BRUCE ROBERT COFFIN
Fool Proof
FROM Red Dawn
BILLY FIRKIN KNELT quietly in the dark, steadying himself with his hands, as the container rocked from side to side. The claustrophobic feeling was bad but the odor was far worse. His feet slipped on the barrel’s slick bottom. Three more miles to freedom.
Billy had professed his innocence from the start, lying to his attorney, denying any involvement in the murder of his unfaithful girlfriend Tina and her new beau, even after the cops found his bloody shoes in the trash. Lying had always been second nature, and he was extremely convincing. As a young boy, he’d displayed an innate ability to manipulate others. His mother had cautioned friends, “That boy has the face of an angel. Just remember to check his pockets before you go.”
His string of successful cons ended abruptly the day a Portland jury, comprised of his so-called peers, spent less than two hours deliberating his fate. “Guilty,” they’d said.
During his sentencing, Justice Stratham rebuked him. “Anyone capable of inflicting as much pain and suffering as you did on that poor couple deserves to die. You, sir, are an abomination to mankind. Were it within my purview, I’d sentence you to death.”
Billy caught a lucky break by committing his crime in a state devoid of capital punishment. Stratham sentenced him to life without the possibility of parole. He was shackled and carted off to the Maine State Prison in Thomaston, eleven months ago, in the summer of ’61.
On the eve of his planned escape, he’d barely slept a wink. The excitement and promise of the coming day were nearly intolerable. All he could think about was rising early and dressing for breakfast, but he’d forced himself to wait, having learned the value of patience.
“A successful scam artist has to have patience,” his father once told him. “Takes time to gain a person’s confidence, son. You gotta earn their trust, slowly. But once you get it, you can do anything, anything at all.”
Everything had to appear status quo. The last thing he needed was for his cellmate to start asking questions or, worse still, some nosy bull like Jeeter smelling a rat. Bull was convict-speak for prison guard.
The seeds of his plan had been sown during his first month inside. One afternoon he’d been out in the recreation yard smoking a cigarette when he saw his cousin—second cousin, actually, and only by marriage—driving a flatbed truck through the prison gates. Cousin Frank was employed by Milo Trucking, a company the State of Maine contracted to remove prison refuse.
Armed bulls, carrying rifles, removed Frank from the truck while they searched the cab, the payload, and the undercarriage using mirrors. After they had finished, Frank drove around to the rear of the chow hall. Billy noted that the back of the Dodge was loaded with both red and white fifty-five-gallon drums, the same white drums that the kitchen detail used to depose of the waste grease from the fryolators. Discreetly, he continued to monitor the event until finally the truck reappeared. When Frank reached the main gate, the bulls repeated their search. They searched everything, everything except the barrels. It was on that very afternoon that he began to plan his escape.
The first step was getting assigned to the kitchen detail, but it hadn’t been easy. Prison trustees were required to stay out of trouble for their first six months, no fights, no bad disciplinary reports, and no contraband. Several times he’d turned the other cheek, when what he really wanted was to drive a homemade shiv through the guts of another convict. Six excruciatingly long months of “yes boss, no boss, thank you boss,” until finally his request had been approved. He’d spent the remaining months meticulously planning each and every aspect, even conducting research by reading books from the prison library.
The cost of putting his plan into action had only been six cartons of cigarettes for Mel, the head of the kitchen detail, and a promise of four thousand dollars to Cousin Frank. Billy didn’t actually have four thousand dollars “hidden away from a scam,” but Frank didn’t know that and had readily agreed to help.
Like all of his best schemes, this one was simple. With Mel’s help, Billy planned to seal himself inside one of the waste containers. The barrel in question would only contain a small quantity of grease, allowing plenty of room for him and making the overall weight seem about right, should anyone become suspicious.
The truck lurched over a pothole, slamming Billy’s head against the inside of the barrel. Dammit all to hell, Frank. Take it easy, would ya. The pavement smoothed. He resumed his shallow breathing.
