by Stanley Gray
“Why are the U.S. Marshalls coming to get us?” he asked.
“I only talk about you. Your case.” she said. Then she consulted the screen. “They’s takin’ you to Texas. Don’t be tryin’ shit me. You’s the one all over the news, for that shootin’ in El Paso. They’s go’n kill you. Oh, lord, yes. You go’n fry. Now, get up. Return to yo’ seat.” she said.
“Do I get a phone call?” he asked.
“You testin’ my patience, boy. You really is. Want me call them guards? Because I will.” she threatened.
Tom shook his head and got up. He waddled past Mike, exchanging glances, and went back to his seat. The words of the woman stuck in his head, repeating on an endless loop. Tom wanted to get up and shake the woman, make her understand that what she was doing wasn’t funny. God, he hated the smug look on her pudgy, wrinkled face, the happy apathy that seemed to dance behind her eyes. She’d told him he was destined to die. And the unfortunate fact was, he could easily believe her.
Texas wasn’t exactly the most welcoming place towards suspected criminals.
Rocking back and forth, Tom glanced towards one of the officers who loitered near the desk. He wanted to reach down and massage some blood back into his legs. After debating it for a few moments, Tom went for it. He bent forward and began kneading his calves. It hurt. He winced. A violent tingling sensation rippled through his legs, impacting him so hard it almost forced him to cry. Thankfully he was able to resist the impulse. Tom looked around at the people around him. None of them seemed to notice him all that much.
His eye caught Delilah’s. They smiled at each other. Sad, knowing smiles. Tom felt the first pangs of an ugly guilt. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But he felt as if he had. And Tom began to wonder. He might take everything back, ignore the truth and continue on as just one more clone, if it meant this beautiful woman would be spared. The only regret was that he’d unwittingly dragged two other innocent parties into this morass of depravity.
Someone began yelling. Tom turned to gawk, just like most of the other inmates around him. A thin young man with long brown hair stood at one of the phones lined up against one wall at the far end of the room. Two officers approached him, even as he waved his fists and screamed so loud and hard his face turned purple. Veins bulged in his neck. The man wore orange plastic flip-flops and had the top of his orange jumpsuit pulled down and tied around his waist.
“What does the orange mean?” Tom stammered aloud, not really thinking about the words.
“This your first time? Means he’s a parole violator.” The large man next to him said, without even turning to face him.
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on the scene. The man threw a punch at the first officer, a sturdy-looking Hispanic man with a blue tattoo sneaking out from under one arm of his short-sleeved uniform shirt. Then the parole violator dropped down and tried to tackle the guard.
A loud siren sounded from above, and the sound of scuffling soon was drowned out by dozens of heavy footsteps. Guards flew from various portals as if summoned by some magical, arcane force, flocking to the fight. The scrappy middle-aged gentleman with the bad teeth and the anger problem began to scream and yelp as a half-ton of man flesh piled on top of him.
A sudden thought struck him. Tom looked around. All eyes were on the incident. Getting up, trying to remain inconspicuous, Tom shuffled over to the other side, where he sat down next to Delilah. “How are you holding up?” he whispered.
She jumped. Her eyes widened. Fear etched itself into her features. “What are you doing?” she spat out.
“I’m trying to see how you’re doing.” Tom said.
After a moment, no longer than a second, though it felt like a lot more, she smiled. “I’m scared. What did they say to you up there?” she asked. She nodded her head towards the front.
“Just telling me the obvious. They’re going to take us back to El Paso.” he said.
“Did you ask about a phone call?” she asked.
Tom nodded. He glanced towards the back, where the rebellious, obstreperous inmate was being strapped into a plastic restraint chair. “I better go.” he said. He got up, but he felt something. He stopped. Plopped back down into the seat. Turning, he looked directly into the shining brown eyes of the only woman he’d ever really cared about.
“Hey.” she said. A solitary tear streamed down her cheek.
Tom looked around, then leaned forward and wiped it from her face. “Hey.” he said.
“I… I love you.” she said.
