From Here to Eternity (59 page)

barrack was just wide enough for two rows of double deck bunks down the sides and a six foot aisle in the middle. There were no footlockers or wall lockers, each bunk both upper and lower had a small shelf nailed to the wall at the head. Each shelf was stacked in identically the same way with identically the same items: one suit of fatigues, pants on the bottom; one fatigue hat on top of the jacket; one suit of GI underwear on top of the hat, pants on the bottom; one khaki GI handkerchief on top of the underwear; one pair of rolled socks sitting on top of all of that like an apple on top of a layer cake. On the left side of the shelf the toilet articles: one GI Gillette razor to the front, box open toward the aisle; behind it one GI shaving brush and one GI shaving stick, side by side even with the ends of the razor box; behind them one GI khaki plastic soapbox with bar of soap inside and one GI washcloth folded in fours under it and squared with the soapbox corners. The two giants lounged smoking, leaning their arms at the armpit on a top bunk like an ordinary man standing up at a bar, while Prew made up his bunk and studied the shelf next to his and arranged his equipment. After he got it arranged he stepped back and looked at it, the not quite double handful of possessions that for three months now would be all he owned in the world. Hanson came over and looked at it too. "The beds all right," Hanson said. "Whats wrong with the shelf?" "Lousy," Hanson said. "Get a demerit first thing." "Whats a demerit? I mean, in this place?" Hanson grinned. "I mean, what does it get you?" Hanson grinned. "Shelf's lousy," he said. "You're new so I'll give you a chance to fix it. Tomorrow you wont get a second chance." "It looks all right to me," Prew argued. "It does," Hanson grinned. "Look at the others." "Dont look any different to me," Prew insisted. "How long you been in the Army?" "Five years." "Suit yourself," Hanson said. "You ready to go?" He started away for the door, and Prew felt something dangerous touch at his mind delicately and then go clear away again. "Wait," he said. "I want it to be right," he said lamely. The silent one, Turnipseed, still lounging smoking, suddenly laughed snortingly. Grinning, Hanson came back and screwed up his eyes at the shelf. "Major Thompson inspects ever morning; he carries a plumb bob in his pocket," he said. Prew looked at his shelf. He went over and took the stack of clothes down off it. He started putting them back one at a time, and Hanson came over and peered over his shoulder professionally. "The lines from the ends of the razorbox dont biseck the handles of the shaving brush and shaving stick," Hanson said. "The soapbox aint in the center of the washcloth." Prew fixed them and went back to the clothes stacking. "You know what a plumb bob is?" Hanson asked. "Yeah." "I never heard of it till I come here," Hanson said. "Its somethin carpenters use, aint it?" "Yeah," Prew said. "And bricklayers." "What they use it for?" "I dont know. Get their corners straight. Make sure a board is straight up and down. Stuff like that." He was beginning to feel better now. He had it choked back down. But he could feel it still lying there, just under his swallowing mechanism, still waiting. It was not gone. Even as he thought about how he felt better the association caused it to start to rise up again, sickeningly, dizzily, ponderously, like a fairgrounds balloon. With something like astonished disbelief he realized again that he was here, locked in behind chainmesh grids, while she was there, still in Maunalani Heights that he knew so well in his mind, and he could not leave here and go there when he wanted to. He swallowed and set his jaw tight and kept his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. It pressed up against them a moment tentatively and then sank back patiently waiting, as elemental a force as that which kept the planets in their courses and as unfeeling. Fooled you that time, he told it, seen you coming. If you couldnt swallow it, you were licked, you were through. Alma, he thought, Alma. No, he told himself, no, you dumb bastard, no. He had been in other jails, hadnt he? He had been in some tough ones, back in the days on the bum. And none of them had ever gotten into him, none of them had ever broken him down. A couple of them, a county outfit in Georgia and a city lockup in Mississippi, had been as tough as they come. Even the Nazis had nothing on them. He still wore their scars. And they had not cracked him. But he had not been in love then, had he? Being in love made you especially vulnerable. You wanted something. He must immediately fall out of love temporarily, he informed himself, it was the only way. He tried to think of all the things he disliked about Alma. He couldnt remember any. He couldnt remember a one. It was strange how he had not realized how much in love he was until he heard the chainmesh gates close and lock