He’d waited until the other inmates began to rise and prepare for their morning duties before sliding out of his own bunk. Silently he dressed in his prison gray shirt, blue cargo pants, and black shoes. He shaved, brushed his hair and teeth, everything as normal. He stood waiting by the cell door as the bull appeared.
“Morning, Firkin,” Barrett had said.
As bulls went, Barrett was a good one. He’d been professional and pleasant since the day Billy first arrived. The same could not be said of all the bulls.
Barrett’s boss Jeeter, a horse’s ass of the highest order, was small in stature but big on bullying. Being a bully was Jeeter’s favorite pastime, frequently caving in some convict’s skull with the hardwood club he carried. He’d even named the club, carving MABEL into the side of it. Billy didn’t know if “little man’s syndrome” was a real malady or not, but if so, old Jeeter the Bull was in the advanced stages. Rumor had it that he was also king of the swirlies, the name given to Jeeter’s practice of taking a con’s toothbrush and swirling it around inside the toilet bowl before replacing it undetected. As far as Billy was concerned, having Barrett on duty today rather than Jeeter only meant that the god of good fortune was smiling down upon him once more.
“Morning, boss,” Billy replied, needing every ounce of his self-control not to push past Barrett and run down the hall shouting, “I’m free, I’m free.” He studied the bull’s face for any indication that his excitement had been detected, but saw nothing. Billy was escorted down the corridor to the other detailees. The entire group then walked to the kitchen, where they prepared the day’s first meal.
Breakfast was always served at seven o’clock sharp. Members of the kitchen detail ate first, at quarter till. This morning’s meal had consisted of chipped beef and gravy on toast, scrambled eggs, canned peaches, and of course black coffee. Billy despised chipped beef and gravy, or what the inmates fondly referred to as “shit on a shingle,” but today was his stepping-out day and he ate a double helping that tasted more like the ambrosia his grandma Josephine used to make. Viewpoint is everything, and Billy had come to believe that his cup would soon runneth over.
Following breakfast, under the watchful eye of the bulls, the kitchen crew cleaned up. Dishes, utensils, and cookware were scrubbed, dining tables cleared, and floors were swept and mopped. The cycle began anew as they prepared for the noontime meal. Billy worked quietly alongside the others, not wanting to draw any attention to himself, no matter how slight. He’d just finished mopping the chow hall when Jeeter appeared.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Jeeter asked with a sneer.
Billy’s heart skipped a beat. Not having seen Jeeter until that very moment, he’d foolishly assumed the bull wasn’t working. The other inmates, grateful that Jeeter wasn’t targeting them, stopped to watch.
“Just cleaning up, boss,” Billy said.
“Just cleaning up, boss,” Jeeter said, mocking him in falsetto. “Think you got it all, convict?”
Billy nodded in the affirmative.
“You sure?”
“Yes, boss.”
Billy knew what was coming, having witnessed this sadistic game before, but was powerless to stop it. Jeeter hooked his highly polished black military boot under the bucket, upending it, sending a wave of dirty water cascading across the previously clean concrete floor.
“Oops,” Jeeter said. “Looks like you missed some after all. You’d best clean that up, convict.”
“Y
es, boss.”
Jeeter laughed, then walked away, spinning Mabel and whistling a happy tune.
Billy hated Jeeter. Sometimes he’d daydream about slicing the bull’s throat, giving him that nice below-the-chin grin. The same grin he’d denied carving into the throats of Tina and her boyfriend.
Two-thirty couldn’t come soon enough.
Another pothole jarred the Dodge violently. Billy’s barrel bounced up, momentarily losing contact with the bed of the truck, then landed hard, nearly tipping over. He struggled to maintain both his balance and his composure. His legs were beginning to cramp from being bent so long. Only a couple more miles. He closed his eyes, repositioned his legs, and resumed his shallow breathing.
