by Ted Bell
This was to be the day Stoke learned that “clubbin’ with the cons” wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Especially the con he’d nicknamed “Mr. Clean.”
Bonecrusher was one crazy 1950s vintage cat, looked exactly like that good old TV Mr. Clean guy, now on steroids, even with the little gold hoop earring in his left ear. Stoke could still hear that jingle in his head: “Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute.”
Man was seriously juiced now, a violent, disturbed individual, and you didn’t need a degree in shrinkology to notice he wasn’t doing windows anymore.
Also, seemed like the Bonecrusher just plain didn’t like black folks for some reason or other. Could have been something traumatic in his childhood. Peed in his jammies every night when Mommy tucked him in and turned out the light. Boom. Black. Scary. Or maybe he was just a natural-born dumb shithead from the day he was born. Anyway, Stoke had seen him around the yard surrounded by his crew, the White Aryans. He didn’t seem like the type you just walk up to and say, “Hey, just a darn minute there, Mr. Bonecrusher, I don’t understand why can’t we all just get along.”
What exactly happened that day was that Stoke was out in the part of the yard fenced off for lifting weights, minding his own damn business, when this Seminole Indian chief walks up and tells Stoke his time on the bench was up, and why didn’t he go shoot hoops with the rest of the goddamn niggas?
Stoke naturally ignored him, kept bench-pressing, feeling the burn, really into it. The sun was brutal, and it had to be way over a hundred degrees out in the baking concrete yard. He didn’t mind it. In fact, he’d decided to use his free time in the Glades to get back in shape. Serious shape.
He was doing the complete U.S. Navy SEAL physical training routine in his cell every night, and already he could feel his aging body starting to kick ass again. Feeling the SEAL edge, they called it. Stoke had a navy drill instructor when he was in special training down in the Keys; guy said something one day Stoke would never forget as long as he lived.
“The difference between combat and sport is that in combat you bury the guy who comes in second.”
“You deaf, homes?” the Chief said to him, leaning over to pick up a twenty-pound dumbbell in his right hand.
“Try and keep your shit together, man, I don’t want any trouble. I’ll be done here in five minutes. Maybe less. Then it’s all yours.”
The Chief looked at Stoke like he was a new arrival from Mars.
“Hey! Sometimes, nigga, you get trouble whether you want it or not,” the guy said, tossing the iron weight from one hand to the other like a tennis ball.
“That’s true. Sometimes you do.”
“Like, you got trouble now.”
“I do? Me? I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t think I could bring this dumbbell down on your ugly head so hard your brains squirt out your ears?”
“You’re Johnny Two Guns, aren’t you?” Stoke said, pumping out three fast reps in blinding succession.
“You got it, man.” He pronounced it “main,” trying to sound street. This from a swamp dog who’d killed his own mother with a tourist-shop tomahawk.
“How’d you get that name, Two Guns, I wonder?” Stoke asked, speaking now with some little effort between presses.
“My arms, man, look at ’em, you punkass bitch, what the hell you think? Chief Johnny Two Guns. That was the name I fought under. I’m the guy that knocked out Trevor ‘the Animal’ Garcia in the first round at the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas, man. Televised, man, high def.”
“Really? That was you?”
“Bet your ass.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“I dunno. I figured maybe you, you know, went the other way. Batted for the other team, know what I’m saying?”
“What the hell you talking about? Baseball? I never played baseball! Didn’t I just get done telling you I was a fighter?”
“Still.”
“Still what?”
“You know that guard, squat little guy with the walrus moustache, button-popper belly, you know who I mean, what’s his name, Squirrel?”
“Yeah, Squirrel, I know him. What about him?”
“Well, I was talking to him about you the other day and—hold on a second. Lemme just bang out these last few reps real fast, okay?”
Stoke did ten reps in quick succession, heaving the massive barbell up and down like it was only a couple of hundred pounds. “Okay, that’s about five minutes. It’s all yours, Chief.”
“Screw it, man, tell me about Squirrel. Tell me what did that rabbit turd asslick say about me?”
“Well, like I say, me and Squirrel, we were just shooting the shit, you know, talking about this and that, and the other thing and, hell, I can’t even remember why, but somehow your name came up.”
“My name?”
“Yeah. Your name.”
“And?”
“And Squirrel told me you were a pussy.”
“Fuck! Squirrel told you that?”
“That’s what the man said,” Stoke said, easing the barbell up behind his head to the upright stands used for support. He sat up on the bench, catching his breath. He was drenched with sweat, mopping his face with a towel, when he saw the Seminole Chief step forward, a twenty-pounder in each hand now, clanging them together in front of his massive chest like marching band cymbals.
“You two think I’m a pussy? Huh? You and Squirrel, that right? I asked you a question. You think I’m a pussy?”
“Now look, Two Guns, how the hell would I know if you’re a pussy or not? I just got here. I’m just reporting what Squirrel said, that’s all. He thinks you’re a pussy. Now I know Squirrel doesn’t have a whole lot of high-end electronics in his attic, but still. Man’s entitled to his opinion, right?”
