Big shots on both sides of the razor wire are often called “players,” and their games are legion. Prisoners favor the street jingle: “X is my name and Y is my game.” Games in prison can be rap, routine, or hustle. The two worlds of hustling, inside and out, overlap, especially where gangs are concentrated. New inmates must learn how to recognize and respond to prison games if they are to navigate a course among treacherous allies or protectors and outright predators. This means adopting, or simulating, an appropriate role. In one way or another, all prisoners become players. For some, “doing time” and playing games are one.
In “I See Your Work,” the protagonist “Willis — prison greenhorn, political activist, and coming computer-game entrepreneur — tells his story in the overheated and telegraphic patois he is trying to master: “Jammin’. My cool still chillin’? Do I know what time it is?” Mentored by a supreme gamesmaster — the law librarian and jail-house lawyer — “Willis prowls the multicultural maze of prison hustles while practicing his own. At the same time, he is plotting out a computer game about prison life. The story peels back the title’s layers of meaning, from I-see-what-you’ve-done to I’ve got your number.
As in other “total” institutions like the army or boarding school, solidarity among peers is an option in prison, but conditions militate against it. Prisoners’ desire to curry favor with the staff and — among men — commitments to macho image intensify disunity. In “solidarity with cataracts,” Vera Montgomery (whose use of “k” to spell “camp” betokens her allegiance to the black power movement), laments her sisters’ deafness to one another’s cries for help, their collaboration in wantonly destructive cell searches, and their readiness to snitch for privileges. Fourteen years later, Marilyn Buck spins out a fantasy of a rebellious solidarity built on woman-love.
Convict culture in men’s prisons appears to be dominated by ornate systems of games — ranging from handball, poker, and business deals to scams and deadly gambles — which are often interlinked. The byzantine plots of the stories by Jackie Ruzas, David Wood and Dax Xenos seem dictated by the very atmosphere of scheming and calculation that pervades the cellblock. Yet unexpected moral complexity blossoms in each tale. In “Ryan’s Ruse” both the handball game and interethnic rivalry are manipulated to heat up the betting, which in turn serves the friendship of Irish Ryan and black Hap. Having AIDS locks the inmates in “Feathers on the Solar Wind” into a prison within the prison until a gamble with death confers a wild kind of liberty on some and propels others to seek forgiveness. The narrator of “Death of a Duke” has mastered the rules of the doing-time game: the joint “is like quicksand,” he says, “like one of those Chinese finger stretchers. The more you struggle, the deeper you go or the tighter it gets. But you can be cool and make your way through it and get out.” But the passion of the bigtime player, the Duke of Earl, makes him strain against such rules. Like “Lee’s Time” (Race), this story inquires whether morality can be reconciled with doing time coolly in prison.
The C.O. at the front gate was idly watching Willis with government issue long-barreled Nikon binoculars. He had noticed Willis up close on the compound, noticed how he was different from the rest, immune it seemed, with a distinctive kind of observer’s calm, as if he were here for the waters. He seemed more purposeful if a bit clumsy and inexperienced. And in fact Willis was on an expedition of sorts, both killing time for a moral stance and conducting research for a project long on his mind.
He was down for taking a hammer in a destructive unpatriotic manner to the tail of an Air Force jet. Going to jail was the purple heart of Willis’s activist group led by the well known Fathers. Willis’s companions were not with him, having distanced themselves at a critical time and receiving only a trespassing charge and the symbolic one night in jail. Willis, though not awash in remorse had, admittedly, been unsettled at his sentence, which was quite a bit longer than the group legal theorist had predicted. His sentence of a year and a day translated in federal computation to ten months.
Educated fringe dweller Willis had, in his work with a Catholic relief agency, run a soup kitchen and rubbed scabbed elbows with enough alley dwellers to grow boldly curious about their street life. The fruit of this curiosity had emerged as his first independent software production, a simulation game called Homeless. For his field work he had immersed himself in the cold city of Washington, D.C., scavenging the alleys of late autumn until almost Christmas. Except for the regular postings of his notes he remained isolated and unfunded. He utilized what he learned: the picking of a pizza dump-ster lock with a pop-top from a soda can, panhandling stolen morning papers, the heating grate territories, choice outdoor places to shit, and he packed these details into software that explored this world in an engaging and moving manner, one simpatico with his activist roots. The game became a cult favorite and now he was prospecting for details to pack into a followup that would make a serious name in the industry and fund some serious kitchens for those urban outdoors people. He owed it to them; he owed it to himself. Only Fulton, his software distributor, knew of the plans.
Willis stepped into the prison law library. Russ, the legal librarian on duty, stood behind the interior dutch door taking delivery of a half-filled mesh commissary bag, payoff for a legal brief. The bag jutted angles of coffee jars and oranges, a plastic bottle of hot sauce, and many packets of rice and beans. On the top was a clump of green bananas. Facing Russ across the door-shelf was a jockey-size man smiling broadly and shaking a sheaf of legal papers over his head as if he held a Bible.
“I seen your work with Shorty Bighead,” the man said. “Now got my own. Be like throwing a dead dog in the backyard of that car company. And better, that worthless bitch will piss all over herself. Gonna rock her little world.”
Russ nodded his head in time to his customer’s praise. It was good to get paid. It didn’t always happen. “Make your copies first,” he said. “Remember, Hollis, you owe me two bucks for the postage. Envelope all set up and good to go.” Russ winked at Willis. “And next time your old lady sells a car, you can’t owe on it.”
“Not no next time with her. She smoked the damn money up less’n a week. D’int send a dime. Cabs to the dope corner, sometime on the hour, was how my cousin said. Then them fuckin’ letters from the car people. Tapping into my paycheck. Gonna ruin my good credit.”
“We can start that divorce any time,” said Russ.
Hollis rubbed his bristly chin. ‘‘After my furlough we do ir. (Jetting twelve hours this weekend. My ex—old lady got a tiny sister name Dee-dee. She gonna check me out, pick me up. Still counts as family on the paperwork. Gonna knock over some ol that. We been eying each other for years, see, and Dee dee don’t like her sisrer neither, She gonna take hack a Polaroid of my Johnson, see if rbe birch still know it.”
Russ shook his head. “Hollis, you gonna need me plenty more, that’s my prediction. Just keep rollirf with that commissary” — he shook the hag— “I’ll keep the typewriter hot. I ley, and jump on one time tor me.”
“Yeah,” Hollis said, tilting back his head. “Saturday I’m gonna be lying in the crib and you be thumbing them thick books wishing,”
They laughed, slapped hands. “On time about that,” said Russ. Hollis was out the door smiling.
While he waited, Willis gazed around the walls at the musty paper inventory ot LAW. This room was i repository heart-deep in the iron beast, a pool of magical chants which sometimes, when strung in perfect order, went poof and everything changed, all the bureaucratic locks snapped open, legal cancer cured like from above. But mostly these arcane and blunt instruments were used against the researcher, the petitioner, the ever hopeful.
“Next,” Russ said, pointing a pinkie at Willis.
“Just a little off the top,” joked Willis.
“What up?” asked Russ, slumping in a stylized manner. He made a street-gang signal with his right hand, forefinger, pinkie, thumb extended, hand inverted. The Conquistadors from Chicago. He’d shown Willis a dozen times and still Willis couldn’t duplicate it.
“Jammin’,” said Willis. “My cool still chillin’? Do I know what time it is?”
“Not exactly, you’re still runnin’ slow. Sound a bit like Zippy the Pinhead, but on the other hand there’s been progress of a serious nature, I wouldn’t kid you about that. You got potential. For now how about a shift to another gear? A practical task out in the wide world.”
Russ reached behind some federal law supplements and extracted a bag. “What we have here is genuine sliced cheap cheese of the chow hall variety.” He grabbed another bag and slightly shook it. “Here we got chicken breasts of the boneless persuasion nicely marinated; a rare and precious item. Take the cheese, walk through rec. A quarter a packet, a buck for the chicken breast, which we leave here for now. You get one packet of cheese just for strolling around, putting the product out there.”
Willis was skeptical. “You sound like my distributor.”
“You mean dealer?”
“I mean software distributor.” Willis looked at the cold yellow lumps. “I don’t know who to sell to.”
“They find you.” Russ grinned close to Willis’s face, “You ain’t pushing for a bigger cut are you? Look, it’s the trip of living here. You tell me you want to know, here it is. Just walk around to people you know. Get close to them, look over your shoulder, get shifty. Be like the SOB selfin’ watches in the bus station. Pass the word in a whisper. People go for the sly deal. Get them leaning. The price is right. No dealing. Credit if they seem straight to you. Let’m know in that case who’s behind you.”
“All right. You sold me. I’ll try it. Probably be bringing the cheese back.”
“Just try. This will be good for you. Remember. Slink around when you start cruising the customers. Zip here. Jit there. Point A to point B. People notice, it’s advertising. On the way there shoot by the rec office and make sure them motherfuckers still on their dead asses.”
Willis put the cheese in his coat pocket, hesitated. Did he really need this? Yes. He’d take his little notepad with him.
Russ shook his finger at him. “Go on with you. Mix it up with the kids.”
The wide central hallway was quiet except for a pickup basketball game in the gym, ball dribble echoing out, some sharp exhalations, a curse. The auditorium movie had sucked away population, leaving the corridor unnaturally vacant. Further along the wall on the top of a low dusty glass trophy case two of the girls played some game, slapping down cards with a lazy indifference. The tall one, called Lick-lick Willis believed, red scarf around head, hip outshot, looked over the few people in the hallway. Willis angled toward the bathroom and Lick-lick shifted, head tossing the dangling scarf fringe. She prepared to intercept him. Belatedly Willis realized Lick-lick was a lockout so shifted his course to the other side of the broad hallway. Another behavioral twitch. Jot it down, program to silicon reality.
Willis looked through the double side doors into the rec area, near empty. No customers yet in the here and now. He’d wait until the movie let out, some cop flick with everyone rooting for the wrong side and waiting for the shootout ending. Meditate outside. The hall’s glass exit doors halted him for a moment and he briefly viewed the girls’ reflections as he left.
Outside a dead dark sky, a few smokers lounging against the rec wall thoughtfully exhaling. The sound of water over rock, the miniature rapids, soothing to Willis’s ear. The temperature was hovering near freezing; snow that evening, late, it was predicted. A half a foot maybe. Start as rain. Change your space, thought Willis. Make the world anew. Put on another wrapper.
Some few brisk striders surfaced under the hanging globe lamps that carved up bits of the night, then disappeared back into the dark, their sock-capped heads swaying to headsets. Keep on the move and everything was all right. The creek flowed close and Willis walked beyond the wide sidewalk to the bank and peered into the blackness sliding by. The creek was slower here, placid, gurgles at odd intervals rather than the signature hiss of the rock-combed waters up near the ballfield, the very end of his legal landscape. The creek came from beyond where he had never been and emptied, according to the library map, into some river he’d never seen and couldn’t yet pronounce. Not to follow it, that was prison.
