Masters of Noir: Volume Four

by Lawrence Block

Russ said: “You may want a month in the Hole. I don't. Shutup."

  "Hole ain't so bad,” Jock said. “Ask Mac. He was there last."

  Macalay said: “Not so bad. But I don't want any more of it."

  "You used to be a cop, didn't you?” Russ asked.

  Macalay nodded. It was the first time it had been mentioned.

  "I don't like cops,” Russ said. He drained a big swallow of popskull, and breathed out. “I don't like cops’ brothers. I don't like ex-cops, an’ any woman who'd give birth to a cop would sleep with monkeys.” And he took another drink.

  "Okay,” Macalay said, telling himself to take it slow and easy, to feel his way along. “Now I'm a con, just like anybody else.” It was hot in the boiler, and the liquor didn't help any. That stuff must have been a hundred and thirty proof at least, and they were drinking it straight.

  "I don't like drinking with cops,” Russ said monotonously. “I don't like drinking with cops’ cellmates. I don't have to listen to cops’ cellmates sing."

  "You're just beggin’ for a throat full of teeth,” Jock said, still humming.

  "Oh, tough guy,” Russ said. His hand flicked, and there was a little round of wood in it; a piece of broomstick, but carved carefully to give it looks. It opened, and one piece had a leather-needle sticking out of it. The other had been the sheath.

  "Put it away Russ,” Hanning said. He was a very quiet guy, who had only drifted into buddying with Russ because they'd been in the same trade in the free world, loft-men.

  "You turnin’ cop-lover, too?” Russ asked. His speech was getting a little blurred. He turned the bradawl shiv, and it shone in the dim light.

  Jock suddenly shot out his foot, trying to kick the shiv out of Russ’ hand. Russ slid away, and stood up, his back against the polished boiler plate. “Now we know,” he said. “Now we know.” He started going for Jock.

  Macalay got his feet under him. Why couldn't it be some con other than Russ? Lousy luck. There was no other way to make the play now. Maybe, with Jock, he could get the shiv away and later, when sober, Russ would appreciate it.

  The floor of the boiler was slick from the chipping they had given it. It was going to be a nasty fight; but Macalay needed Russ alive. He must try to keep him alive.

  Fitz was gone; Nosy was halfway up the ladder. Before he could disappear through the manhole, Hanning was after him. The light was blocked a second time, and then Jock and Macalay were alone with the safecracker.

  Jock said: “Got a shiv, Mac?"

  Macalay said: “No. But there's only one of him. I'll keep him looking at me, and you get up behind him and mug him."

  Jock said: “Fair enough."

  Russ was bent over, shuffling around the boiler floor, the shiv held out, threateningly and guarding his belly at the same time. He moved into the center of the boiler, and that was a mistake. Jock started to get behind him, he half-turned, and Macalay was on him.

  Macalay had had judo training as a rookie cop. He lunged at the knife with his right hand, and as it came up, shifted and came in fast with his left. The knife edge of his palm caught Russ on the side of the neck, and the safecracker went half off his feet.

  Then everything turned into slow motion. Russ caromed off the side of the boiler, slid and staggered, and fell. He landed square on the leather needle in his hand. He made a little, quiet noise—almost like a tired man snuggling into bed—and was still.

  Jock and Macalay stared at each other across his body. After a moment Jock bent down and felt his pulse. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. He's had it."

  Macalay said: “I guess we have, too.” He shook his head. “No way of getting out of this. No way.” And by the emphasis, he included his chance of beating the rap per Strane's agreement.

  Jock said: “We can try. It's hot out there. Maybe the screw's gone off to hunt himself some shade ... If we can get to the kitchen, and be bumming chow, the boys there'll give us an alibi."

  Macalay said: “We have a chance. Those damn guards don't work too hard."

  Jock went up the ladder first. Macalay was so close behind him that he almost got his fingers stepped on. They clambered through the manhole, and out onto the boiler top, and dropped down on the brick floor of the boiler room.

  Nobody was around. The heating furnaces were off for the summer; the con in charge of the power boilers was around on the other side, where the gauges were. It was almost as hot on the boiler room floor as it had been inside the boiler, or at least it seemed that way.