after him. "There," Hanson was saying to Turnipseed, "I told you, you dumb fuck. This dumb fuck Turniphead," he grinned at Prew, "he tried to tell me Major Thompson invented it." "Invented what?" Prow said dazedly. "Plumb bob," Hanson said. "Just to use in inspections." "Well, I never heard of the goddam thing before," Turnipseed said angrily. "An he's the kind of guy would do it. I still think he did." "Aa, shut up," Hanson said disgustedly. "Dint you hear what the guy just said?" "Sure," Turnipseed said stubbornly. "But does that prove it?" "Oh for Christ's sake," Hanson said. Prew stepped back from his shelf. "Hows that?" he said. "Pretty good," Hanson said grudgingly. "It looks perfect to me." "Me too," Hanson said. Then he grinned that grin. "But I aint personally guaranteeing it for you, bud." "Lets move, men," Turnipseed suggested. "Somebody liable come around." They took him out through into the hall again. They went back past the other barracks doors, back the way they had first come. Prew noticed each barrack was a completely separate wing. Between the outside barracks and the middle one there were yard spaces of about ten feet. "Yeah," Hanson grinned, watching him, "the middle wing's for recalcitrants." "Bolsheviks," Turnipseed grinned. "Fuckups," Prew grinned. "Ats right," Hanson grinned. "Got two searchlights trained on them yard spaces where they come out in the open, see? Like a defile, see? Never turned off at night." "Be pretty hard to get out of there," Prew said conversationally. "Pretty hard," Hanson grinned. "How many machineguns?" Prew asked sociably. "One on each," Hanson grinned. "But there plenty more around if they needed." "Efficient," Prew said. Turnipseed snorted. "Efficient," he said. "I guess." "Shut up you dumb fuck Turniphead you," Hanson grinned affectionately. He touched Prew on the arm with his grub hoe handle delicately. "Stop here, bud," he said. Prew stopped, feeling he had come off pretty well in that exchange, they werent bad joes at all, feeling again the old, good toughness in him that made him think maybe he would come out of this without a smudged reputation after all. They were standing in front of the bulletin board. In the center of the bulletin board, holding the place of honor among the mimeographed memorandums and sheets of detailed instructions about inspections, was a Robert Ripley "Believe It Or Not" that had been clipped from a newspaper. The clipping was brittle and yellow with age. It had been mounted on cardboard to preserve it, and there was a black border of cardboard around it. On the bulletin board it caught the eye instantly. Hanson and Turnipseed were grinning down at him proudly, like the old nigger guides conducting a party around the sacred environs of Mount Vernon Virginia as if they personally owned it. Prew stepped up to the board. The chief subject of the clipping was a bust drawing in the familiar style of Mr Ripley, of John Dillinger grinning behind his dark moustache he had grown shortly before he died. Prew remembered having seen the newsfoto it was drawn from. Under it was the legend, in Mr Ripley's familiar block printing and equally familiar Gabriel Heatterish style. THE FIRST PLACE WHERE FORMER PUBLIC ENeMY #1 JOHN DILLINGER EVER SERVED TIME IN PRISON WAS IN THE POST STOCKADE AT SCHOfIELD BARRACKS IN THE TERRITORY OF HAWAII, WHERE THE SCHOFIELD BARRACKS MILITARY POlICE COMPANY RUNS WHAT IS SAID TO BE THE TOUGHEST JAIL IN THE US ARMY. IT WAS SO TOUGH THAT JOHN DILLINGER UPON BEING RElEASED FROM IT SWORE TO HAVE VENGEANCE UPON THE WHOLE UNITED STATES SOMEDAY, EVEN IF IT KILLED HIM. Under this, neatly printed in small letters with a pencil, were the words WHICH IT DID Prew looked again at the pencilled words "which it did" and the black border of one inch cardboard. A flaming rage burned up fiercely through him like fire sucked up a flue, burning out the soot and cleansing it so it will draw well. There was a cool calm solace of protection in the unreasoning rage. But his mind was functioning enough to recognize it was a false protection. The two giants still grinned down at him, waiting. He felt he must not say something debasing. "Great stuff," he said. "Why show it to me?" "Show it to every new man," Hanson grinned. "Major Thompson's orders." "You'd be surprised," Turnipseed grinned, "all the differnt reactions we get from this clipping." "Very illuminatin," Hanson grinned. "Some guys fly into a regular fit and cuss and fart and snort like a stud bull in the pasture." "On the other hand," Turnipseed grinned, "other guys actually get the shakes." "Major Thompson must be quite a guy," Prew said. "To put that up there. I wonder where he got hold of it." "Hell, he dint put it up there," Turnipseed said indignantly. "I been here longer than he has, and it was there when I come here." "I been here longer than you have," Hanson said. "And it was here when I first come here." "Well," Prew said, "you've showed it to me. Where to now?" 