By these barriers, and others invisible, is my life defined, thought Willis. He remembered the immigrants from Central America he had assisted, principally the Salvadorans, but also the Guatemalans. He thought of how they were overwhelmed in so much landscape and here Willis was trapped in a postage-stamp patch of it. They had crossed dangerous borders on their bellies; he stood like a sheep in a gateless pen.
Light flowed from the top of the rec area’s steamed glass panels. Willis could hear the inside transformed into a noisy circus: some Ping-Pong, the crack of a pool ball break, other petty competitions with a pushup payoff from the losers. “Man down” was shouted, and the loser hit the floor for settlement. “Gimme good money” shouted his tormentor, no doubt standing over him. “Crack those elbows. Go deeper, touch that bird chest to my fist.”
Willis knew that in the far corner would be a clandestine poker game with worn old playing cards notched fust so functioning as camouflaged chips. There was a lookout for the roving compound officer. The poker people would be the usual rapt ruined faces with noses long ago mashed, little hats shoved back on heads, a rodent concentration even from the bystanders: nothing minded but the game.
Everything a gamble here: boccie ball, pro football, which piece of floating bread in the pond would be pulled down first, which duck landing would stumble. Stir the monotony. Most wagers were an ice cream here, a can of tuna there, a shoeshine. It all added up.
In the chilled, windless air Willis heard the ducks holed in a tight pack inside one of the big PVC drain pipes. Muffled quacking sporadically cracked the night air. Willis put a hand into his pocket. He was surprised by the cheese .. . the task.
He passed through a misted door to domino games and tonk, with poker and chess in the distance, all ringing the central carpeted area with its pool tables and Ping-Pong. A mutated boy’s club, graying and profane.
There was Bow-Wow standing by himself, and Willis walked to him, growling “Real dog. You okay?”
“Ruff-ruff,” barked Bow-Wow. “Gonna be greater later.”
“I got some cheese I’m looking to move.” Willis tapped his coat pocket.
Bow-Wow made a face. Shook his head. “No man. Binds me bad since I ate it with goat in Jamaica. Anyway, I’m down broke, no bone in my pocket ‘til payday.”
“You change your mind, catch a few bucks, I might locate some chicken too.”
“Can a dog eat a hot-dog?”
Willis walked to the TV area. He had forgotten to slink, to side talk, to jit…whatever that was. Maybe these maneuvers were important. They weren’t when he was living homeless, stealing and selling newspapers near the subway. Then he had played it straight, and the businessmen had usually given him a buck for the quarter paper, maybe for not running a game, for not slowing them down. He had easily sold the papers in the cold, he ought to be able to get rid of the cheese and chicken. He grinned about the cheese, the government cheese. On the outside, at the public kitchen, he had given it away. How things turn inside out.
There came a sudden shadow hanging over him, accusing. “Laughin’ over nothing now, Willis? Could get you shipped to Kansas. They alteady think you crazy.” Half &c Half, the bondsman from Pittsburgh, was momentarily away from his seat at the poker table. He carried a thick stack of red-backed marker cards, which he reflexively shuffled hand to hand. “I’m giving the fools a breather, let’em pass the money around to each other until I get a smoke outside. Then I go back to wotk. Payday.”
Willis looked over his shoulder, then dropped his voice. “I’m just walking around tryin’ to sell this cheese.”
“Cheese! I look like a rat to you? What else Russ got?”
“Russ?”
“Yeah, Russ. You just another of his scouts. I know what time it is. He trains ‘em all look over their shoulder.” Half &c Half winked at Willis, gave the gang hand signal. “Hey, it’s cool, everything be everything. Me and Russ been to school together down Leavenworth. I run an account. Send him homeboys for the legal shit. Now, what else he got?” He held up his hand. “Wait, let me guess. The chicken for lunch today. Probably the better pieces, staff stuff. That his special. Gimme two of the breasts. Have him throw them between some bread he always has, slap the cheese on it. Some mayo too, I know he got in the back book room. I’ll skip by after another run on the bank, or you bring it by, whatever. Maybe we want more if somebody else get lucky and have anything left.”
Willis tried to pass him the cheese but he shook his head. “Put it on the sandwich with a little mayonnaise. Russ know. He the best burner on the compound even working on cold cuts.”
Willis walked coward the door, where he stopped for a few minutes and watched two Nigerians engaged in a powerful long-distance game of Ping-Pong. No sense in going back too soon and making Russ think it was easy. Standing next to Willis was Nawaba, another Nigerian, also watching, waiting, custom thick rubber-faced paddle in his hand rhythmically tapping his palm.
“How did you guys from Africa get so good at this game? Was it the Chinese advisers I hear you got over there?”
Nawaba shook his head and laughed. “You got my country confused. Africa much bigger than you Americans think. The Chinese were in the east. You have Cubans in Angola, and, of course, the Texans in Nigeria, and they know nothing but oil and beer and our girls in their hotel beds. But I tell you what makes my countrymen so fine at this sport. We are just many miles of bush and poor villages. The people in their little huts take tin cans and flatten them out, put them on a stick. They stretch a fish net between two milk cans. We get here and it is like a paradise with these paddles and balls, these smooth, fine tables. So now you know and forever can spread the word.”
Willis always enjoyed talking to the Nigerians. “So now, Nawaba, that you got pants pulled over those tribal ballsacks, tell me how you come to speak better English than the hillbilly staff. Also tell me how you lucked into those two Pizza Huts the newspaper said you had. The three cars and boat. The condo at Ocean City.”
“I am just a simple man the government wants to deport to the lions.”
The two of them watched the ball slammed back and forth, the contestants standing impossibly far away from the table swinging hard and accurately. Beyond the Ping-Pong along a far wall were weight machines swarmed by lifters, their extremities blood swollen and heavily veined, some strutting chest out, posing awkwardly, rigidly getting their breath, pushing each other out of the way to peep themselves in the mirror.
The high ceiling collected sounds of the smacked Ping-Pong balls, tacked pool balls, the sharp clack of the weight stacks, the background drone of the corner TV, the hollers of homeboys. It was an atmosphere, if not exactly carnival, lively, a swirl Willis would be challenged to re-create. A pick-up-stick snarl, which deliberate programming could perhaps encompass, utilizing the rec hall as a kind of spinning hub that altered the player’s course. Inject a lifelike randomness to it all. It didn’t have to affect immediately, five moves later would work the fork to another routine. Day has become night. Your name has been called to report to the lieutenant’s office. You have an impending appointment with the incompetent medical professional who will perform a painful procedure …go back three spaces. These junctions, Willis thought, were switching stations. The chow hall would be another. It was almost as if these gathering places were waterholes for predator and prey. He scribbled a few notes and strolled through the door toward the law library.
Across the hall by the bathroom the two girls had been joined by a third, the beautiful, heavily hormoned Michelle. Two raincoated serious fellows, toothpicks moving side to side in their mouths, rocked on their heels. There was no friendly chatting up.
“You don’t know?” Michelle shook her head. “I see your work. Know all about it. Seen your work is why. You dig?”
The two raincoats looked at each other and shook their heads slowly. One spit his pick on the floor and ground his heel over it.
Lick-lick, red head scarf coming unwound, said, “Mac game over, man. Mac game gone even for you country ass.”
Willis walked back to the law library. Russ was still standing behind the door, elbows on shelf, chin resting in his palms, smiling. Willis relayed Half & Half’s order.
“He was a bondsman,” said Russ. “Got set up by a customer. Imagine that. Who would believe the deceit rolling loose in this land. Half & Half had this specialty of working with the Dominican dealers. He learned a little bit of Spanish like ‘Don’t worry,’ ‘Talk to no one,’ ‘Who do I see about the money?’
“The way he had it worked out he usually got full bond with a ten percent edge, so when they skipped, which was often, he made out fine. The Dominicans had the money, the whole bond in cash, but they knew they just couldn’t go down to the station house themselves with it. Police take it, laugh, tell them to come back with more. This one time he took a couple of bales of pot as deposit and it was a set up. When he returned the stuff the Feds came out of the bushes and they laid trafficking on him. Tried to turn him, get the scoop on his customers. He didn’t… and here he be. 1 know. 1 did a twenty-two fifty-five for him.”
Russ opened the Dutch door and ushered Willis through to the rear and pulled down several thick law books. Inside were chicken breasts in individual poly bags. “Three bucks, three breasts and three cheeses. Special deal. He always hits me for the bread and mayo. Pays his tab. We look out for each other.”
“Yeah, he seemed fine,” said Willis, his mind moving on. “Ah … what’s the Mac game?”
“The Mac game? It ain’t you, Willis. It’s something been over for all but the idiots. Over since crack hit the streets.”
“Yeah, I heard it was over, but what is it? was it?”
“The pimping thing. You know, running whores. Pimps were mostly put out of business by freelancing dope fiends of all sexes. Crack has them sucking on anything to kiss a pipe. And now there’s all those escort services in the yellow pages so convenient for Mr. Businessman. All you got left is some fools hustling nowhere, counting nickels and dimes and wondering who stole their hat.”
“I heard an argument in the hallway between the he/shes banging cards and a couple of country homeboys.”
“Yeah, some of these new boys broadcast tough when they see a few flamers. Big visions of cornering the market, think they’re the first ever got the idea. They dream of a locker full of cigarettes. You got more gays here than you see. A lot more. Respectable ones keep to themselves, keep to their own. Meet their gentlemen friends privately. Do the gump bump in the shower at midnight. But there’s always some few parading like they still working the street, batting them long fake eyelashes, livin’ the life, slow dying from whatever, bodies a bomb of virus. They rub against some of these dumbfuck’s minds. Overheat them. Always trouble dancing around them. Use them to cut your hair, but otherwise stay away.”
Willis packed his coat pockets with the food and walked back to the card game. In the hall he saw through the outside glass doors where the girls were gesticulating at the two toughs receding into the dark along the sidewalk. The girls were laughing and taunting, holding their noses. One of the toughs turned back and flicked a cigarette at them, red arc lost in the door lights. Red scarf picked it up and tossed it back weakly overhand, just like a girl.
1995, Federal Correctional Institution Morgantown Morgantown, West Virginia
at 3:25 yesterday mornin’
i awakened to staccato wails of
a sister in sky-high pain and
the kamp was sister packed
i screamed
i shouted
i banged
i yelled
i hollered
i cursed and
the sister of yesterday’s wails
carry surgical scars today
all the while
i wondered as
i screamed
i shouted
i banged
i yelled
i hollered
i cursed
where was solidarity?
one afternoon
a sister wept and
i wept inside for the
wreckin’-crew sisters
i can’t erase this scene:
a water-soaked mountain of
broken/empty toiletries
shredded literature
cut up garments and
atop the heap
our sister’s love one’s
pictures hate torn
to bits
all the while
i stood and wondered
where was solidarity?
all kamps install a
stool pigeon snitch box
the box is never idle
’cause louise stole an
extra slice of bread
jeanette is high
how can dotty go on
a furlough when she
has walked on grass
ann bought
commissary for
rose ’cause they
play chicks
rita stole a pair of
chartreuse state sneakers
vivian smokes in bed
how can kisha go
home to attend her
dad’s funeral while
not-in-good-standin’
maria was playin’ stink
finger in the movie and
as i robbed the kampkeeper’s
stool pigeon’s snitch-box
notes
i wondered
where was solidarity?
