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“Transporting whiskey.”
“Ain’t they a trash can over there?”
“No.”
“Ain’t even got a place to spit. The bastards,” he said.
Avery went in to see the parole officer, a sallow middle-aged state appointee in an outmoded business suit with big lapels and an off-colored bow tie. His coat hung damply from his shoulders. His eyes were yellow-green and his face was slick with perspiration. He had Avery’s file open on the desk before him. He unclipped a sheet of paper from the rest and read over it.
“You’ll have to get your employer to send us another letter,” he said.
“I already had him send one.”
“Yes. I have it right here, but it’s not notarized. It has to be notarized by a state notary.”
“It says I’m working steady. That’s what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not a legal document without an official seal. Anyone could have written this letter.”
“Where can I get it notarized?” Avery asked.
“He has to sign it in front of a notary.”
“He might not want to write another letter.”
“We can’t accept this one.”
“Could you phone out to the main office? They’ll tell you that I’m working.”
“We have to have an employer’s letter for the file.”
“All right. I’ll ask him again.”
The official crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it in the wastebasket. He thumbed through the rest of the file and his yellow-green eyes went over each page.
“Are you still living in the same place?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have you been going to any bars or keeping late hours?”
“No.”
“Are you associating with anyone who has a criminal record?”
“I told you these things the last time I was here.”
The official repeated his question without looking up from the file.
“I don’t know anyone with a criminal record,” Avery said.
“That’s all. Get your employer to write a notarized statement this week or you’ll be listed as unemployed.”
“What will that mean?”
“Your case will go before the board for review. You can’t stay out on parole without an honest means of support.”
Avery left the building and walked down the street to the drugstore on the corner. He could feel his temples pounding with anger. He looked up the number of his crew foreman in the telephone book. He didn’t know the foreman well and he didn’t want to ask a second favor of him. Also, the foreman had been hesitant in writing the first letter, because he hadn’t known that Avery was an ex-convict when he hired him on the job. Avery phoned him at his home. The foreman sounded irritated and he didn’t understand why another letter had to be written. At first he said he didn’t have time to see a notary, but he finally agreed and said that he would post the letter that week.