  They made it to the door, and out, and walked along the side of the powerhouse towards the kitchen, the next building. The yard was deserted in the heat. Jock said: “The P.K. done us a favor, when he thought he was piling it on us, making us chip that boiler. We're gonna get away with it."

  Macalay said: “We haven't yet."

  Jock said: “No. We ain't. I got an ace in the hole. I've been saving it. If we can make the kitchen I think I'll play it."

  "This is the big hand,” Macalay said. “Play your ace. This is murder.” The goose that could lay the hundred-grand egg for him had been murdered.

  "Self defense,” Jock said quickly. “Ain't no fingerprints on that shiv except his."

  Macalay laughed. “By the time the P.K. gets through, there'll be fingerprints. Yours, mine. That P.K. lives to see us all fixed, but good."

  A hundred feet from the kitchen, ninety feet. Their shoes seemed to have lead soles, like they'd dressed for diving. The sweat poured steadily down Macalay's back. Abruptly, he wanted to stand in the scorched yard and scream: “I'm not a criminal. I'm not a con! I don't belong with these men, this isn't me!"

  You're shook, he told himself. Take it easy. Remember, this is the eight-ball you picked.

  Fifty feet, forty feet. The whole traverse wasn't taking more than two minutes. But hours went by inside Macalay's brain, years of aging were being piled on his body. He told himself, trying to make a joke of it, that his arteries would be hardened before he got to the kitchen.

  He found the joke didn't amuse him.

  Now the loathesome smell of greasy stew bubbling was strong in their noses. There should have been a guard outside the kitchen door; there wasn't. The P.K. was so bad that the guards doped off half the time, smoking and lounging in a shady area behind the infirmary. The P.K. himself stayed out of the yard as much as possible.

  The Warden was writing a book on the reform of criminals. The Deputy Warden toured around the United States making speeches about the Warden's pet theories.

  It was a hell of penitentiary, but it had a kitchen and they were almost there.

  And then they were inside. Macalay followed Jock around the edge of the big room, past cons peeling vegetables, washing pots, past baker-cons and cook-cons and salad-maker-cons. There were supposed to be civilian chefs, but the jobs were never filled, and the budget came out nicely at the end of the year, if the food didn't.

  Somewhere Jock snatched two white caps, and they put them on. They bellied in to a sink where a punk named Snifter was scrubbing grills with a red brick. Each of them snatched up a brick and went to work. Macalay noticed that Jock was very careless with the dirty water that came off the grease-caked grill; he splashed it on his clothes, it ran down on his shoes. After a moment Macalay got the idea too; and in a couple of minutes he looked as though he'd been working in the kitchen all morning.

  His stomach began to unknot, his arteries to soften.

  A trusty-messenger went by; carrying invoices from the kitchen to the front office. Jock stepped back and blocked his way. Jock's lips hardly moved, and his voice was faint even as close as Macalay was.

  "Bud, take a message for me. To a screw named Sinclair. You know him, don't you?"

  "Yeah,” the trusty said. “Big potbellied guy with a brown moustache."

  "The one,” Jock said. “Tell ‘im I wanna see him. Here. Now."

  "S'posin’ he don't want to see you?"

  "Tell him I just got a letter from a friend of his in ElkoNeva
da."

  "Okay,” said the trusty. “You owe me a favor.” You got nothing for nothing in the can.

  Jock nodded, and stepped in to the sink again, started scrubbing. A con pushed a load of grills up and dumped them in the sink, and more greasy water splashed over them. Macalay said: “Watch what you're doin', stir-bum."

  "Who's a stir-bum, you stir-bum?"

  The grease from the grills was a solid coating on Macalay's arms now, and its taste, and the taste of the blue air of the kitchen, was all down his throat. He said: “Isn't this enough grills?"

  Jock said: “I'm waiting for Sinclair."

  All this time the punk named Snifter scrubbed grills between them, not saying anything, apparently not hearing anything. Macalay realized that the punk was scared to death at being between Jock and one of his Jockeys, a tough yard gang. Macalay wondered what Snifter would do if he knew why Macalay and Jock were scrubbing grills, and remembering why they were there, made the filthy work a lot easier to take.