'Take you in for your visit with the Major," Hanson grinned, "then we'll take you out to work." Prew studied him. There was no malice in that odd grin, only a humor of amusement, like when you watch a child mispronounce a word too big for it. It seemed to be a stiff grin. "Well, lets go," he said. "What're we waitin for?" "Major Thompson's very proud of that clipping," Turnipseed said. "You'd almost think it was his. He claims you can tell just what kind of prisoner a guy will make just by the way he reacts to it." "Well, lets shove," Hanson grinned friendlily. "From now on you're marching at attention, bud," he added. As they rounded the corner back down the long gleaming corridor to the outside door they had first entered by, Hanson made the old familiar quick shuffle with his feet, like a sliding boxer, to pick up the step. Their footsteps in unison reverberated crashingly ahead of them down the long hall. "Prisoner, column right, harch!" Hanson said, when they reached the first door on the right, and both giants marked time while Prew cut the pivot and then followed him in one pace behind him, half a step on his right and left. "Prisoner, halt!" Hanson said from his left. It was a beautiful movement, beautifully executed with professional precision. Prew was standing two paces from the mission oak desk of Major Thompson and bracketed exactly between the two statues of the gleaming giant MPs. Major Thompson looked at them approvingly. Then he picked up the sheaf of papers on his desk and looked at them through his gold rimmed spectacles. Major Thompson was a short barrel-chested man whose OD blouse and summer pinks, fitted like a glove. On his chest was a World War Victory ribbon with three stars and a Legion of Merit ribbon, joined on the same steel band. He peered myopically from his gold rimmmed spectacles. He had the ruddy complexion and close cropped gray hair common to Regular Army officers of long service. He had evidently been an officer ever since 1918. "I see you are from Harlan Kentucky," Major Thompson said. "We get quite a few boys from Kentucky and West Virginia here. I could almost say they are our chief stock in trade. Most of them is coal miners," he said, "but you dont look big enough to be a coal miner." "I'm not a coal miner," Prew said. "I never was a -" The butt of a grub hoe handle thudded into the small of his back above the kidney on the left side and he was afraid for a second he would vomit. "- Sir," he said quickly. Major Thompson nodded at him from behind his gold rimmed spectacles. "Much better," he said. "Our purpose here is to re-educate men to both the manual skills and right mental thinking of soldiers, and to reinstill in them (or teach them, if they never have learned) the desire to soldier. You dont want to get off on the wrong foot, do you?" Prew did not answer. His back ached and he thought the question was purely rhetorical. The butt of the grub hoe handle whacked into the small of his back in the same spot making his testicles ache, informing him differently. "Do you?" Major Thompson said. "No, Sir," Prew said quickly. He was catching on. "We feel here," Major Thompson said, "that if you men had not mislaid either your manual skills of soldiering, or your mental conditioning, or your desire to soldier, you would not be here. Whatever the legal reasons for your restriction. So our every effort is bent toward reaching the objective of reeducation with the minimum of wasted time and the maximum of efficiency. Both to the men personally and to the government. We all owe that much to the American taxpayers who support our Army, dont we?" "Yes, Sir," Prew said quickly, and was rewarded by hearing a rustle subside behind his left. That would be Hanson, he thought, my old pal Pfc Hanson. "I think you will make a model prisoner," Major Thompson said, and paused. "Sir, I hope so," Prew said quickly into the breach. "We may appear to be unduly harsh in our methods," Major Thompson said. "But the quickest, efficientest, least expensive way to educate a man is to make it painful for him when he is wrong, the same as with any other animal. Then he will learn to be right. Its the same way you train yourself a birddog. Our country is at present building a rather reluctant civilian army with which to defend itself in the greatest war in history. The only way to do that is to make the men want to soldier. To be a good soldier a man has to want to soldier more than he wants not to soldier. "Chaplains' talks on patriotism and indoctrination films are not enough. Perhaps if there was less egotistical selfishness and more willing sacrifice in the world it would work. But it dont. This policy works. We wont talk to you about patriotism here. We will make not wanting to soldier so painful you will prefer to soldier. We mean to see when a man gets out of this Stockade he will be willing to do anything not to get back into it again, even the. Are you following me?" "Yes, Sir," Prew said quickly. The nausea in his stomach was
