Eureka Man: A Novel

by Patrick Middleton

  Five minutes later the guards and all three hundred protestors looked up in the dirty gray sky at the whirly bird hovering above them. The prisoners cheered and waved. Some wondered aloud if they would be back in their cells in time to see themselves on the noon news.

  After the chopper got its footage and disappeared, Deputy Superintendent Jack Offen appeared at the corner gate near the canteen entranceway. He rested the bullhorn on his beach ball stomach and with his other hand he pulled at the skin of his red iguana neck before removing his sunglasses. His close-set pig eyes scanned the crowd before he placed the bullhorn near his mouth, pressed the trigger and demanded, “What's this all about?”

  Radios faded, the dice stopped clicking, the crowd hushed. Everyone who had been sitting in the yoga position sat as straight as a soldier. The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Dubois Phil and Cold Duck were sitting right in front of the man. Phil held up a sheet of paper.

  “What in the hell is that?” Deputy Jack Offen asked.

  “A list of our demands!” said Phil.

  “Demands! Demands for what?”

  From the back of the yard a voice shouted, “Read them! You ignorant jackoff!”

  Cold Duck carried the paper to the fence, curled it up and slid it through. The deputy squeezed his bulbous red nose and reached for the sheet of paper. When he finished reading it, he looked at Phil and Cold Duck as they stood side by side. “I see. Well, we need to talk about this. Some of your demands may be legitimate. Who's in charge here?”

  From the crowd: “We're all in this together!”

  “Yeah, yeah! I understand that! But I can't talk to all four hundred of you! Now who's your damn spokesman? Would that be you?” He pointed to Phil who wiped his sweating hands on the front of his trousers.

  “We they spokesman!” Dubois Phil said. He said it with force.

  “Is that a fact? Well, now we're getting somewhere. You two come with me.” He raised the bullhorn. “All right, that's it! It's over! You men return to your cells immediately and prepare for lunch! Your representatives are coming with me, and we'll see what we can do for you!”

  Only part of that was true.

  LATER THAT DAY, long after Dubois Phil and Cold Duck were seen shackled and handcuffed and on their way to the redbrick Home Block, the workers back to work, the dust blowing in the yard, two blood brothers known as the Lynch twins, serving as spotters, turned their backs for a split second at the same time Victor LeJeune lost his grip on the two hundred and fifty-pound barbell he was attempting to bench press. Without support, the weight fell full force onto Victor's neck as he tried to scramble from under the bar. Startled by the metallic clang of the weights hitting the cement floor, followed by Victor's limp body, the others stood around drop-lipped and as helpless as weeds leaning in a field. The Lynch twins leaned over Victor's body and stared through eyes raked with wonder. Victor's windbreaking broke the profound silence and caused two body builders to talk to each other and to themselves. In the midst of someone calling out “Phew! Goddamn! What happened?”, they heard Biggie Lynch's “What the fuck did you do, Victor?”, but not the “Help me, somebody, I can't move!” that Victor whispered. Then somebody remembered to go and get help. They found the guard outside smoking a cigarette. By the time the nurses arrived, stabilized Victor's neck in a brace, and directed the two orderlies to lift him onto the stretcher, Biggie and Richard Lynch were standing near the exit doors whispering one to the other, “Let's get the fuck out of here!

  On his way to the ambulance Victor cried out for his mother, “Ma! Ma!” Or so it was said. In any case, he had already begun to show signs of complete helplessness. On the way to the Allegheny General Hospital, one of the EMTs held his hand, but Victor didn't know it. When the second EMT pinched his calf and said do you feel that, Victor looked dumbfounded. Three hours later the doctor told him his neck was broken in two places and the prognosis was grim.