  And here came Sinclair, a paunchy guy, with a moustache that probably would have been gray if he hadn't chewed tobacco. There were grease spots on his gray shirt and blue pants, and tarnish on his badge. “You Jock?” he said.

  Jock nodded. “One time of Elko Nevada,” he said. “With lots of friends there."

  Sinclair chewed the moustache, and looked at Macalay and Snifter. “Blow."

  Jock said: “Snifter can blow. Macalay's a friend of mine. From ElkoNevada."

  Snifter sidled away, happily.

  "What's all this about Elko, Nevada?” Sinclair said. Unlike Jock he did not say it as though it was all one word.

  "Mac and I have been here all morning. When we reported to the job we were supposed to do, it was all done, and you went through the yard and told us to report to the kitchen."

  Sinclair spat brown juice on the kitchen floor. “Yeah?"

  "Yeah,” Jock said. “And you never held up Horse Caner's gambling joint in ElkoNevada and you never shot his brother and one of the faro-dealers. Never."

  Macalay watched Sinclair. The pig eyes of the guard never showed anything, not fear, not anger. “When did all this happen?"

  "Five minutes after the first shift started this morning,” Jock said.

  Sinclair said: “Okay. What job was it that was finished?"

  "Chipping boilers."

  Sinclair started away. From five feet he turned back. “And stay away from Nevada."

  "Never even heard of the place,” Jock said.

  "It's a no-good state,” Sinclair said, and kept on going.

  Macalay let out his breath as far as it would go. Then he hated to breathe in again because of the blue grease-smoke in the kitchen. “That was quite an ace."

  Jock nodded, sadly. He had given up on the grills, was trying to get the grease off his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “A pal got the word to me when he heard I was coming here. I hated to play that hole ace. I really hated to."

  3.

  This time there were five naked men lined up in front of the P.K.'s desk. The P.K. looked very happy; he had the look of a man who'd hit oil digging a sewer. There was old Fitz, there was Hanning, Nosy, Jock and Macalay.

  The P.K. said: “Okay. I'm paid by the year; I don't mind waiting. You were the guys on the chipping gang with Russ. This morning we go to put the boiler back in service, and he's in there stinking dead. And we've had the state cops looking for him for three days. So what happened?” He glared at them.

  Nobody said anything. The P.K. leaned back in his desk. A triangular stand of wood on it said his name was J. Odell, and he was Principal Keeper. Macalay wondered vaguely what the J stood for, but he didn't ask.

  "I don't take it kindly that for three days the papers have been full of I let a con escape,” the P.K. said. “I don't take it kindly on account of the people don't remember it wasn't so. They think they remember I got a leaky jug. It ain't good."

  None of the cons said anything. It was still hot weather, and their bodies glistened. Macalay wondered if the P.K. was a little queer, the way he liked to question naked cons. It could very well be. A homo and a sadist would be two nice things to say about the P.K.

  You're thinking like a con, Macalay told himself. The P.K.'s just a sour guy who does all the work the Warden and the Deputy Warden should do. You find guys like that in police stations all over the country. Supposing they take it out in socking a prisoner now and then, it's understandable.

  And a voice inside answered: “It depends on which side you stand. What a cop or a guard can understand doesn't make sense to a con or a suspect."

  The P.K. said: “You guys were on the crew with Russ. One of you killed him."

  Hanning said: “How did he die?"

  A guard standing behind the five prisoners reached out with his swagger stick and whacked Hanning across the back. “Shut up."

  "One of you knows how he croaked,” the P.K. said. “It don't matter to the rest of you. I can throw the five of you into the Hole. But it's nice an’ cool in the Hole now. So—” He turned to the guards. “I want five pairs of cuffs.” He thought. “An’ a piece of chain."

  He was positively chuckling when the things were brought. “You guys like the boiler room so well, you're gonna see it. There was jungle juice in that boiler, there was a still. Having a good time, wasn't you?"

  He had them handcuffed one to the other. The man at each end had one open cuff; the guard slipped a chain link over one of them, and then led the line of five, still naked, out of the office, down the stairs, across the exercise yard to the boiler room. The P.K. strolled along with them, his uniform coat open. He was whistling softly under his breath.

  There was a guard on duty outside the boiler room this time. The word had gone out; the P.K. is in the yard. It wasn't a thing that happened very often; the screws were all on duty and at their posts. Some of them had even straightened their uniforms and tried to polish their badges.