It hurt too much to say anything more. Tom nodded. He bent down and kissed her, a quick little peck on the cheek, and then retreated, his eyes moist. He glanced her way after he’d sat back down. The noise level had returned to something close to non-lethal levels, though it remained loud. The look in her eyes was a category 5 hurricane that blew down the walls of his emotions and shook the foundation of his soul. Tom bit his lower lip so hard it drew blood.
The acute knowledge hit him. Tom understood then, as he looked away to avoid the tyranny of his feelings, that they were destined to remain forever together yet apart. And the isolation was his fault. It hurt worse knowing that the pain and privations inflicted upon her could be attributed to his own misdeeds.
Mike returned to his seat. He cleared his throat.
Tom tried to focus. He needed to remain alert. His heart raced and his body dripped with pungent sweat. He could feel his once-white tattered undershirt sticking to his skin underneath the county jumpsuit. He leaned in closer to his new friend, the painter. Tom sniffed.
“They said we’re going to Texas.” Mike said. He spoke in a harsh whisper.
Tom nodded. He looked around. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them. The nasty woman at the desk wasn’t there at the moment, though Tom couldn’t quite determine if that were a good or bad thing. “U.S. Marshalls.” he said.
“How did they find you so fast?” Mike asked.
The former journalist looked up at the ceiling. Water spots revealed themselves. Someone kicked a door behind them, sending an obscenely loud shock wave reverberating through the room. People turned to look. Tom just breathed a sigh of relief and smiled for a brief second, glad and slightly proud that at least he hadn’t flinched. He shrugged. “Great question. Maybe my phone?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question.
They returned to their amicable silence. Tom tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He felt the weight of his burdens. His shoulders and chest seemed heavy-laden with the yoke of his guilt and shame and anger. He wanted to find a way out of this, but he didn’t think there was one. The fax was in. He’d broken ranks with the big dogs. He’d attempted to reveal their dangerous secrets, expose their pitiful little games. The fact that he’d even learned them was probably enough, but they would have understood it better had he tried to use the information to blackmail them. That’s something they would have done.
Perhaps his greatest sin was not being one of them. He’d gotten initiated into the brotherhood, but had been a poser all along. A charlatan too ignorant and idealistic to realize that the doggerel about truth and transparency was just that, doggerel.
One question kept nagging him, however: what was he supposed to do now?
Chapter 16
Something fell in his lap.
Tom looked up, blinking, a thin film of gunk crusted onto his eyelids. He turned his head, not quite understanding where he was. His mouth felt dry. He mumbled something. Tom’s entire body ached, and his legs throbbed.
He looked down. In his lap was a clear plastic bag filled with a sandwich, a rotten-looking reddish apple, and a small bag of potato chips that was probably fifty percent air. Tom couldn’t summon an appetite if he wanted to.
He bent his head down and wiped his eyes. He scanned the brightly lit room. Tom was in jail. Turning slightly, he saw that Delilah remained where she’d been. She nibbled at her sandwich. She smiled at him when she noticed his attention was fixed on her.
There was some
thing vaguely reassuring about seeing her there. Even under the exigent circumstances. He didn’t feel as alone, as afraid when he could sense her presence. Tom recalled the fragrance of her hair and smiled.
Tom looked at the bald man setting on the other side of him. “You gamble?” he asked.
“The fuck you say to me?” the man asked.
“Oh, hey. I’m Tom. I’d offer to shake your hand, but…” Tom smiled ruefully.
“Who the fuck are you, man?” the guy asked. Tattoos covered both forearms. He wore a few thin blue tattoos under his eyes, too.
“I was on the news a bunch. Just some dude, really. I mean, I’m just… I’ve never been in jail or trouble.” Tom said.
“Yeah. So? You want to bet on the fucking Raiders?” the guy said.
“What’s your name?” Tom asked.
The man laughed. A throaty thing that somehow seemed menacing. “You are fucking crazy. Crazy.” he said.
“You don’t know the half of it. But, hey. You know? Maybe I’ll just go with that. Incompetence. Wouldn’t it be somethin’? If I actually beat them at their own game?” Tom smiled. “I’m sorry. Their own fucking game.” he said.
“What did you do, essay?” the unidentified man asked.
“They say I shot up an art gallery.” Tom said.