  Lying in the trauma ward of the prison hospital a week later, which was a screened corner of a larger ward, and grieving over his condition, Victor remembered the admonition of the weightlifter working out next to him not to go too heavy and recalled that sudden warnings were always foreboding. He remembered something else, too, and try as he might to ignore it, he knew that when the Lynch twins had let go of their respective ends of the barbell and he was completely in control of the two hundred and fifty pounds on the bar, he had seen the two of them simultaneously turn their backs. When he mentioned what he thought and what he'd seen to Early Greer and another orderly who had come to give him a sponge bath, they both sympathized with him. Early said, “It's truly a shame what happened to you, Vic. Twins are a strange phenomenon. I read a great deal about how they behave when I was in college. Did you know that twins like the Lynches can have telepathic powers?”

  “Yeah,” said the other orderly. “These guys are always finishing each other's sentences. Just last week I heard Biggie tell a man, You think I'm playing with you niggah-and no sooner did he say niggah than Richard said try me.”

  “That's just what I'm talking about,” said Early. “Hell, one of them probably got distracted by something or someone and the other one sensed it and turned around to look too.”

  Early uncovered Victor's legs and began to wipe around the calf.

  “Pinch me!” Victor cried. “Pinch my leg till I can feel it!”

  Early felt nothing but genuine pity for Victor and said, “Can you feel that?”

  “Harder! Pinch me harder, Mr. Early!” Victor was crying. Early pinched the meat of Victor's calf until his skin turned blue. “How 'bout now?”

  “No! Nothing, man!”

  The other orderly shook his head while he rinsed the sponge out in the basin of warm water.

  Early stared into Victor's eyes as solemnly as a preacher delivering a eulogy. “They're transferring you to Farview next week, Vic. You'll be better off there. That hospital has state-of-the-art physical therapy equipment and highly trained therapists. You're going to get the best rehabilitation program you could hope for on all of God's green earth.”

  chapter sixteen

  OLIVER WAS DRINKING coffee and reading a research report on short-term memory when Champ knocked and then pulled open Oliver's cell door. “What's up, Champ? You're just in time for coffee.”

  “Nah. I just drank two quarts of water. Guess who leaves tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I know. It's about time. I guess it's true what they say about misfortune.”

  “What do they say?”

  “One man's misfortune is another man's gain.” Oliver smiled.

  “I don't get it. What the fuck are you saying?” Champ asked, chewing on a toothpick fashioned from a Popsicle stick.

  “Well, we were about to pay you five hundred to do what the Lynch twins did for nothing.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Dig this, Oliver. That man's transfer was already in motion long before he had that little accident.”

  “Some are saying that wasn't an accident. What do you think?”

  “Don't matter what I think. You still got to pay. My man wants his money and I want mines.”

  “Okay. I got it up in my office. I'll bring it to you tomorrow.”

  “Hold on. I don't want it in cash.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I need her to do something for me, Oliver.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pick up a package.”

  “What kind of package.”

  “Eighty tiny balloons no bigger than a half ounce of weed.”

  “Come on, Champ. She's not going to want to bring drugs inside-”

  Champ cut him off. “What about that good-ass weed she brought you? She didn't mind bringing that in. Two or three times that I know of. Probably more than that.”

  “Yeah, but reefer's one thing, dope's another story. Where would she get dope from? She wouldn't have a clue where to look for that stuff.”

  “Up in the Hill District. There's a little restaur
ant called Lena's right off of Wylie at the top of the Hill. I got the directions and everything right here. All she has to do is call and ask for Chicken Wing. When he comes to the phone tell her to say she's calling for Champ.”

  “Holy shit. I don't know, man.”

  “Listen, Oliver. She goes up there in broad daylight, pulls in the alley, knocks on the back door of the joint, gives him the five hundred and he'll give her the dope. That's all there is to it.”

  “Champ, you realize what I'm asking her to do?” Oliver said it urgently.

  “Yeah. And I know she'll do any motherfuckin' thing you ask her to do.”

  Oliver lit a cigarette. His lower jaw jutted like a bullfrog's, rotated as if he was chewing gristle. “I don't know, man. I just don't know.”

