Free Nothing Lost by John Gregory Dunne Page B

all, General.”
    â€œIt’s a slam dunk.”
    â€œAs long as he doesn’t bounce it off the rim,” J.J. said. Wormwold started to speak, then hung up without another word. Blowing a layup was always a possibility with Maurice Dodd. Maurice the Uncontaminated. Maurice the Incorruptible. Maurice the Inflexible. Harvey Niland with attitude. A more effective gauleiter than trial lawyer, J.J. had said more than once about Maurice Dodd. Among other things.
    Maurice Dodd was equally charitable about J.J.
    Poppy McClure’s husband, he would say.
    On the holding-cell monitor, J.J. watched Percy Darrow sitting on a bunk, wearing only Jockey shorts and a T-shirt. His head had been shaved, his legs, even his eyebrows and his pubic hair. It would give the wrong impression to the witnesses if his eyebrows or the hair around his testicles caught fire when the electricity jolted him. He had his hand inside his shorts, and seemed to be masturbating. Not something Jesus would do, but why not. One last spasm. Like the two loads he left on the James twins. J.J. had read the execution procedures Harold Pugh had written. Percy Darrow’s Big Macs would be laced with Dulcolax to ensure that he would evacuate his bowels before he was led the fifteen steps from the holding cell to the execution chamber. He would be given a clean white shirt and freshly laundered jeans, with both pant legs split up the side to make it easier to roll them up and attach the restraining straps. He would wear a rubber diaper because the first jolt of electricity would loosen his sphincter. Clockwork was what Harold Pugh was after, and to that end he and his guard commander had drilled the seven-man tie-down team as if they were Riverdancers. Thirty-five seconds from entry into the chamber until ready-to-go was Harold Pugh’s timetable. There was a right-leg man to do the right-leg strap, a left-leg man to do the left-leg strap, a right-arm man and a left-arm man to do the same with the upper limbs, a guard to stick a gag into Percy Darrow’s mouth, a guard to stick the leather hood over his head, and a guard to screw the head electrode with its circular sponge down on top of his skull. Three guards pushed outlet buttons, but only one of the buttons was connected to the electrical source, so as to keep the identity of the real executioner unknown.
    His cell phone rang. Poppy from the parking lot. Looking for electric-chair chat that would surely end up on
Nightline.
No way. He had asked her not to come to Durango Avenue, but asking her to avoid press coverage was like asking the sun not to rise.
    â€œGas Station Gordy,” Charley Buckles suddenly said. He seemed to have been sleeping. Gordon Sunday was on his mind. Even more than Percy Darrow. The past was an infinitely more interesting place for Charley Buckles than the present. “That’s what they called him. First four people he shot ran convenience stores out on the Interstate. I swear, all by himself he shut down every gas station in the state. From the Big Muddy to the Wyoming line. Must’ve passed through Parker County. Walter ever mention it to you?” J.J. shook his head. “Probably before your time. Might’ve shot Walter, he stopped off there. Then I guess you wouldn’t be here, if he had.” A spittled laugh. “Funny the way things work out.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nobody dared get in their car. Your grandma died, they kept her on ice until it was safe to plant her. Gordy and that little bit of fluff he drove with. Sue something.” He searched his memory. “Sue Carol Hayes. Convenience-store Bonnie and Clydes was what they were. I mean, they shot eleven people in nine days. The only reason they got caught was because there was nobody on the highway, and they just run out of gas.”
    Another rumble of phlegm, some of which Charley Buckles caught in the palm of his right hand. He wiped it off on a