beginning to subside a little. "There is always some men," Major Thompson said, "who because of psychological shortcomings and poor home training will never be good soldiers. If there are men like that here we want to find out about it. If its more painful for them to soldier than to stay in this Stockade then they are useless, and we want to get rid of them before they taint the men around them. They with be discharged as unfit for service. We are not concerned with individual soldiers, we're concerned with the Army. But we want to be quite sure they really dont want to soldier, and are not just goldbricking. You see what I mean?" "Yes, Sir," Prew said quickly. "We have the perfect system to carry out this policy," Major Thompson said. "You cant beat it. We'll find out if you really dont want to soldier or not." He turned in his chair toward the other desk. "Wont we, Sgt Judson?" "Yes, Sir," rumbled the man behind the other desk. Prew turned his head to look at him and the butt of the omniscient grub hoe handle immediately thudded into his back in the same place that had grown very sensitive now, nauseating him sickly. He snapped his head back to the front, but not before he had seen an enormous head and hogshead chest with deep concentric layers of fat over the even deeper layers of muscle that made S/Sgt Judson somewhat resemble Porky Pig in the Walt Disney cartoons. S/Sgt Judson was staring at him with the deadest eyes he had ever seen in a human being. They looked like two beads of caviar spaced far apart on a great white plate. "Theres a few rules," Major Thompson said. "All of them is designed toward the single objective of seeing how bad a man wants not to soldier, For instance," he said, "when in the presence of superiors, prisoners move only on command. Especially in this office," he: said. "Yes, sir," Prew said quickly. "I'm sorry, Sir." The nausea had come back full force, worse than before, and he wanted to take his hands and knead and massage the place on his back that had become so sensitive now that it seemed to have a mind of its own with which to anticipate the grub hoe handle. When Major Thompson did not acknowledge his apology but went right on naming oft rules, the spot on his back seemed to leap quiveringly in its own private panic for fear he had made another mistake in talking when not asked, but the omniscient grub hoe handle did not fall. He waited for it eternally, while trying to listen to the rules Major Thompson was naming. "Prisoners are not allowed to have visitors, and they are not allowed to have tailormade cigarettes," Major Thompson said. "Prisoners are issued one bag of Duke's Mixture a day and any other tobacco, either tailormade plug or pipe, found in the possession of a prisoner earns him an immediate demerit." Prew felt he was beginning to learn what a demerit was finally. It seemed to be a very elastic medium that covered a multitude of sins. "We have barracks inspection daily," Major Thompson said, "instead of just on Saturday, and any discrepancy of personal equipment earns a prisoner an immediate demerit. Repeated infractions of any rule gets solitary confinement. "While here," Major Thompson said, "every internee is called by the title of 'Prisoner.' Men serving time in this Stockade have lost their rights to the tide of rank, and to the complimentary title of 'Soldier.' "S/Sgt Judson here is the second in command. In the event of my absence his decisions will be final. Is that understood?" "Yes, Sir," Prew said quickly. "Then I think thats all," Major Thompson said. "Any questions, Prisoner?" "No, Sir," Prew said quickly. "Then thats all. Pfc Hanson will take you out to work." "Yes, Sir," Prew said, and snapped out a salute. The butt of the grub hoe handle slammed into the small of his back above the kidney in the same spot with the precision of a clock, the Godlike reprimand of a schoolteacher's ruler. "Prisoners do not salute," Major Thompson said. "Only soldiers have got the right to the mutual compliment of the salute." "Yes, Sir," Prew said thickly through the sickness in his belly. "Thats all," Major Thompson said. "Prisoner, about face! Prisoner, forward march!" At the door Hanson took over and gave him a column right and they were headed for the outside door they had first come in by. Prew's back hurt sickly all the way down to his knees and his mind was in a delirium of rage. He did not notice where Turnipseed went, or when. Hanson halted him at the tool room, next to the locked weapons room. Another trustee handed him out a 16 pound sledgehammer. Then Hanson stopped him at the weapons room and exchanged his grub hoe handle for a riot gun with the armed sentry who stayed locked inside, before he took him on outside to the 2 1/2 ton waiting just inside the gate. "You done pretty fair," Hanson grinned as they climbed in the thick-dusty back and he signaled the driver. "What was it, only four wasnt it?" "Just four," Prew said. "Hell, thats