  Champ blinked at him. “You wouldn't go 'gainst me, would you, Oliver?”

  “You know better than that, Champ.”

  “All right then,” Champ said meekly. Too meekly, Oliver thought. A moment of silence, and Champ added, “I got to go now. Get that done for me, Oliver.”

  Handshakes were cursory. Champ's fingers were long and icy cold.

  The next morning Oliver was surprised by how well he had slept. The meeting with Champ the previous night had left him confused and when he went to bed, he laid there wondering if he'd been duped once or twice. He wondered if Champ had hired the Lynch twins to let that barbell drop on Victor's neck. It was quite possible he had, Oliver thought. Though the Lynches weren't members of Champ's crew, Oliver knew Champ had done business with them before. And everyone knew the Lynches would have gladly carried out the deed for a mere couple bags of dope. As badly as he wanted Victor gone, Oliver would have never agreed to getting rid of him this way, not just because B.J. didn't believe in violence of any kind, but he wouldn't have wanted this on his own conscience. Then there was the matter of payment. He would have never agreed to any deal that called for B.J. driving into the ghetto to exchange cash money for balloons of heroin. When Champ had named his price for getting rid of Victor, Oliver never thought for a split second he needed to specify the method of payment. It was implied. Champ had duped him twice.

  Such nagging thoughts, he believed, would keep him awake most of the night, but in the morning, he awoke as if from the soundest sleep.

  “HE'S GONE!”

  B.J. Dallet dropped her tote bag on Oliver's desk and pulled him to her. She kissed and touched him aggressively, running her hands up and down his hard, perfect body as he fought with her clothes.

  “Damn, I missed this!” he said into her mouth. “You're so beautiful.” A barrage of her scents wafted to him.

  “I've been going crazy without you,” B.J. said.

  He tore off a button and bent hooks. He gathered her breasts into his hands. She wanted it hard and raw and without limits. She controlled him. She dominated. He helped himself to her until they were exhausted and slippery with sweat.

  After she pulled her panties on and tucked her silk blouse into her skirt, she said, “So was that Champ happy when you gave him his money, love?”

  “That's what I have to talk to you about, BJ. He wouldn't take the money. Said he never told me when we first made the deal that he wanted to be paid in cash.”

  Her head snapped back as if struck. “What kind of payment, then?”

  “Some drugs. A small package of tiny balloons.”

  She gasped then sighed long and hard as if she had feared something worse. “Thank God it's not what I was thinking,” she said.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Sex. Isn't that what every man in prison wants? A woman to have sex with?”

  “Not every man. Champ has two pretty boys he calls women.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed again before saying, “What have I gotten myself into, Oliver?” She paused, turned to him with her arms folded across her body, her fingernails raking her ribs. “I know I'm taking a great risk, I know that clearly. I'm willing to do it if that's all there is to it. I bring in these tiny balloons this one and only time and the slate with Champ is clean?”

  “That's all there is to it. Here's the money you left for him, and here's the directions to the place. It's a little restaurant up in the Hill District called Lena's. He said you should go there on a weekday morning. Pull into the alley beside the place and knock on the back door. You have to call ahead of time and ask for Chicken Wing. His family owns the place. Tell him you're calling for Champ and that you have the money. That's all you have to say.”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “Not if you have to ask.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Who is he, this Chicken Wing?”

  “He was here. He went home last summer. He's a drug dealer. He's a straight up fellow. All about business.”

  She stood up, untangling herself gracefully and, making no attempt to disguise her pride, said, “I'll do this once and that's it.”

  Oliver's voice was soft, a little sad, and he gazed out the window as he spoke. “Can we change the subject for a minute?”

  “What is it, Oliver?”

  He was looking around when their eyes touched. “Three lifers were just denied a hearing by the pardons board. All three of them have served over fifteen years. I don't stand a chance, B.J.”

