Doing Time (28 page)

“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.”