1976, Edna Mahan Correctional Facility Clinton, New Jersey
for Linda and her lover
Kisses
blooming on lips
which have already spoken
and now await
stolen clandestine kisses
A prisoner kisses
she is defiant
she breaks the rules
she traffics in contraband women’s kisses.
A crime wave of kisses
Bitter sweet sensuality
flouting women-hating satraps
in their prison fiefdoms
furious
that love
cannot be arrested.
1990, Washington, D.C. Jail
The hot August sun and pea soup humidity set the temperature in Sing Sing’s yard somewhere between simmer and boil. It was the second day of hell-like heat, and the normally energized cons were playing in the shade on the old death house wall.
Out on the Hudson, sails hung limp for want of a breeze; the current alone carried boaters down river to “The Apple.” All in all it was a beat down drag-out uncommon Sing Sing day, and the only thing that saved it from resembling a convict burial ground was the sound of action across the yard.
His gray-headed body moved with surprising grace across the concrete floor. It bent, stretched, and darted side to side in terpsi-chorean display, belying the lines that crossed his face like cracks in a shattered windshield. From forehead to chin the sweat ran free down the crisscross pattern, causing him to wipe it clean after each volley.
The game was handball. Two out of three games, at twenty-one points a pop for three cartons of smoke. He had lost a tough first game against the young Latino, Carlos, with a 21-18 score, and this second game was pumping repeat where he trailed by three at 16-13.
Carlos’s next serve careened off the wall to the old-timer’s left, causing him to return it high center wall. He then watched helplessly as Carlos stepped up and buried it low in the right-hand corner for point 17. Disgusted with his return, he called, “TIME” and stepped off the court to the sound of hostile voices from a group of partisan Latinos. “Tu no eres nada, viejo!” “Tu necesitas aire, viejo, y no des-canso!” With the hostile shouts came hostile laughter, served in a way that made him smile, but only inside. Taking a green bandanna from his back pocket, he tied it Apache style around his forehead and stepped back on the court. “Serve,” he said.
jimmy Ryan was his name and handball was his game. At age fifty-one he had spent the last twenty-two years moving from one “max” prison to another, and where some cons spent their time on any number of prison hustles, Jimmy used his handball skill to supplement his prison wages. Handball to him was like junk to a junkie, and insulin to a diabetic. It got him high and kept him alive. Sure, the money was a means of survival, but to Jimmy it was much more complex than a simple hustle for capital. He needed the physical and emotional output provided by a game of one-on-one. AH important was the drama and drain of competition, along with the crowd of back-slapping fans and back-stabbing enemies, looking for any edge to bet with or against him. Those were the things he fed on, the things that made Jimmy tick.
Carlos’s serve was adequate but nothing to strike fear, and on point 17, it came knee high to Jimmy’s left hand. Although right-handed, Jimmy’s dexterity with both “smitties” was a talent honed long ago, and as Carlos moved right to control center court, Jimmy fired a return low to the left corner. Carlos’s attempt to reverse his direction came up inches short and the serve changed hands at 17-13. Friendly voices helped strike a balance. “Way to go, Pops!”
“Take it easy on him, Jimmy!”
“You da man, mighty whitey!” Recognizing the last voice, Jimmy looked in that direction and caught the wink in the wrinkled black face.
Lucius “Hap” Lewis had been a rival of jimmy’s back in their Dannemora prison days, when integrated sports were administratively discouraged under a divide-and-conquer philosophy. On his way to becoming a handball legend, “Hap” (short for happy) caught a bad decision on a Dannemora court from a Harlem homeboy. With a shank in his hand and murder on his mind, the homeboy laid four inches in Hap’s back, consigning him to a life on crutches.
Jimmy returned Hap’s wink and stepped to the serve line. “Where do you want it, kid?” he challenged Carlos.
“Anywhere on the court, viejo. Anywhere, any way.”
Jimmy’s movement was fluid. Bending over low he bounced the ball inches from the ground, and on the third bounce his right arm swung down in an arc, smashing the ball on a straight line to the wall. Like a rocket it ricocheted low off the wall and zeroed in on Carlos’s left ankle. Stepping quickly to avoid it, the kid managed only a feeble right-hand return to center wall. Jimmy followed the ball in and tapped it lightly as it came off the wall, The ball struck low and rolled back along the ground. 17-14.
With a little smirk, Jimmy called, “Where do you want the next one, kid?”
Embarrassed but still confident, Carlos replied, “Put it in my right hand, old man, so I can drive it up your nasty old ass.”
The Latino cadre whistled and yelled their pleasure at Carlos’s bravado, and Jimmy used their display to make his move. Looking directly at Papo Nunez, he challenged, “Hey, Papo! You think that’s funny? You’re the Brooklyn Big Willie, you want some of this action?”
Dismissing Jimmy with a wave of his manicured hand, Papo added, “Ju know I don need ju cigarillos, viejo bianco, play and lose.”
“You’re smarter than you look, Papo,” Jimmy replied, knowing the slight was not lost on Papo or his posse.
“Quepasa, man, you gonna play or bullshit?” Carlos prompted.
Jimmy’s next serve was a repeat of the last, but the young Latino timed it perfectly. Stepping up and to the left he took it on a fly with his right hand and tried to hit a “kill shot” in the right-hand corner. The shot landed too high, causing an ample bounce, which Jimmy easily returned low cross court to the left corner, on an angle Carlos couldn’t reach. 17-15.
The noise of the action had caused the curious to leave the shaded wall, and the crowd grew larger with black, brown, and white faces. Out of this Sing Sing melting pot the sentimental favorite among ebony and ivory was the old dude playing his ass off against youth and nature’s clock. “Do that shit, Pops!”
“Slap that rubber, Jimmy!”
“Yeah, man, you jinglin’, Jimmy!” Ever the showman, Jimmy acknowledged the fans with a “thumbs up.” Then, looking Carlos in the eye, he turned his thumb down. The crowd whooped and whistled at the gesture, while the Latino fans yelled insults of “Cabrón!” and “Mariani sucio, “ with ever increasing emotion.
Fighting off heat and exhaustion with a mental image of a cold beer on a Rock a way boardwalk, Jimmy gauged the Latino temperament and stole a peck at his watch. It was 3:45 p.m. At 4 p.m. the loudspeakers would blare, “The yard is closed! The yard is closed!” causing each man to return to their cell for the prison count. It was all a matter of timing now. At 17-15, he was six points from a win and Carlos was four.
White Jimmy’s mind drank brer and computed time. Hap Lewis made his move. Lasing closer to Papo Nunez, he picked up the pitch with ethnic taunts, and punctuated each with a menacing wave of his left ctutch. “Can’t no Rican play handball, man. Ain’t nuttin’ but mud walls and booty bandits in dey prisons. Paddle that culo for us ol* folks.” Hap’s gibes, when blended with the heol and waving crutch, were like yeast to a cake, and Papo and his posse’s tempers began to rise. Seeming to ignore Map’s folly, Jimmy wiped sweat from the ball and smiled ac Carlos, (lite, Papo, he thought, while he listened to Hap cut deeper into Latino pride.
The serve was inches short of the short line, and Jimmy wasted a few more seconds before he served again. He stood straight up this time and served the ball high to Carlos’s right side. Too high to attempt a kill shot, Carlos sought to play out of position and get him. running side to side. The strategy caused a volley back and forth, until Jimmy caught Carlos coming in and lobbed a shot over his head just inches above his upstretched left hand. 17-16. The crowd’s roar of approval gave Hap a little boost.
Hap cased the crowd to make sure no guards were near, and when satisfied, his gravel voice challenged Papo’s pride and pocket. Almost in Papo’s ear he shouted, “Man, spank that cuchifrito ass. Ain’t nuttin’ but chump change an’ scared money here.” Papo whirled on Hap with blood in his eye. “Ju got a big mout, wooden legs. What chu wanna bet? Whatcha got, eh?” Papo’s posse wanted his tongue, not his money, but they echoed Papo’s words like good soldiers. “Yeah, nigga, what chu got, man?” “We ain’t bettin’ no chitlins, motherfucker.” “Show money or shut da fuck up,”
The crowd was enjoying both shows, the one on the court and the one on the sidelines. While Jimmy played one, Hap played to the other.
With eleven minutes left Jimmy served again, and this time the ball went over the long line. Carlos laughed and chided Jimmy, “Qué pasa, viejo? That ball gettin’ too heavy?” Jimmy ignored the comment but allowed the crowd to see him take a few deep breaths as he wiped the sweat from his face. None of this was lost on Papo.
Jimmy’s second serve was waist high with less zip, and Carlos tagged it for a kill in the right-hand corner. Looking disgusted and drained, Jimmy walked slowly to the back court as Carlos’s fans clapped and shouted their approval. “Ju dead, viejo, now lay down,” Papo shouted.
“DEAD!” Hap roared with derisive laughter. “Man lay four-to-one, ‘n’ I’ll bet dis hundred on the corpse right now!” He flashed the folded Ben Franklin in his sweaty palm.
Papo saw the three figures, then it was gone. “Ju crazy, nigga? Ju no stick me up no four to one, man.” Every con within earshot listened in.
“Crazy! Man, I be crazy if I don’t get dem odds,” Hap responded. “The dead man’s twice his age, he’s losin’, he jus’ los’ da serve, an’ da game’s almos’ over. It’s all your way. Ohh! Maybe you wan’ da odds too,” Hap teased.
Caught on the short side of macho, logic, and the crowd’s stares, Papo said, “Ju got it, big mout’. Three-to-one.”
“Bet! Bet!” Hap’s gravel voice roared, and they both slapped five to seal it.
On the court Jimmy heard Hap’s “BET!” and watched the five slap seal. My turn, he thought, and he called to Papo, “Hey! Big Willie! It’s about time you found some heart. Now what about me? Can the player get a play?”
“Ju show me cien dolares, viejo, an ju got it too.”
“It’s in my stash,” Jimmy replied. “If I lose you’ll get it tonight.”
Antagonisms aside, Papo and Jimmy were convicts whose word you could take to the bank, so the bet was sealed with another slap five, and the game resumed with Carlos changing strategy.
Thinking he could take advantage of Jimmy’s weaker left side, Carlos walked across court to serve from right to left. Jimmy clocked the move as desperate, but glanced at Carlos’s feet and eased toward his left as the Latino went into his serve. The ball angled sharply to the left side, but Jimmy was already in motion and with a crisp left hand he returned it to the same spot that Carlos had served from. Carlos, who had moved to center court for control, was forced to lunge right. With equal parts skill and luck, his fingers just tipped the ball and it sailed in a slow arc to reach the wall and die: 18-16.