“That was you? Aw, man. Fuckin’ shit was all over the news. Wait’ll I tell the jefe. Call me ‘los, holmes. Or Joker. I got your back, dude. You need to know South Siders in the system, you know? I mean, usually we get along okay with the whites. This my, like, fifteenth time here, essay. I mean, I’ve shot people, but I aint never done no shit like that. Just walk in and start capping fools in public? I heard they were a bunch of…” Joker put one hand up, making an O with his index finger and thumb. He proceeded to insert a finger into that O. He mouthed a dirty, disparaging word.
“My friend here is gay.” Tom said.
Mike perked up at that.
Joker looked taken aback. For a moment, his eyes seemed confused. Then he just laughed. “Whatever, man.” he shook his head. “Just a fair warning, though. A lot of people in the joint don’t like that shit. You know? Might want to stick to the story. Get more respect that way. A lot more fuckin’ respect. That’s what we go by, holmes. Fucking respect. You have respect, people vouch for you, you never really have to worry about fucking nothin’. If you don’t have respect, you might do hard time.” Joker said.
“Thanks. But this guy…he’s my friend.” Tom said.
“Suit yourself. I aint vouching for him. What the fuck were you talkin’ ‘bout, anyway? Gambling?” he asked.
Tom forgot about that part. He chuckled. Looking around, he realized he was talking openly and none of the officers seemed to care. “They don’t care we’re talking?” he asked.
“Nah, homie. Different shift. Some o’ the fuckin’ pigs like to fuck with us, homie. You know? They all have their different fucking preferences.” Joker said.
Tom nodded. “So, do you know what over/unders are?” he asked.
“Yeah, man. The fuck you think I am, essay? You better ask your heina.”
Tom blinked. He didn’t know what that last part meant, but he deduced from the tone and context it was probably some sort of derogatory remark directed towards Mike. Tom realized with sudden clarity that remaining friends with Mike was going to come with consequences. Tom hoped he was willing and able to accept them. Because if he couldn’t figure it out, things would probably be worse. For both of them.
“Chill the fuck out.” Tom said. He mirrored the liberal use of profanity. One of the tricks he’d learned early on when interviewing sources was to mimic them. Almost always worked like a charm. It got past people’s natural defenses. Language erected all sorts of walls and barriers. You can usually tell, at some point, what community someone is a part of by the words they use. Or don’t use.
Joker gave Tom a long, hard look. But then he chuckled. “You are a crazy motherfucker. You might be lucky, man. I don’t know. I can’t guarantee anything, but if your homeboy can cough up some money, he can probably stay. He just can’t be doin’ any of that gay shit with the homies. Seriously, man. They’ll bash both your fucking white ass heads in.” Joker said. Something in his body language seemed to indicate he might actually like that.
“Over/under: how many chips do you think are in this bag? Line is…” Tom looked up and chewed on his lower lip. He fought the urge to smirk. He understood the irony of the situation, but he didn’t want to risk making this brutish thug mad. “7.” he said. The number seemed a bit arbitrary, but he was willing to roll with it. He just wanted to talk to someone, do something, and this was the first thing that jumped into his brain.
Joker’s eyes glossed over as he rubbed his chin and seemed to ponder the scenario. “What are we betting, essay?” he asked. He had a hoarse, smoker’s voice. His breath smelled bad, like hot, sour milk. The teeth on the bottom of his mouth looked crooked, chipped and blackened when they existed at all.
Tom felt a pang of guilt for his initial reaction to the man. He appraised the gangster as he thought about the odds of their trivial little bet. Tom wondered what he would be like, had he been forced to walk a mile in this man’s shoes. Perhaps he wouldn’t be much different. Of course, Tom knew people who’d emigrated from Ciudad Juarez, who went on to college and were now writers with decent followings and careers. He’d interviewed many other Hispanic men, and women, who’d done military service with distinction and honor. So maybe he wouldn’t be like this. But, he couldn’t know. And, either way, he might have to spend a lot of time around Joker, or his friends. It couldn’t hurt to have some friends on his way into the prison system.
Especially considering his own ineptitude and inexperience.
He’d never know how to make a shank, much less use one.
