Page 3 of Fade Out
I rattled it off. “3220 Lake Shore Drive apartment 1008, Chicago, 60657.”
“Employer?”
“Me.”
“Employer’s address?”
“3257 Clark, Chicago, 60657.”
“North Clark?”
“Yes.”
“Social?”
I was tempted to say, “Very,” but gave him my social security number instead.
“Date of birth?”
“April 25, 1948.”
“Place of birth?”
“Chicago.”
“Sex?”
“You’re not my type.”
He gave me another look and then put an M in that box. For good measure he put a C in the box for race. Caucasian.
“Height?”
“Six foot three.”
“Weight?”
“One ninety. After a big meal.”
He must have been getting tired of me because he gave me another glance and filled in the boxes for hair and eyes with two B’s. My eyes are actually hazel, but I decided not to quibble.
That was all he needed. With a nod he let me know I should sit at the chair next to his desk and he got out an ink pad. He moved his chair over close to mine and then took my right hand. One by one, he rolled my fingers on the ink pad and then on the card.
He was close to me. Closer than I liked. He smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and drugstore aftershave. I can’t say I was enjoying the intimacy of being arrested. It took an excruciatingly long time to finish rolling my fingers on the card. When he was finally done, he made me sign the card, then handed me a tissue so I could rub the ink around on my fingertips.
Then he got up and led me over to a little setup where they took mug shots. It was a lot like the DMV, except not as much fun. I just stood there and let it happen. I didn’t know what kind of face to make. I mean, should I smile, frown, look sad? I didn’t have a ‘you’ve been falsely accused of murder’ face and I couldn’t guess what it would look like anyway.
After we were done with the photo, the guy—who didn’t have a name tag and hadn’t bothered to introduce himself—led me back to his desk. He took out a big plastic bag and a receipt book. He handed me the bag.
“Shoelaces, belt, keys, wallet, anything else in your pockets. Anything else not in your pockets. I’m going to write down everything and give you a receipt to sign. Don’t try to keep anything. If they find it later on you’ll probably never see it again. This is your chance to protect your valuables. I suggest you take it.”
I began giving him my stuff. The laces to my Reeboks, I wasn’t wearing a belt, my keys, my wallet which was crammed full with a lot of stuff—none of it money—a wad of cash from my pocket, some change, my beeper, receipts I was going to expense to the job I’d finished the week before.
“Forty-three dollars, fifty-four cents,” Mr. Smiley said after he counted my money. I’m going to turn the beeper off so it doesn’t lose its charge.”
That seemed considerate until I remembered that they could probably search it and would need it to be nice and charged for that. When I was done handing him things, he held out the receipt and said, “Read it. If you agree, sign at the bottom then rip off the pink copy and put it in the bag.”
I looked it over. It seemed okay. I signed. Meanwhile, Smiley had picked up his phone and dialed an internal number.