Papo’s posse roared their pleasure, “Vaya, Carlos… vaya, mi ‘mano!” Whistles mixed with applause, and one homeboy, Chino, ran on the court to slap Carlos a “high five” support.
Jimmy quickly took advantage of the move. “Hey! Whoa! Wait a minute!” he shouted, “You can’t run on the court stopping play with that bullshit.”
Chino, still burning from Hap’s insults, shouted a litany of Spanish curses, and Carlos said, “The play was over, viejo. He didn’t stop shit, man. What about when you called time before and stepped off?”
“The point is, he ain’t in the game, he don’t belong on the court,” Jimmy fired back.
“All right, muy bien. You caught your breath now, viejo,” Carlos chided. “Let’s play.” Papo called Chino off the court, and the game continued with Carlos returning to his strong side to resume play.
A peek at his watch showed 3:52 P.M. I need a serve, Jimmy determined. On the sideline, Hap thought, his ass shoulda been on a tightrope.
With every ounce of energy he could corral, Jimmy waited and clocked the kid’s feet. When Carlos went into a low arc serve, Jimmy was on the balls of his feet ready to pounce. The ball shot low to Jimmy’s far right side, but the old-timer was on it. He scooped it up in a side-arm arc and sent it pumping cross court to the far left corner. Anticipating the return and angle perfectly, Carlos did not anticipate the ball’s bottom spin caused by Jimmy’s snap of wrist and fingers, and instead of an easy point, he lost the serve.
Jimmy figured that with a series of serve changes he could freeze the score at 18-16, and maybe scare up a few more bets on tomorrow’s conclusion, but his plan went belly-up when Carlos killed a low return for point nineteen just as the speakers blared, “The yard is closed! The yard is closed!”
Some cons caught up in the drama and personalities at play shouted, “Fuck you, throw the tear gas!”
“Play it out!”
“Count this!” shouted a guy grabbing his crotch.
Papo, just two points short of a win with Carlos serving, shouted, “Rdpido! Rdpido!”
But Jimmy, never so happy to have a fast watch, had a different agenda in mind. He walked over to Papo and motioned Carlos over also. “Carlos, you might get two fast points, but I doubt it. There’s no way I can get the five I need and neither of us can take a lockup for delaying the count. So we’ll finish this in the morning as it stands.” To Papo he added, “I’ll show you the hundred tonight, like I promised.” With no choice but to agree, they shook hands and dispersed.
On the walk up to A Block, as Jimmy passed Hap in the tunnel, he heard, “You shoulda been a barber with your close shavin’ ass.”
Without a hitch in his step Jimmy shot back, “And you should’ve watched your back years ago, so I could work the crowd today. Call a cab, we might need it.” He shot a thumbs-up, and disappeared.
A Block was a large concrete warehouse of convict condos in a nine-by-six-foot single-occupancy design. Opened in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, its recycled stock of castaways lived in four double-sided tiers that stretched over eighty cells or two city blocks long. By 9 P.M., the din from the over seven hundred tenants had settled to a murmur, and another day was only a wake-up away. Freshly showered and shaved, Jimmy grated soap chips from a bar of state soap, while a low strain of Coltrane provided memories and escape. Birdland in the fifties was his favorite haunt, with Coltrane then and now his favorite genle.
“Hey, Irish! They sell Tide in the commissary,” the voice on the bars offered. Not missing a grate, Jimmy replied, “They sell salami and cheese, too. You got any?”
Vincent “Vig” Vigliano was a “Goodfella” who ran numbers and book for one of New York’s five families; but for the past three years he was an A Block clerk, a sometime shylock, and an all-time good man.
“You want mustard with that order, OToole?” Vig joked.
“Yeah, Pal, mustard and the hundred back,”
“Mannaggia, la Madonna!” Vig exclaimed, smacking his forehead for effect. “You just gave it back two days ago. Whatta we doing here?”
“Keep your Ballys on, Vig. I just need it to flash Papo Nunez. And since I’m locked in, I need you to be my flasher.”
“Hey, hardon! Ya want me in a raincoat too?” They shared a laugh and Vig added, “I had a visit today from Barbara and the kids, but Louie told me you and Hap had some fun in the yard. Is that what this flash is all about?”
Jimmy scooped the soap granules into a container. “Fun! I’d rather sandpaper a lion’s ass than do a repeat of today. But yeah, that’s the deal. The score is nineteen-sixteen his way, and he’s serving. Hap embarrassed Papo into a tough-to-get-three-to-one on the kid.”
A low whistle sounded from Vig. “Nineteen-sixteen?” That’s playin’ it a little close ain’t it, maestro?”
Jimmy gave a wee smile. “Ahh, you know me, pal. If it ain’t rough, it ain’t right,” and he added a wink.
Vig gave a knowing nod. “I’ll go flash Papo, then make the sandwich.”
“Grazie, Godfather,” Jimmy mumbled in fun and respect. Vig had taken a few steps when Jimmy called, “If you flash a little green of your own, don’t forget to tip the mechanic.”
Still stepping, Vig called back, “You’re a schemin’ bastard, OToole. Ya sure you ain’t Sicilian?” His footsteps and words were swallowed in the concrete warehouse.
Jimmy put up a pot of hot water, dropped a teabag in his cup, lit a Lucky Strike, and laid back on his bed. The hot shower had chased most of the ache from his body, but little pockets of soreness still remained. It gets harder every year, he thought. “While Coltrane and Elvin Jones dueled to the delight of Birdland’s patrons, Jimmy eased into a reflection on the day’s hustle and how it came to be.
It was Hap who marked the kid as a possible route to Papo’s pocket two weeks ago, and as usual, the old hustler was right. Jimmy had clocked Carlos’s play. He was young, fast, and cocky with two good hands, but his strategy and ball control were weak, with his serve just a notch above. At a time when Carlos was enjoying the fruits of a successful afternoon with Papo and his posse, Jimmy happened by. After exchanging greetings with Papo, he was happily surprised when Papo opened the door. “Qwé pasa, Jimmy? Ju wan’ to play Carlos? He’s good.”
“Yeah, they’re all good at his age, Papo, but can he win?” Jimmy teased. That was all it took.
Jimmy lay there with Coltrane in the background while his mind played back every serve, volley, and nuance of today’s games. He knew it was only a matter of regaining the serve and keeping it, but he also knew that “shit happens,” which was how Carlos had gotten the nineteenth point. He ran a few mock plays in his head and charted their probable result. Vig broke his reverie. “I saw Papo. Here’s your sandwich. Hap said to soak your feet. There’s a cab strike. Good luck mahana.” Then Vig was gone. If I had to depend on luck, there would be no mañana, Jimmy thought, as he reached for the sandwich on the bars.
The ten o’clock morning promised an action-packed Sing Sing summer day. The humidity had disappeared into Mother Nature’s handbag, and the temperature was a comfortable seventy-two degrees. The crowd was slightly larger than the day before, and so was Papo’s posse. No words were exchanged between participants, but Vig and Louie cornered Jimmy to say that there was healthy action on the sidelines. Jimmy looked to the gallery of cons. “You had a busy night, I see. No wonder you dropped off the sandwich and ran. Tonight I want lobster tails.” Louie laughed, and Vig pinched Jimmy’s cheek, then both stepped off.
It was not a pretty sight, unless you liked train wrecks and reruns of Ali v. Wepner. The 19-16 score was too close to do anything but attack, and Jimmy wanted to keep Carlos’s fans subdued and out of the game. The opportunity came early on Carlos’s first serve. After a low killer serve that Jimmy handled easily, an eight-shot volley saw both players scrambling cross-court. Jimmy literally dove for a low ball, and came up with a badly scraped forearm, and the serve. The play caused a trickle of blood, a roar from the crowd, and a gag order on Papo and his people. Jimmy’s face acknowledged nothing. In silence he walked to the serve line, giving thanks to the handball gods who sent him that shot, while Hap on the sideline just nodded and smiled.
Jimmy scored three quick points with a repertoire of left/right corner-catching killer serves that weren’t on display the day before. The crowd ate it up, and Louie yelled, “Hey Jimmy, where’d you get that serve?”
“In a salami sandwich,” Jimmy joked back. Some cons laughed, but none were Latino, and Jimmy went back to work. With the score now tied at nineteen, Carlos broke Jimmy’s serve with a lunging backhand return of a shot that could’ve given Jimmy point seven. Papo &C Company came alive with whistles and applause, but it was a fleeting celebration. The old-timer broke the kid’s setve again, and went on to score two consecutive points for the game win.
The sound of applause echoed across the yard, attended by whistles and shouts of “I told ya so!” that stung the ears of the non-believers. Jimmy approached Carlos with his right hand extended. “Good game, kid,” he offered. “Whataya wanna do about game three?”
Carlos’s cockiness had given way to a sudden awareness. “Thanks, viejo, I’ll get back ta ya,” he managed as he shook Jimmy’s hand, then split.
After the back slaps and congratulations had run their course, Jimmy sauntered over to the bench and lit a Lucky Strike. Lookmg toward the court, he watched one of Papo’s posses smack Hap’s palm, and then come walking his way. “Ftom Papo,” is all he said as he repeated the smack on Jimmy, and strolled away. Vig came over and pinched his cheek. “No lobster tails, but Barbara brought me spare ribs, and I’ll make a salad.” Looking down at Jimmy’s worn sneakers, he added, “You’re a funny bastard, O’Toole.” Then he was gone.
The lone figure sat against the handball wall, with his crutches standing guard. Jimmy flicked his Lucky in the breeze, and closed the distance between them. “Pull up some concrete, cracker, ‘n’ I’ll have my maid bring a mint julep,” Hap joked in his gravel tone. Jimmy kept silent and slid down the wall. Quiet seconds passed where the two old friends jockeyed thoughts about in private.
Finally Jimmy queried, “You got any plans for that three hundred?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna buy me a lot in Scarsdale ‘n’ plant watermelons. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m gonna buy all the trees in that neighborhood so they can’t hang your silly black ass.”
They were quiet again until Jimmy said, “Let me see it, Hap.” The old hustler’s fingers slid into his sock and came out with the carefully folded Ben Franklin, The fast glance of a greedy eye would see the one inch square 100, but examination would reveal only half a bill, skillfully folded over paper.
“Someday you’re gonna get me killed,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t worry,” Hap replied. “I’ll bury ya on my lot.”
1994, Great Meadow Correctional Facility Comstock, New York
A heavy winter rainstorm drummed the buildings of Hesiod Correctional Institution the night Daniel Martin Pinkston finally died in the AIDS Dormitory. It was 2 A.M. when four corrections officers in protective clothing wheeled him on a gurney out the iron door for the last time. Kenneth “South Philly” Johnson and Willie Norton looked up from their card game. John Mohammed “Deathrow” Rollins spared one last glance at the closing door before he began his cleanup duties.
“That’s two we lost since midnight,” Willie said as he began shuffling cards. “First Parker Calloway, now Pinkston. You know when it goes like this there’ll be a third.”
