they’ve already got it.”
    â€œThat’s a relief,” Cornell said. But then he remembered it would mean poor Charlie’s arrest as well. He closed his eyes.
    â€œWhat’s the charge, anyway?” Harry asked.
    â€œI was wearing women’s clothing.” How embarrassing it was to say that! He forgot poor Charlie momentarily, and his head as well. He sat up and said quickly: “My first offense. It was just a little joke, sort of, and then I got into an argument with my friend and found myself in the street.