“Here’s my opinion, you stinking piece of dogshit. Your daddy was a polesmoker and your black-assed mama sucked donkey dicks down in Tijuana two bucks a shot. Okay? That’s my opinion.”
Stoke stood up, slowly and thoroughly wiping his hands dry with the towel. Carefully, concentrating on each finger.
This black man was a lot bigger than Two Guns thought he was, when he’d been lying there on the bench. A whole lot bigger.
“I want you to say that again, Chief. About my mother. Word for word.”
“I said, your black-assed mama used to—”
“Here’s an idea,” a deep voice boomed from behind them. “Why don’t you two bottom bitches take this bullshit elsewhere? I got work to do here.”
It was the juiced-up Mr. Clean, aka the Bonecrusher, the White Supremacist Sharkey had warned him about.
Stoke smiled. An opportunity had presented itself and he was in a perfect mood to take advantage of it. Life was funny that way. It was why he never got bored. He couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.
“Who the hell are you?” Stoke asked the new arrival. Man was pulling a torn prison-issue T-shirt over his close-cropped head of spiky, bleached blond hair. He had a bodybuilder’s physique and the bulging blue eyes of a stone-crazy baby. Big red Nazi swastika tattooed on his forehead. One weird-looking dude, no doubt about it.
He did a bicep flex, pointed to it, and said, “This is who I am, bitch. Right here.”
Stoke glanced at Chief Johnny Two Guns and smiled. “Know what, Chief? If those muscles of his were tits, I’d say they were store bought.”
The Bonecrusher was so stunned by what he’d just heard, he was momentarily paralyzed.
“Here’s my problem,” Stoke said, seizing the moment, smiling as he moved quickly between the two of them, totally nonaggressive. “One of you two gentlemen just insulted my mother and the other one just called me a faggot. And, shit, I’ve only been here a week. This the way you treat newcomers? You two got to step your being polite game the fuck up, you understand what I’m sayin’? Otherwise, I can’t be
responsible, know what I’m sayin’?”
Bonecrusher laughed out loud. “Po-lite? Ah, hell, he ain’t seen us being po-lite yet, has he, Chief?”
Now Two Guns was all smiles, clearly relieved to have timely backup, especially someone of the Bonecrusher’s caliber.
Chief said, “Shit, this gutta thug player needs his black ass whupped, and I figure we just the right ones to do it? What d’you say?”
“I promise I won’t crush his skull till after you put a fist through his liver,” the Bonecrusher said.
They started for him.
Stoke gave them both a second to get comfortable with the idea of what they were about to do to him. Then he shot both hands out at blinding speed, one massive fist clamping around the throat of each one of them. He squeezed until they both started turning purple. When they were just about to pass out, he lifted them both about a foot off the ground, like lifting two babies out of a crib.
“Never, ever, come within fifty yards of me again, understand?” Stoke didn’t even notice the gathering of yardbirds behind him, all come to witness this prison miracle in the making.
There were strangled grunts from the two dangling men.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stoke said.
And then he banged their two heads together with enormous force, forehead to forehead, knocking them both unconscious.
He released his grip and they both dropped like dead meat, collapsing to the blistering pavement, not moving a muscle.
“See that?” Stoke said to the two inert forms on the ground. “I tried to warn you two boys I’m bad for your health. Now you know.”
A loud Klaxon horn sounded a thirty-second blast and Stoke knew it was time to head back to his cell. He jogged all the way across the yard, feeling good. He’d been saving the last three chapters of Dreadful Lemon Sky and was looking forward to reading them before chow time. Travis McGee and his pal Meyer were about to blow a pot-smoking ring wide open.
STOKE ALWAYS ATE ALONE IN THE MESS HALL, or “cafeteria” they called it here, like a damn high school. Nobody ever asked him to sit down and that was fine with him. Most of the time he could find a table with only one other guy and sometimes an empty table, like now. He set his tray down, pulled his Koran from under his arm, placed it reverentially on the table, and sat down on the steel bench.
Man, he was hungry.
He had to admit he’d been surprised by the prison chow. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t any worse than what you’d get in most hospitals, either. Tonight, for instance, he was having baked chicken breast, rice pilaf, and carrots. Plus chocolate pudding. Not bad, he thought, taking a bite of chicken and opening the Koran to a dog-eared page.
He took the Koran to every single meal. Not because it was such a nail-biter or even a page-turner, but just because he figured it was good advertising. And he was learning interesting stuff too. You hear people all the time talking about what the Koran says. But, after reading it, he got the feeling most of these people doing all the talking? Never read it.
Like what the Koran says about infidels and what must be done about them, basically kill all of them. Stoke, who had loved the Lord with all his heart all his life, had never actually thought of himself as an infidel. But, since he was a Baptist, a Christian, he was definitely high on their hit list. And there was some really unpleasant stuff about women in there that would drive every woman he’d ever known completely apeshit if they took the time to read it. The other folks who didn’t come off too well in the book were the Jews. Chief enemies on the Muslims’ shit list, no doubt about that. Jews, Baptists, and women. Three bad enemies to have, he thought.
He finished his supper, but remained at the table, reading his book, underlining passages with his green highlighter.