“Third time’s a charm,” Johnson said. ‘Til put up a pack of Lucky Strikes that Morgan will go next.”
“Be quiet, man,” Deathrow snarled. “You don’t respect death and you don’t respect God.” He was stripping off Pinkston’s soiled sheets and double bagging rhem in red contagion bags. “And keep it down! These sick men art’ trying 10 sleep!”
“Sony, man,” Willie said. “We just can’t sleep.”
Deathrow looked up as he scrubbed the waterproof mattress with bleach. “I can get you some sleeping pills if you want.”
“No need, brother,” Willie said. “Til just play with South Philly here and let bun tell me his life story. I’ll be asleep in fifteen minutes.” I le nodded at Johnson, who’d spent most of his life in South Philadelphia before coming to 1’lorida and landing a bid for armed robbery and kidnapping. Now in his mid forties, he was an animate human skeleton, his neon white skin spotted by Kaposi’s sarcoma. Willie, at fifty, was pist as thin, his black skin dry and flaky, most of ins graying hair gone.
‘Mint if you need something, you tell me!” Deathrow said, pointing his thumb at his chest. “You got a problem, I’ll lake care of it.”
He returned to his duties, and the older men watched him for a moment. Like lliern, Deathrow had IIIV, but be was still big and black and bald and muscular, his voice deep like James Farl Jones’s, his energy and patience endless. At nineteen he had killed two police officers, and spent twelve years shooting one wrir alter another into the courts from death row, doing all he could to keep from making that last walk to Old Sparky, Florida’s electric chair. He’d finally got his sentence changed to life, but after one year on the compound he had the virus.
After six months of bitter denial he converted to Islam, and though he could have spent years on the compound until full-blown AIDS set in, he volunteered to live in the AIDS dorm to work as a nurse’s aide. He humbly performed all the duties shunned by the officers and the doctors and nurses, who visited the dorm as little as possible. He emptied the catheter bags, changed soiled linen, gave bedbaths to men too weak to bathe themselves. He held men up and fed them, checked them for bedsores, and his muscular killer’s hands massaged sore spots to keep them from becoming bedsores. His prison job duties required him to work eight hours a day, five days a week, but he never stopped working as long as he wasn’t asleep.
“I wish I had that kind of energy,” South Philly said, watching Deathrow carry the contagion bags to the laundry.
“You got plenty of energy,” Willie said as he dealt the cards. He noticed Jimmie Long across the dorm climbing out of bed into his wheelchair. “Look at you, up all night partying and playing catds. You’re as lively as a feather on the wind.”
“Give me three cards,” South Philly mumbled. “And hold your sarcasm. You’re full of shit and bad jokes, and your farts stink like roadkill when they float over to my bunk.” He examined his cards and bet two tailormades — Lucky Strikes — while he puffed a cigarette he’d rolled himself. “Deathrow had to slide my locker between our bunks so we could play. My strength is draining.”
“At least you don’t have to wear adult diapers,” Willie said, reaching for his Chesterfields. “I’ll see your two and raise you three. Now, when you ask me if I’m going to wear briefs or boxer shorts tomorrow, I answer ‘Depends.’ Jimmie’s coming for a visit.”
“What got you up?” South Philly asked, nodding at Jimmie. “You’re usually sawing logs about now.”
“Can’t sleep,” Jimmie mumbled, stopping by their bunks.
“Deal you in?” Willie asked.
“I’ll watch,” Jimmie said. Though he looked healthier than the two older men, his legs were quickly growing weak. The doctor couldn’t figure out why. His face looked as if it had a rash under the red ceiling nightlights.
“I call,” South Philly said, setting his cards down, two queens, ace high. Willie showed him three deuces before scooping up his cigarettes. “Damn.”
“You never traveled enough to play against good players,” Willie said.
““Well, I won’t get a chance to travel now.”
“Oh, you are, in a way,” Willie said. “The earth is twenty-four thousand miles around, and it spins like a sonovabitch. You’re going about a thousand miles an hour and don’t even know it.”
“Who gives a shit,” Jimmie mumbled.
South Philly looked at him. “Homey, you in a bad mood or something?”
“I know what it is,” Willie said, putting on his state-issued glasses and gazing at Jimmie. “Pinkston died tonight, and he’s the one who gave you AIDS, isn’t he?”
“Man, I’m no fag!”
“You two were cellmated,” Willie went on. “You can’t tell me you didn’t get some mud on your turtle.”
“Man, just shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Jimmie yelled, his cheeks redder than normal.
“Watch your mouth, bro,” South Philly said, scooping up the cards. “We didn’t invite you over here, so if you want to cop an attitude, take it back to bed.”
“And don’t get defensive,” Willie added. “None of us got in this dorm by sharing a needle or getting a blood transfusion.”
“Man,” Jimmie shook his head. “I just don’t want to die like this. This place stinks like a busted meat locker, people dying every other day, we’re fenced off from the rest of the compound, and all we can do is wait to die. I don’t want to die like this, I want to die like a man!”
“Shut up, punk,” South Philly hissed, rising up on bony legs hidden in nylon pa jama bottoms. “This is how a man dies. Look at me. My mother writes me every week, but here I am, I got myself locked away from her and dying. You think she’s proud of me? You think I’m proud of myself? My father has Alzheimer’s, and she’s trying to take care of him, and she probably wonders every day who’s going to die first, me or my father. But this is how a man dies, with the Ninja or Alzheimer’s, or cancer. If you wanted to throw yourself on a grenade and save your buddies and die a hero’s death, you should’ve joined the Marines.”
“South Philly, stop running your jaw,” Wyman Reed said, walking through the maże of bunks toward them. “If Deathrow comes back and catches you waking up his patients, he’ll gag you and tie you to your bed.”
“You guys are waking the dead over here,” Carl “Smokey” Dukes said. “Can’t you keep your voices down?” Both men wore their blankets over their shoulders. Like Jimmie, who had on a sweatshirt over his pajama top, they couldn’t put up with the cold air in the dorm. The heaters were in the ceiling instead of the floor, and the slow-turning ceiling fans couldn’t quite get the warm air down. Willie and South Philly both had fevers that night, and sat on their bunks shirtless, their ribby chests like washboards.
“I’m sorry, Smokey,” Willie said. “We won’t holler and hoot again. This was supposed to be a quiet party. Go ahead back to sleep.”
“Hell with that,” Wyman said. “Deal me in.” He held up a pack of generic cigarettes.
“You up to a game this late?” South Philly asked, shuffling the cards. Wyman nodded. “Smokey?”
“I’m all out, homey. I’ll just watch.” He pulled an empty wheelchair closer as Wyman sat on the bed next to South Philly. Wyman was a tall black man who hadn’t yet shown signs of the virus, but three long bouts of pneumonia had weakened him. He couldn’t live in open population anymore. Sometimes he’d go outside and stand by the fence, watching inmates play basketball in the distance. He never stayed out long, because it was only a matter of time before he’d be noticed and become the target of insults and catcalls. This irritated him no end: At least a third of them were also infected, though outwardly healthy, and they, too, would be landing in the AIDS dorm.
“You know they took Pinkston and Calloway out tonight,” Willie said, rolling a cigarette.
“Hospital?” Smokey asked.
“Morgue,” Willie answered.
“Two?” Wyman whispered. South Philly nudged him to cut the cards. “Jesus Christ, that’s not good.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, man,” Smokey said.
“Save your church for Sunday,” South Philly snapped.
“Philly thinks someone else will go before the dawn comes up,” Willie said.
“This is too morbid,” Jimmie whispered.
“Why three?” Wyman asked.
South Philly began dealing. “It goes in threes, Wyman. If two die during the week, it’s a sure bet a third will go before that week is up. Just listen.” He held up his hand for silence. The sounds of snoring men, mixing with the whirring of the fans and the steady tattoo of rain on the roof, but behind it was the rattling, deep breath of several men struggling through pneumonia.
“You hear that?” South Philly whispered. “We got Death waiting in the wings. It’s that kind of night.”
“Man, you’re getting a bad attitude,” Smokey said. He was feeling uneasy, as were Wyman and Jimmie. “You’re not psychic.”
“I don’t know,” South Philly said. “But that’s the way it goes, people die in threes. I used to work in a nursing home in Pennsylvania. Weeks would go by, and then three old people would go in one week, It was strange, no reason for it, but there you are.”
“C’mon, man, let’s play cards,” Wyman said. “Your talk’s getting too creepy. And I don’t believe it anyway.”
“What?” Smokey whispered. “That someone else will die tonight?”
“Far as I’m concerned, that’s a given,” South Philly said. “I propose we each bet on who will die.”
“Man, you’re sick,” Smokey growled.
“Ashes to ashes, dustballs to dustballs,” Willie said. “Even the Bible admits that, Smokey. I read my King James daily, too, you know.”
“So we pick someone in the dorm?” Wyman said. “One of our sick patients?”
South Philly slowly set his cards down, his face serious. “No, that’s too easy. Way too easy. I predict it will be one of us here.” The other men gazed at him in silence. Even Willie looked shaken. “I say we bet one pack of tailormades each, we each choose a different one among us, place our bets, and wait for the dawn.”
A dreadful silence fell over them, a silence like an arctic night. Smells of the dorm wrapped around them, smells of sickness and sweat. “It’s sinful,” Smokey said.
“Sin got us here thus far,” Willie mimicked, “and sin will lead us home.”
“Don’t try me, Willie!”
“You fucked a punk like the rest of us,” Willie said. “Don’t give me any of your self-righteous crap, Smokey. South Philly has hit on something, I don’t know what, but I’m game.”
“You want to die?” Smokey asked. “Is that it?”
“No, it’s not,” Willie said. “But I’m going to die anyway, whether I like it or not. And if I gotta die, I might as well play one last game with Death himself.”
Wyman nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t think no one’s gonna kick off in our little circle. What if it happens, Philly, and it’s not one of us?”
“Then nobody wins, and we all keep our cigarettes, and die of lung cancer instead.” South Philly looked from man to man. “In fact, the way I see it, winning and losing are both desirable. You win, you get the cigarettes. You lose, you get out of the goddam dorm.”
This time Smokey didn’t complain. Jimmie was looking into his lap, gripping his wheels. At twenty-five, he looked like a little boy awaiting the whipping of his life. Wyman looked from man to man, intrigued but scared, as though he had just been invited to play a game of Russian Roulette, and he knew he was too tempted to refuse, “All right,” he said. “Let’s go for it.”
“It’s not right!” Smokey yelled.
“Shut the fuck up!” someone yelled from across the dorm. “I’m sleeping!”
“You’re all a bunch of fools!” Smokey whispered. “No wonder you’re in this mess.”
“You’re in the same predicament, my man,” Willie said. “And you fall as short of the pearly gates as the rest of us. I know more about you than you might think.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t have much leeway to complain about anybody else.” Willie took off his glasses and stared at him. “Now, if you don’t like what we’re doing here, go back to bed, I’m tired of your mouth.”