good," Hanson grinned. "Ive seen them get as many as ten or twelve, during their first session. Ive even seen a couple of them that clean lost their head and had to actually be carried out finally they got so fucked up. I think the least I ever seen is two, and that was Jack Malloy who's a three time loser. You really done exceptional." "Thats good," Prew said grimly, "I was beginning to think for a minute there I'd failed my first examination." "Naw," Hanson grinned. "I was real proud of you. Four is fine. The saluting always gets one, so it was really only three. Even Jack Malloy got one on the salute, a guy just does it by instinct." "That makes me feel better," Prew said, as he watched the gates close behind them and felt the air and saw the Waianae Range up there at Kolekole where they were going. "You'll be all right," Hanson grinned. The truck had to pass back down toward the Post and around the golf course to hit the Kolekole black top. "Look at them sons of bitches," Hanson said bitterly, sitting on the tailgate. "Did you ever play golf?" "No," Prew said. "Me neither," Hanson said. "The sons of bitches." The truck delivered them to the rockpile a hundred yards below the crest of the pass, where Paluso had hiked him up that time and the prisoners had hooted at him. He found himself hoping some other poor jerk got hiked up there so he could hoot at him back. Hanson turned him over to the guard on the road. "See you later, bud," he grinned as he climbed up in the cab with the driver. Prew watched the truck roar away back down the grade. Schofield Barracks was spread out like a map down on the plain below him. "Over there," the guard said, "anywhere." He waved his riot gun. "Just keep that hammer going." The rockpile was a halfmoon surface quarry that had been worked back maybe forty yards into the hillside. There were two other guards besides the one on the road, one up on top looking down into the arena below, the other off to the right where the cleft petered out into the thin woods that led back toward the wilderness of Mount Kaala, elev 4030 ft and the highest peak on Oahu. At least over there he would be that near to the free wilderness of the mountain. Prew moved over toward that side, carrying the sledge. A gray rock-dust-grimed gnome rested its hammer, looking like one of the Mountain People out of Rip Van Winkle, or one of Richard Wagner's smithy-dwarfs grimy from deep caves in the hidden mountain fastnesses. It put a hand against its back and straightened itself and grinned at him feverishly, teeth and eyes wolfish white in the gray seams of the face. "Hello, you son of a bitch," Angelo Maggio said. "How are you?" "My back hurts," Prew grinned. "Ha. You should have seen mine, buddy," Angelo grinned wolfishly. "Blacknblue for two weeks. Every time I took a piss I thought I had the clap for sure." Prew laughed and set down his hammer and they shook hands. "You son of a bitch," Angelo said. "You no good bastard you. I been wonderin when the hell you'd turn up. Goddam you," he said, "goddam you." "You're lookin good yourself," Prew said. "What I can see of you under that dust." "Hey you!" the guard yelled up from the road. "What're you guys passin back and forth up there?" "Shakin hands," Maggio yelled back wolfishly. "Ever hear of it? A gesture, done between two civilized men of Christian society, used to denote friendship and long time no see. Or did you?" "Can that lip, you Maggio!" the guard yelled, "you're buckin for the Hole. You better watch your step, with me goddam you, I wont take your crap. Swing the hammer and shake the hand later. You know you aint supposed to talk up here." "Okay, chickenshit," Maggio yelled. Some of the hammer-swingers around him looked up and laughed wolfishly, but he did not see them. "Goddam," he said; "goddam but you look good, goddam. I never seen a uglier face." "I love you too," Prew grinned. "Come on," Angelo said, "make like you're workin." He picked up his hammer and bent his back and let the hammer fall once of its own weight on the rock. "Come on," he invited, "plenty room on this rock for two." He looked up at the recently blasted slab, measuring it with his eyes as if estimating an enemy. "I aint greedy," he said, "you can have half." He raised the hammer and let it fall once more of its own weight on the rock. "Thanks," Prew said, getting into position. "Dont do me no favors." Angelo leaned forward to peer where he had hit. "This here seems to be an unusual hard rock," he said. "Get to work," the guard yelled from the road, "up there, you two." "Yes, Sir," Maggio yelled. 