Twenty minutes, according to the prison library book about Harry Houdini, is the amount of time an average-sized person can survive if sealed in a fifty-five-gallon drum, before running out of air. Houdini had been handcuffed, sealed in a metal barrel, and then submerged in ten feet of water. Twenty minutes later, he escaped. Afterward, when asked how he had been able to continue breathing for so long, Houdini explained that he took shallow breaths and willed himself to remain calm. Billy practiced shallow breathing every night before falling asleep.
Billy’s brother Darryl came to see him at the prison once a month. Darryl was also very adept at getting people to do what he wanted, although he used a gun and had done time for armed robbery. It was during one of these visits that Darryl agreed to help his brother. The two men were very careful when discussing the details of the plan, as the bulls were always watching, but not always listening.
Darryl lived in Portland, over seventy miles south of the prison, and wasn’t all that familiar with Thomaston. Billy asked his brother to reconnoiter the surrounding area for anything abandoned with a loading dock. The only additional requirement was that it needed to be within close proximity to the prison, as Billy would only have a limited supply of oxygen.
Darryl located an abandoned warehouse exactly 3.1 miles from the prison, according to his odometer. It couldn’t be seen from the road, had no guards and no gate. What it did have was a cement platform, perfect for offloading a barrel.
Billy, who’d always been good with numbers, calculated that it would take seven or eight minutes, depending upon traffic, for Frank to reach the warehouse after leaving the prison. He knew that the bulls only spent two to three minutes conducting the exit search, leaving him nine minutes. Nine minutes for Frank to load the barrel onto the truck, drive to the prison gate, then roll the barrel off the truck and onto the platform at the warehouse. If everything went according to plan, he’d have a window of four and a half minutes. Two hundred and seventy seconds were all that stood between glorious freedom and death by suffocation.
During the months that followed, Billy had Darryl go over the plan with Cousin Frank repeatedly until he was confident that both men had it memorized.
Mel, the kitchen chief, was a friend to Billy. He’d taken him under his wing immediately upon joining the detail. Because of Mel, Billy always got plenty to eat and was only rarely assigned to P and P duty, convict-speak for pots-and-pans detail, considered the nastiest of all kitchen work. The slop sinks were deep, making it tough on the back, and the water was scalding. When Billy first broached the subject of trying to escape, Mel’s eyes sparkled with excitement. It had actually been Mel’s idea to mark Billy’s container.
“It should be something ironic,” Mel said. “A big F.U. to the bulls.”
Billy liked the idea initially, but worried that it might be foolhardy. He couldn’t risk anything that might be detected during the exit search. In the end, he’d instructed Mel to mark a large letter B on the lid of the barrel. The marking would enable Frank to know which of the barrels to offload at the warehouse.
The temperature inside the container was rising quickly. Billy was just beginning to feel the first prickles of fear. He willed them away like swatting at flies. Nothing to worry about. Everything was proceeding exactly as he’d planned. Less than a mile now. Shallow breathing.
Lunch was uneventful. The menu had consisted of tuna salad, stale bread, soup, and fries. Billy’s stomach was in knots, partially because of his earlier run-in with Jeeter but mostly because the hour of his escape was nearly at hand. He wasn’t hungry but he’d forced himself to eat, it was a necessary part of the ruse. It wouldn’t do to have one of the bulls notice he wasn’t eating, especially Jeeter.
All of the remaining details had been worked out during Darryl’s last visit. Billy told him to pick up a sandwich, then park out behind the warehouse. If anyone inquired why he was there, he’d simply say he was eating his lunch. Billy instructed him to hang back as the barrel was unloaded, waiting until Frank drove off before making his approach.
“How will Frank know which barrel to unload?” Billy asked, testing his brother.
“He’ll know because there will be a big letter B written on the top, in black marker.”
“What do you do as soon as he drives off?”
“I hightail it to the loading dock, pry off the lid, and get you the hell outta there.”
“What else?”
“I’m to bring you a change of clothes and a trash bag for the stuff you’ll be wearing.”
