Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [12]
But then that cool, sweet, star-studded evening arrived. He was walking down a lonely country lane meandering through a twenty acre strawberry patch. Without any warning at all, the cops stepped out from behind the trees with their flashlights and caught Dragline standing there with six fur coats in his arms.
Where you goin‘ with them coats, Boy?
Where? Ah ain’t gonna tell yuh, where. But what ah’m gonna do is give ‘em to mah gal friends.
Six fur coats for one gal?
Not one gal. Six gals. A guy’s gotta have more’n one gal don’t he?
But the cops took him in just the same.
And three gigantic detectives with Panama hats and pastel Palm Beach suits came in to ask him a few questions.
Today Dragline sat there in the churchyard with the ease and bearing of the captive monarch of a savage tribe. He was the very focus of the Bull Gang, the epicenter of a circle of dirty, exhausted men, surrounded by a sprinkled perimeter of stripes, eyes, sharp blades and naked muscles.
Dragline—our very own.
It was only a matter of time. Everyone knew it was coming. We all knew that someone would ask the question and that Dragline would have to answer it. Finally it was Cottontop who broke the embarrassed silence.
Hey Drag? Drag? Is this here the place? Ah mean. Right here?
Dragline was rolling a cigarette. He nodded his head just once before wetting the edge of the folded paper with his tongue.
Loudmouth Steve chimed in, unable to control his adolescent enthusiasm and his lack of discretion.
Right here? Inside that church yonder? That time when you and Luke took off and run?
Yeah. Yeah, Mister Steve. Right here.
How did it happen, Dragline? asked Stupid Blondie.
Aw. It’s a long fuckin‘ story. ’Sides. You know it already anyhow.
And then Onion Head broke in.
But we don’t know all that happened, Dragline. And some guys weren’t even here then.
Come on, Drag, urged Cottontop. Come on and tell us.
Muttering under his breath, Dragline gave a few last shaping strokes of his fingers on the cigarette. Then he struck a match and pouted his lips as he leaned his face into the flame. Inhaling deeply, he slowly and thoughtfully let the bitter smoke escape from his nose and mouth in controlled wisps.
Luke? Yeah. That son of a bitch—. If he’d a-listened to me like ah tole him—
Dragline glanced at the Walking Boss, his voice dropping and becoming a murmur, his eyes flitting around the church yard at the ghosts flickering in the patches of sunlight and shade. Inside the shack the choir was just hitting its stride, beginning to warm up their gospel mood.
Mumbling at first, his words slowly grew bolder as he got into the story. Accompanied by the background of folk music and the sounds of the traffic, of rattling chains and sharpened metal, Dragline sat there today and recited the song and the story of Cool Hand Luke.
6
BUT ACTUALLY DRAGLINE BEGAN TELLING the story somewhere in the middle. Or at least it was the middle as far as I was concerned. Because I was really the one who first became aware of Luke’s existence. I recognized his heroic aspects long before he even arrived at our camp. I sensed his poetry. And I knew that he was coming to save us all.
His arrival was heralded well in advance on the front page of the Tampa Daily Times. The image of Luke’s face was borne on the wind to land right there in the ditch, his handsome features crinkled and gray, his somber eyes staring out of the weeds to contemplate the sunny skies above.
It had been an unusual day, the Bull Gang assigned to one of those odd chores that the Captain invents from time to time to keep us occupied. We had had a very long ride that morning, all the way up to Mineola. Then we were lined up on