Tom smiled as the thought, of him stabbing someone, crossed his mind. He couldn’t even visualize it.
“I’ll bet my lunch. I haven’t opened it yet.” Joker held it up. It appeared to be the exact same as Tom’s.
“Okay. So? Over or under?” Tom asked. A thought crossed his mind. “We need a bag of chips. So, we’ll bet the lunch, minus the chips.” Tom said.
“You’re fuckin’ smart, holmes. Okay. Deal Knuck it up.” Joker said, reaching out a fist.
It took a second for it to register with Tom that “knucking,” meant bumping fists. He reached out and knocked his hand lightly against the other man’s much bigger one. Then he tore open the bag, scrunching up his face a bit at the sound of the plastic ripping. He opened the yellow bag of potato chips. He resisted the urge to smirk as he felt the intense gaze of his interlocutor and co-conspirator on him. He dropped one chip slowly into his lap. Taking a moment, he exchanged glances with Joker, and they both nodded. A silent acknowledgement of their agreement as to his counting methods.
He counted each chip out, until there was a greasy dark stain on his jumpsuit and a small pile of ten chips. Tom looked up. He jerked his head back. He smiled. “Hey. You didn’t say if you wanted over or under.” he said.
“Over.” Joker said.
Tom frowned. He looked down.
Joker reached over and snatched up Tom’s sack of food.
“Hey, man.” Tom said, raising his voice a bit unconsciously. A couple of people looked over.
“Shut the fuck up, dude. You’ll get the fucking cops over here, essay. Then people will think you’re a fucking rata. You don’t want to start out your time as a fuckin’ cheese-eatin’ rat, holmes.” Joker took the sandwich out, unwrapped the cellophane, and took a big bite. Crumbs of white bread fell down in a blizzard onto his jumpsuit. Joker looked over at Tom, whom was scowling at him. Joker laughed. “Don’t get fuckin’ butt hurt, essay. We made a bet. It’s not my fault you didn’t get my side before you started counting the damn chips.” he said.
Joker leaned to the side. “Look, man. I had to take that shit. You know? Because if I didn’t, I’d look weak. People are always wa
tching, in this environment. It’s dog-eat-fucking-dog, man. Fucking people are crazy. Okay? I don’t mean no disrespect or nothin’. Okay? We cool?” he asked.
Tom nodded. He shook Joker’s hand.
“So, you’ve been in and out a lot. What did you do this time?” Tom asked.
“They say I killed a few prostitutes, man. I don’t know what the hell these fuckin’ pigs are thinkin’. You know?” Joker said. He winked.
And then he went back to eating the purloined sandwich with his mouth open.
Chapter 17
The screams.
He couldn’t get the screams out of his head.
Tom sat on his bunk, rocking back and forth, trying to hold his hands over his ears. He pressed so hard, it hurt. Open, suppurating sores dotted his thin arms. He’d only begun to remember things, to realize where he was.
At some point, he’d been transported from the jail in New Mexico. Tom couldn’t say when, or how. But, looking down, he felt reasonably reassured that he still had his legs. He wasn’t fully confident, because he didn’t know what was real, at this point.
His head hurt. A piercing pain that nearly blinded him each time it pulsed just behind his eyes made it difficult to concentrate. It hurt to breathe. He rocked back and forth. The movement somehow calmed him. As much as he could be calmed, under the circumstances.
Tom scratched his arms. He looked down. Quarter-sized welts dotted his hairless arms. He tilted his head and stared. The fact that his arms were no longer hirsute seemed vaguely odd. He seemed to remember having hairy appendages, before… before all of this. He stuck his index finger into one. It went maybe halfway, down to the first knuckle, into the wound. An unpleasant odor attended this probing. Tom shook his head.
The movement send a violent wave of nausea-inducing pain through him. He collapsed onto his side into a fetal position. He cried.
Tears coursed down his cheeks. He continued to rock back and forth. The movement caused some friction, which seemed sort of unpleasant. Tom felt some of the blisters or whatever they were breaking open. But he felt entirely powerless to do anything about it. He barely knew his own name, much less where he was or how to ask for help. Whom to ask for help.