“Good evening, my brother,” somebody behind him said in a soft voice. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
He turned his head and saw a nice-looking young black kid, maybe twenty-three. Bone skinny. Round, wire-rim glasses perched on the end of his nose, like a college student. Clean-cut, shaved head, no gangsta bullshit karma here. A young black Gandhi. Stoke sorta liked him.
“No, son, sit down, sit down.”
“Thanks,” the boy said and put his tray down across from Stokely. He put his paper napkin in his lap and started in on his baked chicken. Didn’t look up or say another word till he’d cleaned his plate and polished off his chocolate pudding. So Stoke just kept flipping pages and underlining, thinking if the kid had something to say, he’d get around to it. Or not.
“I’ve been sent to express our appreciation,” the boy said quietly, not wishing to be heard.
Stoke looked up. “Me? Why?”
“For what you did today.”
“What did I do?”
“Two of our most dangerous enemies now fear you. All of our enemies now fear you. The enemy of mine enemy is my friend.”
“That’s a good one. Where’d you learn that?”
“It is an ancient Arabic proverb.”
“You a scholar?”
“I was. Now I’m a murderer, just like you.”
“Who’d you kill?”
“Infidels. Nonbelievers. Aggressors. I blew up a U.S. Army recruiting station in Atlanta.”
“I remember that. Who you think I murdered?”
“White state trooper up in Georgia. Pulled you over on I-84 for a busted taillight.”
“I have killed. Yes, I have.”
“Maybe those two in the yard, too.”
“Well, I was just trying to knock some sense into their heads, that’s all.”
“We think you may have succeeded. We’ll find out when they get out of the hospital. Certainly they will steer clear of you.”
“They’re in the hospital?”
“Concussions. Both of them.”
“Damn, I didn’t mean to knock sense into them that hard.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to be going. But before I do, I’ve been asked to invite you to attend a gathering. Friends of mine would like to meet you.”
“A gathering? What kind of gathering?”
“We meet in the prison library reading room once a week. Tomorrow evening at six to be exact, this week. We discuss the great books. One in particular. May I tell my friends that you will attend our gathering?”
“What’s your name, son?”
“I am Ali. What is yours?”
“Ali Baba,” Stoke said, thinking fast, going with the first name that popped into his head.
“I welcome you, brother.”
“Well, Ali, listen up, you tell your friends that I would be very grateful to be included in their reading group.”
“Inshallah,” the boy said.
“Inshallah,” Stoke replied without a moment’s hesitation, glad he’d learned that all-important phrase. God willing. That was the truth, in any religion.
The boy nodded and, without a word, rose and left the table. He looked pleased. He would tell the great imam that there was a new recruit. A most powerful soldier clearly ready to join the Army of God.
And Stoke would get some face time with the Wizard.
THEY CAME FOR HIM AT TWO in the morning. A hack unlocked his cell, walked in, and woke him up.
“Come with me,” the guard said.
“Where?” Stoke asked, immediately awake. It was pitch-black and all he could see was a shape standing over him.
“You’ll see.”
They took him to the prison hospital. And a private visit with Sharkey in a single room, Stoke realized when the hack said, “Twenty minutes,” and pulled the door closed.
“Hey, Stoke,” came the thin, reedy voice from the hospital bed. Stoke crossed the small room and put a comforting hand on Sharkey’s shoulder.
“Shark. Oh, man, I am so sorry.”
“Shit. Don’t be. You coming to the Glades is all I care about. They’re moving me over to Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm tomorrow. I told the warden I needed to see you tonight.”
“Good. How’re you feelin’?”
“Like something you drain spaghetti in.”
“It’s called a colander.”
“Sí, es un colador en Español.”
Stoke laughed. “You look pretty good, little perforated brother. Now, while we still have time, tell me about the shit you saw on the Wizard’s computer.”
“Stoke, I think they’re gonna start killing kids.”
“What?”
“Serious. I saw some shit on there about blowing up schoolhouses full of children. Some high school in Chicago. And school buses, shit like that.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. All they do, these Sword of Allah guys, is train how to be homegrown suicide bombers. Teach ’em to fly under the radar. Take poor kids from the cane fields, teenagers, fill them with religion, and show them how to blow shit up, including themselves.”
“But, kids? Schools? Why do you say that?”
“I only had time to read a couple of his e-mails, but one of them freaked me straight out.”
“What’d it say?”
“The children will die first.”
“Was there a name? Who sent that e-mail, Sharkey? You remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. On a lot of e-mails. Got to be a code name. Smith.”
“That’s it? Smith?”
“Smith.”
FORTY
BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA
THE MUSLIM GENTLEMEN’S READING SOCIETY MET at the far end of the prison library, behind all the stacks. There were about thirty hard-backed wooden chairs, like Stoke remembered from grade school, arranged in a semi-circle around a battered wooden podium. The imam, the little Yoda-like figure whom Sharkey had called the Wizard, was standing at the podium in a white robe, reading from the Koran. Standing next to him was his protector, the black Goliath Ishtar, arms folded across his chest, still as a statue, eyes ablaze with hate.