Doing Time (25 page)

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?”