'Thank you, Sir." "I dont suppose they'll let you take your shirt off up here?" Prew asked him. "Ha," Maggio said. "No. Nor your hat neither. The shirt has the P on the back which is the mark of the prisoner and also a very good target. The hat they throw in extra for free. Well," he said, "well goddam. What'd they finally get you for?" Prew told him the story. "Well, well," Angelo said happily. "Joy, joy. So you whipped old Bloom's ass." "It was about even," Prew said. "Maybe I had a little edge." "But he couldn't fight could he. That night, in the Smoker. He wasnt able to fight was he." "Yeah, he fought. The main go. And won TKO in the first." "The son of a bitch," Angelo said bitterly. "Well, hell," he said philosophically, "a man cant have everything, can he? A man had everything he wount have nothing to hope for, would he? And so then you busted Old Ike when he drew his knife?" "Yeah." "And all that for ony Three Months and Two-Thirds," Angelo said incredulously. "Why, its worth double that. For double that I'd do it myself, right now, and do that extra time standin on my head holdin my breath with my dick in one hand," he said. "In Macy's window at high noon on Sataday," Prew said. "Old Angelo." "Did you meet Father Thompson yet?" Angelo said. "Yeah, you must of," he answered himself, "you said your back was sore. But did you meet old Fatso yet?" "You mean S/Sgt Judson." "Thats him. In person. The man, the right hand man, who carries out the orders to the best of his ability - and then even volunteers a few ideas of his own. How'd you like him?" "He dint seem to be too much inclined toward friendliness," Prew said. "But maybe he's just bashful." "Friendliness," Maggio grinned at him wolfishly. "Fatso is the orignl man who burned the orignl book that had that word in it. Whatever you do, stay away from Fatso. If Fatso tells you to eat a plate of shit, you eat it, and whats more, you like it, hear?" "I may eat it," Prew said, "but I wont like it" "If its Fatso," Angelo grinned wolfishly, "you'll like it. He'll even have you back for seconds just to prove it." "What barracks you in?" Prew said. "I'm in the west one." "I'm in the middle one," Angelo grinned. "Oh," Prew grinned, "a fuckup." "Thats me," Angelo grinned happily. "I guess I talk too much. They got on me right after that queer investigation down town, remember? Remember Brownie? Brownie turned me in on that. That started it. They rode me and I talked some more and got three days in the Hole. Man," he said, "wait till you see the Hole." "I aint anxious." "Listen," Angelo said eagerly, and his eyes lit up feverishly. "I got a plan, see? I -" He stopped and looked around nervously, at where the other prisoners toiled endlessly in the blue fatigues with the great white Ps on the back. Automatically he placed the position of all three of the guards. The working prisoners were carrying on, out of the corners of their mouths, grinning wolfishly, the conversations that could never be entirely stamped out. The guards were trying to keep all of them working, and at the same time stay far enough back out of the dust to keep their uniforms and riotguns clean. None of them were paying any attention to Angelo Maggio, but Angelo glared at them wildly and still shook his head warily and nervously. "Too many stools," he said cautiously. "I'll tell you later on. But I got it all planned out, see? I figured it out myself, and Jack Malloy says its a lead pipe cinch for me. Nobody knows anything about it but me and him. I'll tell you, but I aint taking no chances, see?" he said with a sly cunning. "They got stools spotted all over the joint, but they aint pulling that on Angelo Maggio." Watching him, Prew seemed to see him change subtly into a totally different man, as if he had drunk the magic potion and was pulling a Jekyll and Hyde. He was like a man gloating secretly over a jewel that he knew everybody was trying to steal and he even stared at Prew calculatingly suspiciously, as if he had learned the hard way that even friendship was suspect before so great a temptation. Then slowly he changed back, becoming the old Angelo that Prew knew again. "Anyway," he said, "when I come out of the Hole they threwn me in Number Two, right along with all the tough boys. I was scared at first, but hell, we got the best bunch of guys in the joint. More fun than a barrel of monkeys. Jack Malloy's in Number Two. You got to get yourself in with us as soon as you can." "How do I do it?" Prew said. "Best ways to complain about the food. That always works. Thats how Jack Malloy got back in, first thing he did was bitch over the food to get back in Number Two. They may let you off the first time because you're new maybe. But the second time they'll sock it to you, give you a couple days in the Hole, then throw you in Number Two. "Jack Malloy's in Number Two," Angelo said. "He's my buddy. Wait'll you meet him. He's a three time loser and the smartest joe in this hockshop. You wait, you'll like him. Jack Malloy's your kind of a guy." "Who the hell is this Jack Malloy-anyway?" Prew said testily. "All I hear since I came here is this Jack Malloy. He seems to be the number one topic of conversation. That guard Hanson who brought me out here talked about him all the time, too." "Sure. They all talk about him," Angelo grinned wolfishly. "Because he's too tough for them and too