Chapter 9

           ThenightbeforeDelacroix’sexecutioncamedownhotterandmuggierthanever—eighty-onedegreesbythethermometeroutsidetheAdminreadyroomwindowwhenIclockedinatsix.Eighty-onedegreesattheendofOctober,thinkofthat,andthunderrumblinginthewestlikeitdoesinJuly.I’dmetamemberofmycongregationintownthatafternoon,andhehadaskedme,withapparentseriousness,ifIthoughtsuchunseasonableweathercouldbeasignoftheLastTimes.IsaidthatIwassurenot,butitcrossedmymindthatitwasLastTimesforEduardDelacroix,allright.Yesindeeditwas.

           BillDodgewasstandinginthedoortotheexerciseyard,drinkingcoffeeandsmokinghimalittlesmoke.Helookedaroundatmeandsaid,"Well,lookithere.PaulEdgecombe,bigaslifeandtwiceasugly."

           "How’dthedaygo,Billy?"

           "Allright."

           "Delacroix?"

           "Fine.Heseemstounderstandit’stomorrow,andyetit’slikehedon’tunderstand.Youknowhowmostofemarewhentheendfinallycomesforthem."

           Inodded."Wharton?"

           Billlaughed."Whatacomedian.MakesJackBennysoundlikeaQuaker.HetoldRolfeWettermarkthatheatestrawberryjamoutofhiswife’spussy."

           "WhatdidRolfesay?"

           "Thathewasn’tmarried.SaiditmusthavebeenhismotherWhartonwasthinkingof."

           Ilaughed,andhard.Thatreallywasfunny,inalowsortofway