Smokey was silent, but he stared back until Willie looked at the others. “Boys, I don’t know how real this all is, but I swear I feel spirits in the air. I’ve been scared of dying since I popped out of my momma’s womb, but just tonight I’d like to look Death in the eye and prove I’m a good sport.”
He put his glasses back on. “Now there’s science and there’s the spirit world. According to science, we are mostly made up of water, but we are what’s known as a carbon-based life form. Carbon is that black stuff left over after we burn something, and a friend once told me that no planet naturally has carbon on it anywhere. Carbon comes from the sun and other stars.”
“So what’s your point?” Wyman asked, still holding his cards.
“My point,” Willie said, examining his hand, “is that we are made of Stardust. And when we are dead, our carbon molecules go into the soil and become part of other life forms. So you see, part of us goes on, just like the carbon molecules of other living things that are in us now, and all of it comes from the big burning stars in the sky.”
“So there’s bits and pieces of dinosaurs in us, too,” South Philly said.
“Something like that,” Willie agreed. “But now we’re heading slowly back to our old carbon selves. I like to think we’re heading back to the sun myself, we’re going back to be cremated into nonex-istence, nothing but that damn Stardust. And if I go, I might as well play over the sunspots, and this little bet is how we can do it, how we can be feathers on the solar wind for awhile, floating and dancing on the music of the cosmos before the final incineration.”
“Willie, you sure know a lot of big words and ideas for a black man,” South Philly snorted.
Willie grinned at his old friend. “If it makes you too uncomfortable, Philly, I could talk like Aunt Jemima for a while.”
“It’s still all a lot of bunk,” Smokey said.
“If you think so,” Wyman answered, “then you make the first bet.”
Smokey opened his mouth, about to refuse, when he looked around. “A pack of smokes, you said?”
“Exactly,” South Philly answered. “But you got to pick one of us.”
Smokey stroked his chin. “Okay, I bet a pack of rip that old Willie here will die first.”
The other men looked at each other.
“Man, that’s slimy,” South Philly said. “Just because he told you about your ass…”
“He done right,” Willie said. “And he chose well, I look like I’m halfway to the crypt, the way I see it.”
“And who do you choose?” South Philly asked.
“I place my bet on Wyman,” Willie said. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Wyman answered, though he looked a bit shaken. The game was too real to him.
“Wyman’s the healthiest one here, and I got the feeling too much health is not always a good thing,” Willie explained.
“That’s crazy,” Smokey said.
“Yeah, it sounds sorta crazy, but I figger I’ll go against the odds.”
“And you, Wyman?” South Philly asked.
Wyman looked around from face to face. “I don’t think any of us are going to die, leastways not tonight. And I’d hate to name someone and actually have them die and me win cigarettes on their body. I just don’t know.”
“Yeah, it feels a little dirty, I admit,” Willie said. “But I feel the spirits kicking tonight, and me, I gotta dance with Death, just one slow dance. If you don’t feel up to it…”
Wyman shook his head. “Philly, I put my pack on you. God knows, I hope I lose, but I’m gonna play this game.”
South Philly smiled at him. “No hard feelings, brother. Tonight I don’t feel afraid. I don’t even care. But I put my smokes on Jimmie.”
“Oh, no, man,” Jimmie gasped. “Hell no, man! I’m not gonna die tonight!”
“Well, if you don’t, then I lose. You got nothing to worry about.”
“Change your bet, Philly. Change it!”
“You’re my pick, bro. Now your turn.”
“I’m not gonna.”
“Smokey’s left,” South Philly said. “Though he looks like he’ll live a good long time, but you can never tell.”
“Backoff, man,” Smokey said. “The boy doesn’t need any help.”
“Man, I’m through with this shit, “Jimmie said, and wheeled off.
“We scared him,” Wyman said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done this.”
“It’s dom*,” South Philly replied, “‘[‘he boy needs to cope with what’s happen nit;.”
Jitnnnc’s wheelchair clipped a steel bunk as he turned and headed for the shower room. They watched him disappear through the door.
“Sinus is high in the sky ronight,” Willie mumbled, “and ihe natives are restless.”
“Sirius?1’ South Philly asked. “What’s that?”
“Sirius, rlic Dog Star, the harbinger of death. The brightest spot in the sky, if the moon isn’t out.”
“Putting out carbon molecules,” Wyman said, picking up his cards. “Maybe if we get enough carbon molecules, we can all be made whole again.”
I he shower room was a long hallway illuminated by filthy neon lights. The walls and floor were covered by worn white and tan tiles. A chest-high wall ran along the middle, with sinks and mirrors on both sides, lo the right were a dozen stainless steel toilets and an equal number of metal urinals. To the left were a do/en showerheads, with two specially built showers to accommodate the handicapped.
Jimmie rolled his wheelchair through the meatlocker-cold room to the farthest sink. I le looked into his own haunted eyes in the bent steel mirror, his rash-covered cheeks. He turned on the cold water and let it run while he reached beneath his sweatshirt and pulled out two bottle of pills — Pinkston’s pain pills, which he’d stolen before the officers had come to take Pinkston away. When he heard somebody come in, he quickly stuffed the bottles out of sight between his legs.
One of the showers came on. Someone couldn’t sleep, he thought. He was shivering from the cold, but he got one of the plastic bottles open and poured six pills into his palm, tossed them into his mouth and leaned over the sink, scooping water into his mouth. He had dumped six more pills into his hand when he noticed steam filling the room.
Something seemed out of kilter. He gripped the pills in one hand and with the other pulled himself up to a standing position. He gazed at the naked figure under the spray of hot water, and his weak legs nearly gave out. “Oh my god,” he whispered.
“Give me two cards,” Wyman said, setting two cards on the locker. “I know what you’re talking about, us under the influence of that star.”
“Sirius,” Willie said. “Canis Major.”
“Just a star,” Smokey said.
“With Stardust,” South Philly added.
Smokey pulled his blanket closer around him, glancing at Deathrow, who was going from bed to bed, emptying catheter bags into a plastic urinal bottle, writing down the amount, then pouring it into a bucket before moving to the next bag.
“We’d be in a bad fix without Deathrow,” Wyman said, following Smokey’s gaze. “That man’s a saint. If I could choose one person to survive this dorm, it would be him.”
“Maybe in the parallel world, he’s out free and clean of the virus,” Willie said. “Erwin Schrodinger once mentioned that there might be a whole series of different dimensions where the same people were living different lives.”
“That doesn’t help me none now, does it?” South Philly said. “Maybe next time I’ll try a different dimension.”
Wyman looked over his shoulder. “Jhnmie must be off beating his meat, he ain’t come back yet.”
“He’s just taking a dump,” South Philly said.
“He could’ve passed out,” Smokey said. “Let me check on him.” He rose from the wheelchair and stalked off, his blanket dragging the floor.
“He needs to deal with things,” South Philly said. “Maybe we all do. I’ll see your two cigarettes and raise you two, Willie.”
In the shower room, Jimmie stared over the wall at the naked inmate in the steam. The two bottles dropped to the floor. Pills fell from his sweaty palm. He was staring at Daniel Pinkston, very much alive, young and muscular as he was when they’d first met, not in his later emaciated state. Jimmie felt he was hallucinating, but Daniel stared right at him, smiling. The tiny metal ring pierced his left nipple, and over that was the team emblem of the Florida State Seminoles tattooed where it always had been.
“But you’re dead,” he whispered.
“What does a small thing like that matter to anyone?” It was Daniel’s voice.
His mannerisms, his movements, everything; Jimmie felt sick. “I never even tried to say good-bye.”
“I never did like that word,” Daniel said.
“My god, Dan, do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“For every way I wronged you. For ignoring you in this dorm while you were lying there, dying and pissing your bed, and you wanted to talk, I could see it in your eyes …”
“There’s nothing for me to forgive,” Daniel said. “It’s you who must forgive yourself.” He turned, and Jimmie followed his gaze. Smokey stood in the doorway, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Steam filled the room in billowing clouds. “Only you can forgive yourself. Nobody else.” He said this while staring at Smokey.
South Philly picked up the cigarettes, his winnings. Wyman shuffled the cards. They turned their heads when Deathrow gave a yell, stepping out of Jimmie’s way as he wheeled into the room. “Next time you run over my foot I’ll pour this bucket of piss on your damn head!” he shouted before continuing to the shower room.
“I saw him!” Jimmie banged against the bunk, gripping Wyman’s arm. The cards fluttered to the floor. “I saw Danny’s ghost! Danny Pinkston!”
“Brother, what got into you?” Willie asked.
“Danny didn’t give me AIDS, I gave it to him!” Jimmie cried. “I swear! It wasn’t his fault! I was punked out when I first came to prison. When I started doing Danny I didn’t even know I had the virus! I should’ve died first, I had the virus first!”
“The truth comes out,” South Philly mumbled.
“Easy on the boy, Philly,” Willie said. “I believe he really did see a ghost. I told you the spirits were restless tonight.”
“I asked him to forgive me,” Jimmie gasped, his voice trailing. “But he said I had to forgive myself.”
“That’s the first thing you said tonight that makes sense,” South Philly said.
“Wyman, I need your help.”
Deathrow stood silhouetted in the doorway. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the authority in it carried over the roomful of snoring men. “After I tell the bosses.” He nodded at the two officers sleeping on chairs in the Plexiglas-enclosed officers station. “After I tell them, I’ll need you to help me with the body.”
“Body?”
“Smokey — he cut his throat with a razor blade,” Deathrow said.
Jimmie stared after him, dumbstruck, as he went to wake the officers. Wyman gazed sadly at the empty shower room doorway. South Philly angrily picked up the cards. “Third time’s a charm,” he mumbled.
“Why?” Jimmie whispered.
“He had a dirty little secret,” Willie said. “Parker Calloway told me before he died. Smokey turned state’s evidence on his brother, got his brother the chair, when it was him who did the killing. When you saw Daniel Pinkston’s ghost, he probably saw his brother’s ghost. Only he wasn’t capable of forgiving himself.”
“You shoulda took that bet,” Wyman said bitterly. “You’d have scored a few packs of cigarettes.” He rose and headed off to help Deathrow.
“That could’ve been me,” Jimmie said, feeling tears well up, remembering Daniel when he first met him. He leaned over, weary. Willie, suddenly cold, pulled his blanket over his bare shoulders. South Philly shuffled the cards.
1997, Hardee Correctional Facility Bowling Green, Florida
The face was strange. The voice vaguely familiar.
“Hey, Fox. 01’ Foxy, come here.”
I was heading into the gym to work off a little tension when 1 was distracted by a thin black dude in the lock-up section. The concrete slab serving as the gym’s floor was split in two equal plots by a walkway lined with heavy gauge chain-link fence. One side teemed with convicts busy at basketball, handball and lifting iron weights. The other side was vacant except for the gaunt stranger and another black, locked behind the double mesh. I started to pass.
“Fox. It’s me, man!”