  She touched her throat. “Oliver, don't get discouraged. This governor may only last one term. If history holds true, a Democrat will replace him whether he gets another term or not. When that happens the new governor will appoint his own people on the pardons board. Isn't that the way it works?”

  “Yeah, but I just don't see them ever getting five members to ever agree unanimously. I really don't.”

  “We'll just have to wait and see, Oliver. Meanwhile you've got plenty of work to keep you busy. How are you coming along in Dr. Garris's class?”

  “Fine. We're analyzing theories of learning right now.”

  They were both silent for a few moments and then B.J. said, “You were a juvenile, Oliver. They're going to let you out eventually. It's only a matter of time. You'll go up there and stand humbly before that board one day, we'll get up and speak about all your accomplishments and your bright future. Of course, you'll need to tell them what happened, why you did what you did.”

  He knew this was her way of asking him for the hundredth time why he had taken Jimmy Six's life. He decided right then to tell her. He went to the window and looked out. “It was either defend myself or be attacked again, B.J. He was a beast, that boy I killed. A big brutal monster. I'd never met a boy so mean and vicious in all my life. He got me first. He got me real good.” Oliver paused for several seconds and when he went on, his countenance waxed with regret. “He broke my body, B.J. I couldn't let him break my spirit. I couldn't take a chance that he would attack me again. I didn't mean to kill him, I really didn't.” He exhaled loudly, relieved that he had finally told the woman he loved what had happened.

  “That's very sad, Oliver. I'm deeply sorry.” She turned, blinked at him several times and then smiled outright. “I know you're not a killer. I knew the moment I met you. I knew it had to be something like this. Thank you for telling me.”

  It took a long time before he fell asleep that night. She was right. It was sad. Walking through it all again for the first time in so many years, a wave of grief soaked through him so thoroughly he wanted to cry. What stopped him, what restored his dignity, was the hope and assurance she had given him when she told him she knew from day one he was no killer.

  But it was not there when she returned a week later. “Can we go into your office?” she asked. “I'm going to be sick.”

  “You all right?”

  She nodded and swallowed visibly, holding down the vomit. Oliver opened the office door, and she stepped over the threshold, bolted right to the trash can beside his desk and threw up three times. Oliver stood over her, watching, his eyebrows pulled together into waves of compassion.

  “Something you ate
?” he asked, leaning forward to rub her head.

  “God, I wish. Would you get me a glass of water?”

  He grabbed a large cup from his desk and hurried to the water fountain. When he returned she was sitting behind his desk with the trash can between her knees. “Thanks.” She drank slowly and then leaned back into the chair. “I thought it was coke, Oliver.”

  He didn't understand. “You thought what was coke?”

  “In those balloons. I thought they contained coke.”

  One of his eyebrows rose just enough to signify his anger. “Don't tell me you opened them, B.J.!”

  “Two. I opened two.” Oliver punched the wall, leaned against it and folded his arms, waiting for her to continue. “I met with Chicken Wing yesterday morning. He was very nice. He only gave me half the package. I have to meet him next week for the other half.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, sighed. “When I got home from work last night, I was so exhausted. I still had three hours of reading to do. And I was really hurting. So. I thought a little coke would be just what I needed. To keep myself awake awhile. I thought it was coke, Oliv-“

  “That's heroin, for Christ's sakes, B.J.! You said you opened two?”

  “I did. I hurt my lower back two days ago. It bothered me all day yesterday. After I tried that stuff last night the pain went away completely. I felt so good. Late this afternoon the pain returned so… I opened another balloon. Right now there's no pain at all in my back or anywhere else. If only that stuff didn't make me throw up every fifteen minutes.”

  Slowly, she stood, gathered her equilibrium, and went to him. She sat on his lap, collapsed her head on his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him while he unbuttoned her blouse and ran his hand inside. He pinched her swollen nipple and she said, “Just hold me tonight, would you please, Oliver? I'm still feeling queasy. Let's just sit here together in the quiet.”

  “Listen, B.J., that's it. No more. That stuff's highly addictive.”