They’d been over the plan again and again, until Billy was confident that everyone knew exactly what to do. Frank knew to be at the warehouse by two-forty-five. If he hadn’t made it by then, he would scrap the plan and get Billy out of the barrel. Billy promised that Frank would get his money either way. Greed is the best insurance.
At two-twenty, Billy and Mel were working in the kitchen along with several other inmates. Mel was cleaning out the fryolators while Billy assisted. The rest of the crew had begun to prep for supper. Billy could hear several of the bulls laughing about something, just beyond the kitchen door. At two-twenty-five, Billy and Mel moved into the back room. They were standing at the loading-dock doors when Jeeter walked into the kitchen and began hassling one of the workers.
“Dammit,” Billy whispered. “Not now.”
“Stay here,” Mel said, wiping his hands on his apron. “I’ll take care of this.”
Billy waited nervously, beside an open barrel. A loud crash came from the adjoining room.
“Why don’t you watch what the hell you’re doing, convict!” Jeeter yelled. “Clean that mess up.”
Mel hastily returned through the doorway, just as the truck was backing up to the loading platform.
“Now,” Mel said. “Let’s go, we’ve only got a second.”
Billy climbed into the barrel and crouched down just as he had practiced. “Wish me luck.”
Mel picked up the lid and looked down at Billy one last time. “See you on the other side.”
Then there was only darkness.
All of his senses were dampened by the enclosure. It was like being blind. He was aware of movement and heard the muffled banging of other barrels being loaded onto the truck, but aside from those things he was effectively cut off from the outside world. After a minute or so he felt the truck begin moving toward the main gate, toward freedom.
He knew the bulls would realize he was missing by suppertime; he only hoped they wouldn’t notice beforehand. His only regret was not being around to see the look on their faces. If all went according to plan, he and Darryl would be across the state line into New Hampshire by the time the inmates sat down to eat.
Billy knew they were close. Frank had made an unmistakable right-hand turn. Judging by the way his barrel was bouncing, they were now traveling on the dirt drive which led to the warehouse. The air had become noticeably thinner. He felt lightheaded. Concentration was more difficult, and the leg cramps were almost unbearable. Just a little longer. The truck came to a stop.
Darryl was parked exactly where he was supposed to be when the blue Dodge came into view. He checked his watch: two-forty-six. They’d done it. He threw the rest of his half-eaten sub out the window and turned the key. Nothing but a click.
“Shit!” This can’t be happening. Not now. He’d forgotten about the Merc’s temperamental starter. He knew it had a bad spot, but it hadn’t acted up for some time. He turned the key in the ignition again. This time he heard a loud screech. “Come on. Come on.” He watched anxiously as Frank backed the truck into position and got out.
As Frank wrestled with the barrel, he tried the key a third time. “Come on, baby.” The engine roared to life. He let out a sigh of relief. Frank got back in the cab and began driving away. Darryl shifted into drive and sped toward the loading dock. He jumped out of the car, pry tool in hand, and hopped onto the concrete platform, where a single white barrel stood. On the lid in black marker was a big letter B. “I gotcha, Bill,” he said as he pried off the lid.
Frank was one happy camper. “I’m rich!” he yelled out the window to a passing car. “Goddamn, I’m rich! Four thousand buckaroos.” He reached down and cranked up the volume on the AM radio and began to sing along with Elvis. “Let’s rock, everybody let’s rock.”
Billy wasn’t sure if the lack of oxygen was muddling his thoughts or if the truck really was moving again. It couldn’t be. They’d stopped and Frank had moved his barrel. He was positive. What if he only moved your barrel to get at another one? What if he unloaded the wrong barrel? No, it couldn’t be. The barrel was clearly marked. But muddled thoughts or no, they were definitely moving again. As if to punctuate this thought, his barrel bounced up and down on the flatbed. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn’t draw any air into his lungs. Panic set in, and unlike the little flies of fear he’d shooed away earlier, these were huge and had sharp teeth. He beat on the inside of the drum with his fists, but his arms grew heavy and the pounding ceased. With his last bit of strength, he pushed his entire body up against the lid.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 Page 9