I felt it wise to check out the voice so insistent to attract my attention, and walked over. Two liquid brown eyes swam above baggy lower lids dressing an angular face. Sweat streamed from his steel wool hair and ran down to collect in a pair of kerchiefs tied loosely about his throat. A red and a blue. This was significant because you couldn’t buy them at the commissary and they were contraband on the unit. They would get you a case if the boss w.is feeling bitchy.
‘‘It’s Earl, man,” he said. “From the Dexter Unit.’1
“Earl?” 1 still wasn’t believing him. The Earl T remembered from Dexter was bigger, lots of flesh and fat and a jolly face.
“I knew an Far! Peterson. ‘Earl the Pearl’ we called him. But we changed it to — “
“Duke of Earl,” he cut me off. “After the song ‘cause I was such a bad dude! 1 lived in H-2, Twenty-one Cell, bottom bunk. You were next doctr in Twenty-two on top. Your cellie was Ebbie something. Big blond guy who worked in the laundry.”
It was Earl all right. I began to piece it together — the voice, the face, the mannerisms — but the changes were numerous.
“You look different,” I said. “Thinner, lean even. You’ve got some muscle tone, a raw edge to you. Before you were flabby. Used to walk with a cane.”
“Yeah, well, I been workuV out. See.”
He flexed his muscles and made a face like a movie actor. I had to admit he had improved himself considerably. His biceps knotted up into high mounds and lines of separation outlined his individual muscles in fine definition. [ also noticed stretch marks left from the weight he had dropped.
“You lost some weight, Earl.”
“Seventy pounds.”
“That’s pretty radical. But it’s been a year.”
“Yeah. Lots of changes, m’man.”
It was a cold crawling kind of smirk he flashed me then, right at home on a face with hate-filled eyes. Something had changed deep inside him. He had been a jiver and a player, but he used to be able to enjoy himself too. All that was gone now, replaced by a dark violence I could feel thtough the air.
“What are you doing ovet here in lockup, Duke?”
“Had some trouble on the chain. Got into it with a dude goin’ to the hospital.”
I remembered Earl liked to tide the hospital bus. He was a master hypochondriac and an expert at manipulating the doctor. Earl had managed to convince him through the years to get him checked out by every specialist the state had in its prison healthcare stable.
“So, what’s the deal?” I asked again, wanting an update on the mental condition of a fellow convict some regarded as unpredictable at best.
Earl the Pearl displayed the basis for his early nickname as his facial muscles pulled his cheeks tight over the bones. He was smiling, but his eyes were cold and mirthless.
“The other dude stayed at the hospital. Doctor’s orders. Something about broken bones, t rhink he’ll be there a while. Brought me back in shackles and stuck me in lockup. Took away all my shit. Haven’t even got a fan. The run is loaded with crazies who scream all night, throw food and piss, break out the windows, and run around [ike psychos at shower time. Last night they tore up their fuckin* sheets and jammed up the stutters and Hooded the place. I wake up and step right into a fucking puddle.”
Earl was getting agitated. Foam started to form at the comers of his mouth. His eyes were steady but wild. He stuck his fingers through the woven mesh and squeezed his knuckles white.
“You got co cake it easy. Earl. Cool down. Already they’ve got you in lockup. They can turn the screws to you. Earl.”
“Let ‘cm start tumin’thcn, ‘cause I had about all lean take. Time to fight back, I been thinking. The Duke is takin’ it no more. Erom anybody.”
Talk like that always unnerves me, because 1 understand what can happen when a man reaches that point. The point where a man doesn’t care any longer to exercise control and restraint over himself. The point where he feels he is backed into a corner and has nothing to lose. The point where a man starts to become dangerous — unpredictably, savagely dangerous. Earl was near to reaching that point, if he hadn’t already. I got the feeling an old homeboy like myself would not be immune from his fury should it break loose at anytime soon. Suddenly I realized the sanity of the chain-link fence.
“I don’t see it that way, Earl, This place to me is like quicksand, like one of those Chinese finger stretchers. The more you struggle, the deeper you go or the tighter it gets. But you can be cool and make your way through it and get out.”
“Yeah, unless you’re man enough to bust that finger stretcher right off. Tear it up. Rip it right off your fingers and your hands will be free.”
“Only it’s not straw in here, Earl. The chains in here are tempered steel. You’re not Superman.”
“Yeah? Who the fuck says I ain’t?”
Earl had an answer for everything. I was beginning to see that my words were having no effect. His hatred was too deeply rooted and was growing like a cancer inside him. As if to bleed off some of the tension forming in the air around us, the silent mulatto inside the cage with Earl got up and started to work the heavy bag with his fists. His blows thudded like quick snaps of thunder. Earl looked pleased at the support for his tirade. The one-man rebellion had been increased to two.
A job came open in the Major’s office, and I sent in the proper form for an interview. 01’ Jonesy had made his parole third time up after doing six flat on twenty. The Major called me down for an interview at six o’clock in the morning. I stood outside in the hallway for half an hour before I heard him boom “Come in” through the closed door. I entered quickly and stood in a respectful position before his desk. The Major was struggling to assemble some kind of printed report into a colored tagboard binder. Lieutenant Green, a younger white field boss, sat off to the side scraping mud from his boot into a trash can.
“What did you have on your mind there, Ol’ Fox?” The Major questioned me condescendingly.
“Bookkeeper’s job, sir. I’m strong in math, good with ledgers, numbers. Can type sixty words a minute, have a college degree, sir. Used to run a construction company in the world.”
The brief summary of what I thought would be pertinent credentials seemed to irritate him. The stack of pages burst from his hands and spread out all over the floor of the room.
“Damn!” The Major glared at me like it was my fault. I sensed my opportunity was at hand.
“Let me help you, sir,” I said, bending down to gather the sheets. I worked rapidly and in a moment had the offending pages ordered and bound. I set the completed report before him and employed my best imitation of obsequiousness.
“There you are, sir. No problem,”
Lieutenant Green looked up over his buck knife. I noticed his big toe was poking through his sock on the foot where the muddy boot was missing. He articulated his version of a command.
“There’s a stack of them books that needs puttin’ tagatha.” He spit into the trash can, releasing a stream of dark amber from the wad in his cheek that dribbled on his chin.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” I sounded like a new recruit eager to please his superiors. I sat down at a small table against the wall and began to silently organize and collate copies of a report on sexual harassment complaint procedures. The two prison officers verbally evaluated my person in their own brand of code.
“You know ‘im?” The Major inquired of the Lieutenant.
“Naw. Seen ‘im around.”
Pause… Buck knife scraping mud. Desk chair rocking, squeaking.
“Looks like he’s got some snap.”
“Yup.”
“Be pretty hard to replace 01’ Jonesy.”
“Jonesy was a good hand.”
Pause… Buck knife folding. Foot squeezing into boot.
“Jonesy minded his own business. Never gave us any guff.”
“Jonesy was awright.”
“This one looks pretty good, too.”
“He might be able to cut it, Major.”
“Why don’t we give him a shot, L.T.”
“Okay by me.”
The flow of words changed direction to include the one being observed during the dialogue.
“Where you workin’ now, Ol’ Fox?”
“Garment factory, Major,” I said.
“What’s a convict like you doing sewing overalls?”
“That’s where they assigned me, Major.”
“Makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it, Fox?”
I sensed a test of some kind in his question. It seemed designed to measure my true opinion of their system. From my answer they would be able to tell whether or not I would fit in as the new bookkeeper. A sincere, comprehensively evasive answer wrapped in respect was my ticket out of the garment factory.
“Well, sir, they process a thousand or so men through Diagnostics every two weeks. They have to analyze a lot of data and make the best decisions they can. Fm sure it’s hard to find the perfect slot for everybody. I think what they do is just try to get close and once you get to your unit you’re supposed to use a little initiative and find the right spot for yourself. That’s why Fm here this morning, Major. I’d like to work in a capacity that utilizes some of ray skills, where Fd be of maximum service to the institution. That way we both benefit.”
When I turned around and set the completed stack of bound reports on his desk, the Major’s eyes were wide and his expression blank, as if he was attempting to fathom some great mystery.
“There you are, sir,” I said calmly, eagerly. “What’s next?”
The Major glanced at the reports that had baffled him, then up at me. He seemed to be perceiving me from a renewed perspective.
“Get down to the laundry, Fox,” he ordered. “Get yourself some pressed clothes. If you’re going to work in this office you can’t look like you just fell off the turnip truck. What your number?”
“H-17-223-83.”
The Major made a move for the phone.
“Take off, Fox. Get the clothes and come right back. OF Jonesy left things a mess and you seem like the one to get them straight. I’m cailin’ garment right now and having you transferred.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” A closing expression of anticipated gratitude. I skipped out through the heavy plate door and headed for the laundry. This was going to be easier than I had thought, The Major needed me.
Weeks rolled by and I adjusted to a somewhat civilized setting. The main difference was being out of earshot from the hatcheting machines and lint dust that, in two minutes, would settle a quarter-inch thick on a cup of coffee. The Major was right about things being a mess. Whether it had been Jonesy or someone else, it was hard to tell. But Jonesy took the blame. It’s always that way when a guy goes home. He was the dumbest clown to have hit the unit that decade.
It took a while to gain the Major’s trust — and that was, at best, dependent upon his coarse vicissitudes of mood — but soon I was able to help effect certain changes. Little things, like moving one-legged men off top bunks, weren’t too difficult to convince the Major about. Getting a guy with recurring hepatitis out of the food-preparation area was a little harder. But with backup from medical records, and case law indicating how the unit could get in trouble with the federal examiners, the Major grudgingly saw his way clear to make the change.
In prison, the status quo is the rule — no procedures ever change except under duress of emergency. Only emergencies receive extra attention, and in them lies the only hope of modifying procedure for the good. To see the Major was hard, at best inconvenient. It was purposefully made that way. If you were hurting bad enough, you would stand on the wall for hours waiting, or come back four and five times to see him. Twelve years in the prison business had given the Major a certain wariness. Working as his bookkeeper, I was party to many of his interviews and over time developed a special respect for his per-ceptiveness. But once in a while a convict was able to get over on him. The Duke of Earl was just such a convict.
I had not seen Earl since that day in the gym, but had been able to track him though the move slips that crossed my desk. About three weeks after I took over Jonesy’s job, Earl was moved from lockup over to D Building, the skid row block, home of the most violent and incorrigible prisoners. Our unit was classified as medium-minimum security, and Earl would have been on a maximum unit like Dexter but for his medical problems. This was the infirmary unit, and when inmates like Earl had to be here they were sequestered in D Building.
The problem was Johnny Boy. The pretty mulatto had been moved from lockup to A Building and this interrupted what I found out was a heavy sexual thing he had with Earl.