  The guard saluted, and the procession marched into the boiler room. There were cops, plain clothes and uniformed, from the State Police Force working around No. 4. The P.K. led his little show there and stopped.

  He said: “You guys about through?"

  A detective turned and grunted. “Nothing to find out here."

  "Then scram."

  The detective probably had a good deal of rank; he didn't seem to be used to that kind of talk. He said: “Huh?"

  "Regulations say if there's a homicide in the prison, I gotta let you guys look it over. So you looked. Now I'm taking it over my way. I'll call you tonight, let you know who croaked Russ."

  The detective turned a blue-eyed gaze on the five naked men. “What the hell?"

  "They're gonna talk. Probably only one or two of ‘em did the killing. The others'll be glad to squeal before I get through with them."

  "Stuff you get that way don't stand up in court."

  "This is my pen. It'll stand up here."

  The P.K. reached out, grabbed the loose end of the chain, pulled it. The con to whose cuff it went gave a little yelp as the cuff bit into his wrist. The P.K. said: “You guys make a circle around the boiler. No. 5 here. Face the boiler and stand a foot away from it.” He turned to the detective. “You think I'm cruel, cap? A cruel guy wouldn't give ‘em that foot. But me, I got all the time in the world."

  Macalay found it was hard to force himself to step that close to the boiler side. A faint cherry glow came out of it. But the bite on his wrist was more immediate and he stepped in. The P.K. fastened the chain so they were pinned there, in a circle whose radius was just a foot more than that of the boiler rim.

  The detective-captain said angrily: “I don't want to see this."

  "Then don't look,” the P.K. said. “Get back in your dolly-cart an’ go tour the pretty scenery. You state cops give me a pain. Inside here, we know what these guys are. Rats, all of ‘em. Punks. Mebbe they act nice an’ pretty for you, but once that gate closes on ‘em, they show up for what they are."

&n
bsp; The captain was not visible to Macalay any more. He said: “All right, boys, the Warden doesn't seem to need us anymore."

  There was the shuffle of men moving together. There was the snarl of the P.K.'s voice. “I'm not the Warden. I'm just the lousy Principal Keeper."

  But the heat had started now. Sweat streamed down his front, into his eyes, into his mouth when he gasped. He shut his eyes tight, and red flames flickered against the eyelids.

  His wrists hurt, and he had to brace himself. The men on the other side of the circle were pulling back, trying to get away from the cherry-glow of the boiler wall, and that meant they were pulling him in. He braced his naked, aching feet, and pulled back, and across the boiler one of the men shrieked. He didn't know which one.

  Old Fitz was next to him. Macalay heard him mutter: “We gotta hold our own."

  The boiler room floor was greasy, the puddle of sweat didn't help. But he braced himself, and leaned backwards.

  Jock's voice on the other side of the boiler yelped: “Give us a little slack here. Hanning's touching the metal!” Macalay realized then that the scream he'd heard had never stopped. He let up on the pull a little, and the screaming stopped, broke off into a mumbled wail.

  The sweat had stopped, he suddenly realized. Guess there's just so much in a man, and his was gone.

  Now his head began to go around, and his eyeballs began to swell. It was as though all the liquid left in his body had gone to his eyes. He was sure they would burst in a moment, and that seemed worse to him than dying. The picture of his eyes bursting, and their liquid spattering on the boiler wall and drying there became so real that he jerked back, and the scream came from the other side again.

  He shook his head and came back to a sort of half-sanity, a limbo-land on the edge of reason. The P.K.'s gravelly voice came through to him: “All right, you lice. Anybody want to confess an’ save four other guys’ lives?"

  He got no answer; perhaps he hadn't expected any. The voice deepened to a snarl: “All right. If you think I mind seeing the whole bunch of you shrivel up an’ blow away, just keep your mouths shut. It don't matter to me."

  The snarl went on. But Macalay had a new worry. Old Fitz on his left wrist had fainted. He fell forward, almost breaking Macalay's arm, and Macalay and Nosy, on either side of him, flipped him back, automatically, and held him there. The cuff bit through the skin and Macalay began to bleed. The blood running down his hand felt cool and nice.