Earl had held out for the first three or four years, thinking his appeal would come through, but when it got denied and caused him the futile anxieties of climbing the judicial ladder to the Supreme Court, Earl needed sexual release. A need that grew stronger day by day in reverse ratio to his desire to wait for a woman. With a seventy-five-year sentence, Earl would have to do at least twelve flat to come up for parole, but with his lengthy record of prior offenses, he could bet on several set-offs. That was fifteen years without sex, and Earl soon became convinced that a pretty young boy was a hell of a lot better than his fading memories.
Johnny Boy had not been the first, but was the current favorite, of the Duke. Earl was actually in love with Johnny and was insanely jealous and possessive. I was getting out soon and could wait for a woman’s touch, but I guess I could understand Earl’s fascination. Slim but taut, cafe au lait coloring, dazzling green eyes and ripe full lips that frequently parted into a smile that must have said “I dare you” to Earl when they first met. Johnny loved Earl too, in his own kind of way, and was down with twenty for killing a pimp. They needed each other. They were good together, I saw that the first day in the gym.
So, Earl came to see the Major about a move.
“What is it, Peterson?”
“I want to integrate, Major,” Earl said after waiting six hours on the wall. “Need your permission for the move.”
Getting moved in with a friend was next to impossible, or the Major would have daily lines waiting a hundred deep. Integration was another story. It looked good when the races were mixing voluntarily. The federal monitors ate it up. Made the prison’s socialization process appear to be working.
I looked up from my computer when I heard Earl come on with his approach. It was a brilliant tactic.
“Who’s the other inmate, Peterson?”
“John Randall, sir. Lives in A4-21.”
“Randall.,. Randall. Doesn’t ring a bell. Pull his tag, Fox.”
I went over to the master board that filled an entire wall. Every bunk in the entire unit was located in a complex diagram. I pulled the tag under bunk A4-21 and brought it over to the Major.
“Randall, John,” the Major read. “Caucasian. Steward’s Department. Why isn’t Randall with you, Peterson?”
“Sick call, Major. He’s having medical problems. That’s why I want him with me. He needs someone to look after him. He gets these fainting spells, Major. Has to take special medicine.”
The Major scrutinized the Duke. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Who is your cellie now, Peterson?”
“Don’t have one, sir. He went home yesterday.”
Earl had all his ducks in a row. He made things attractive to the institution and thus the Major. No third party to move, an integration. How Earl had gotten Johnny’s race designated as “Caucasian” was another indication of his skill as a politician. Earl had bribed the night bookkeeper with a taste of some good weed.
“Make out a move slip, Fox,” the Major commanded.
I rolled it through the typewriter, imprinted both names, numbers, and cell locations. The Major took it, checked it, and slid it across his desk.
“Okay, sign it.”
Earl Peterson made his obligatory mark.
“Have Randall come by and sign it, and I’ll authorize the move.”
“But, Major,” Earl said. “You’re going on vacation tomorrow. If you would, sir, could you sign it while I’m here and I’ll have John come in later? Lieutenant Green will be here.”
The master stroke. The Major would never lay eyes on mulatto Johnny. He grabbed the paper and scrawled his signature.
“Okay. Dismissed, Peterson. I got better things to do than spend another minute with your goat-smellin’ ass.”
“Thank you, Major,” Earl fawned. Only I saw his sly smirk as he slid through the door… Duke of Earl.
Johnny went in the next day as planned and signed the move slip before Lieutenant Green, consenting to the integration. Green was stumbling around, power-tripping and trying to fill the Major’s shoes. The Major’s signature on the slip was all he needed to pass it right through. I made up some new bed tags, slid them in the proper slots on the big board, and went about my business.
An hout later Earl and his mulatto were hot aftet it behind a bed-sheet hung up over the bars. This was the beginning of the end for both of them, but you never would have known it then. They were just another happy couple.
Earl had been having his toenails cut out one at a time at a month’s lay-in from work apiece. Johnny Boy kept them supplied with goods from the Steward’s Department they traded on the block. Earl gambled at dominoes in the day room while Johnny cooked for the guards. In the afternoons they’d go to the gym, pump iron for a couple hours, then shower and be back on the run for the evening’s business. Dl-25 was on ground level at the very end of the run — the perfect location as headquarters for all kinds of illicit activities.
The Duke ruled fairly over his minions and enterprises, but came down iron-handed on those who broke their word or crossed him in any way. Maintaining control was a matter of image, and the Duke was frighteningly adept at inducing loyalty and respect in those with whom he had dealings. He had given up on his appeal and had steeled himself to do the long run. If he had to do fifteen or twenty years flat, he’d do it on his own terms. He felt he really had nothing to lose. Earl was discreet in his dealings, and the bosses left him alone. He was new on this unit and hadn’t caused any trouble since the hospital chain, Little things like that are quickly forgotten. D Block was rough anyway, and the guards didn’t like to come too far inside without official business. And then they never came alone.
Earl was a natural leader and organizer. He had boundless energy and an unlimited capacity for managing his ventures designed to beat the Man at his own game. Once he got going, Duke’s reputation spread quickly. Before long he had established working relationships with everybody who was anybody. He didn’t deal with short-timers or fools, but every solid dude knew the Duke and treated him with respect. There weren’t many inside who would back up their play with their life, but the Duke of Earl was concrete. Minor players hung around him like flies. He got big, real big, too fast. And that was the problem.
Competition. Things had been operating fine long before Earl arrived on the unit, and the old power structure didn’t like the rapid rise of the new kid on the block. Steaks had always been available on D Block for three decks, but Earl provided them hot and seasoned. Marijuana joints were four decks of freeworld cigarettes, but the Duke’s stash would stone out three or four guys instead of one. Duke had prettier punks, many he had turned out himself. During football season, parlays paid five-to-one with the Duke, while Bumblebee still paid four-to-one.
Bumblebee. Six-foot-four, two-forty, could bench press 460 pounds and wore size thirteen triple-E brogans. Bumblebee had inherited D Block from Wolfman four years back when Wolf finally discharged an eighty-year sentence after serving twenty-five flat.
Bumblebee — so called because of his dark saucer-sized sunglasses and teeth of pollen gold — lived at the roof of the world in D5-25, right above Earl five open tiers upward. Bumblebee had felt the drain caused by Duke’s action from day one but, to save face, blew it off to his runners and supplicants. Inside the lava was beginning to flow.
It wasn’t until Magpie, Bumblebee’s cellie and educated bookman, did some figuring and found that business was the lowest ever, that Bumblebee dispatched Highside, his A-number-one handyman and all-around snoop. A few days later Highside had uncovered an exploitable crack in the Duke’s organization that bubbled with the emotional intensity necessary to get the Duke to blow his cool.
Earl was at the hospital getting his sixth toenail removed when Highside slid up next to Johnny Boy as he was coming back from the kitchen.
“Johnny Boy. Where’s the Duke?”
“Hospital. What’s up?”
“Something special jus’ come in. Gotta find Duke or he’s goin’ miss it.”
“He won’t be back ‘til afta chow.”
“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s real pretty. Too bad you can’t handle it.”
That was the barb that finally got to Johnny Boy. He was tired of people thinking he was just the Duke’s “gal” and nothing more.
“Sure. I can handle it. What’s the deal?”
“Sinsemilla. Fresh and strong. Two ounces.”
“You know the Duke always likes to test it first himself.”
“Thought you said you could handle it.”
“Who’s the man?”
“Bumblebee. But Streaker from C Block is on his way over to take a look.”
Johnny Boy drew himself up to a new height.
“All right. Let’s go.”
I know this dialogue is accurate. A little bird told me. His name is Fossil and he sweeps the runs and has powers of hearing equal to a sophisticated eavesdropping device the police might use. Fossil is half snitch, half self-appointed peacemaker. He’s been known to give up a minor asshole to the Man so bigger fish can swim and feed in the deep. He’s been around since before half the guys in here were born and is considered almost a tradition, an exhibit like in a museum.
According to Fossil, Johnny Boy followed Highside up to D5-25 to see Bumblebee and test the weed. Bumblebee came on real cordial, had a fat one already rolled and told Johnny Boy, if he liked it, could make the deal in Duke’s place. He’d been watching, and thought Johnny’s talents were going unappreciated, that he had more potential than was being utilized. Johnny Boy enjoyed this banter, and as he smoked the reefer, his feelings of self-importance soared. Johnny Boy played the big shot, smoked the joint deep and fast, said he could handle it no matter how strong it was. What he didn’t realize was that Bumblebee had laced the joint with a heavy hit of hog tranquilizer, angel dust, a hit that would have knocked a donkey’s dick in the dirt. A few minutes later the pretty mulatto slid down glassy-eyed in Bumblebee’s bunk, like his body was suddenly robbed of all its bones.
Bumblebee brutalized that poor boy that afternoon, asserting his territorial rights again and again for over two hours. Later, the autopsy report would show that most of his internal organs had been ruptured. That was before Bumblebee stood outside his cell with Johnny Boy held high over his head and rattled the barred windows with his blood-curdling yell. The echoes continued after the body had fallen five stories and landed in front of cell Dl-25, just as Earl was entering the run. He threw his cane aside and started running toward the blur of tan flesh. When he reached the body the shrieking started and didn’t stop until the Duke was dead.
A call came into the Major’s office from the building officer about then, and I watched Lieutenant Green’s face go white with fear.
“Seal off the block,” he barked into the phone. “I’m calling SWAT.”
The Lieutenant began dialing furiously, bracing himself with thoughts of what the Major would do. I slipped out the door and eased my way down to D Block. The crash gates were locked tight when I got there, and I joined the crush of inmates looking up through the bars at the open stairway. I heard a noise, but couldn’t place it. Then Earl ran by and I saw that he was screaming. It was an inhuman sound, one a hyena might make after tearing off its leg in the jaws of a steel trap. The riot squad ran up, but not one of them wanted to go inside the block.
“Let ‘em cool off a little,” said a helmeted corpsman as he slapped a stout oak club into his other palm.
The Duke took the stairs three at a time, even though one foot was swathed in bandages. He carried a length of hollow pipe, flattened and sharpened like a spear. In his other hand was a shorter shiv with a double-sided blade shiny at the edges. The Duke didn’t see me, He didn’t see anything but the broken body of Johnny Boy magnified by his rage.
Duke met Bumblebee halfway down 5 run and drove the spear through his mouth and out the back of his head. Bumblebee was weakened by his sex and other exertions, but still managed to drive a shank under Earl’s ribcage before the Duke toppled him over the railing. He landed about twenty feet from us inside the bars with a thud I could feel through my shoes.
A moment later Duke stumbled down the stairs, eyes wide and spitting up blood. He wore Bumblebee’s shank rooted in a wet stain on his left side. Red gauze bandages trailed from his foot like an obscene tail. He reached the body and everyone was stunned to silence as he went to work with the short knife. Metal scraped concrete and the Duke stood up and walked toward us where we stood watching. He dragged his left foot and held up Bumblebee’s head by the black knotty hair. He approached the bars and pointed at the head with his bloody shiv.
“This guy has been fuckin’ with me,” the Duke said. Then he fell against the bars and slid to the floor.
1985, WalLs Unit, Texas Department of Corrections Huntsville, Texas