by James Blake
Polack said, "You gonna flatten this mother for me tonight, partner? I got a lotta bread riding on your handsome ass."
"My ass ain't where it's at. Partner. You shouldn't gamble, it rots your teeth."
He turned his head suddenly to catch Ronnie unaware, pinning him with the unsettling fixed brown stare. "Evening, Bracken, how you been? How's everything in Fink City?"
Ronnie was thankful for the shades he wore. "Good to see you, Bud. You going to take this cat?"
"I'm gonna make you a present of his ears." He turned and made his way back to ringside. He knocked out his opponent in the first round, and after the fight Polack kept them waiting while he rapped to Larrabee.
Walking back to Trusty quarters, Ronnie heard Billy say, "What did Larrabee want?"
"Bread. I let him have it. He earned it."
"You gave it to him?"
"Are you nuts? I loaned it to him. His brother sends him money every week, he's good for it."
Next day, one of the chapel clerks, with an indefinable air of emphasis, told Ronnie somebody wanted to see him outside. On the steps of the chapel he was surprised to see Black Daddy -- the wheeling-dealing hyper-hip spade who was ramrod of the Negro convicts in the Black Rock. His air of power, his enameled sophistication and his mocking oblique way of rapping had always rendered Ronnie near speechless the few times they had talked
"Black Daddy. Hey man, what's happening? You're early, church ain't till Sunday."
A shadow that might have been a smile flitted over the impassive jet-black shiny face, the big lips barely moving. "Say, Bracken. Ain't nuthin' shakin'. Got a minute?"
"For the King of Africa? Command me."
The guttural chuckle was more formal response than mirth. They walked around to the side of the chapel and sat on the grass behind some shrubbery. Black Daddy handed him a box and Ronnie opened it to find a gold wristwatch.
Startled, he gaped at the spade chieftain, an electric surmise on his face.
With a sardonic grimace Black Daddy said, "Naw man, cool it, it's from Larrabee. He knows I got gate passage. Asked me to bring it to you."
"From Bud ? What the hell for?"
"Hey man, I just brought it, that's all. I don't know nothin'."
"I -- Jesus. I don't know what to say. You puttin' me on a hummer? I don't know what to think."
"You hear from Doug?"
"No man, don't expect to. You know how that is. When they go, they're gone."
"That was a blowin' cat. I miss that horn."
" You miss it."
"Listen, Bracken. Larrabee's my main man. Only white stud besides Doug I ever rapped to. He's a brother."
Ronnie tried to find a clue in the impenetrable sculptured black face. "What key is that in, Black Daddy?"
"Splivy broad, ain'tcha. I like Doug. I dig Larrabee. I dig the way you blow sometimes. Sometimes. Otherwise -- "
"Awright man, sorry. What's the story?"
"Larrabee's pissed, he's fixin' to rumble with Polack. And your half-hip stud."
"Rumble about what?"
"The shylockin', for one. Lotta cats are pissed, but now they got Larrabee in front of 'em. And when he goes, he don't feel nothin'."
"Is that all he's hacked about?"
"You're kiddin'. If I had a broad moved out while I was away from the cell, and stripped it, I'd ventilate her snatch with an ice pick."
"Wait a minute, Black Daddy, that's not all of it, he -- "
"I give a shit, man. I'm just doin' this for Bud. If you wanna keep that toy stud of yours in shape to take care of biz, you better tout him off."
"Hey man, I feel you, this rumble shit is a drag. Nobody wins."
"Okay, just tell your old man to stay out of the Rock. I don't wanna see my boy mess up his hands. They make a lotta bread for me."
"I got no eyes for that hassle, Black Daddy. And I don't think Artie goes into the Rock all that much, anyway."
"Sheet. What joint are you in? He's a collector, right? Him and Polack hit that joint at daylight, most mornings. Move in on the cats before they're awake. Make the bar-man pull the bar, go in the cat's' cell, waste him, and split. You got yourself a man , babe. Real high-roller." The lips curled in a massive sneer.
Ronnie looked at the ground, the desolation inside him deepening. "Dig. Tell Bud -- if he cares -- I fouled up and I'm payin'."
A snort of derision. "The hell you think that gold block is for? Jeez if you were my -- ah nuts, I got to split."
His contempt lingered in the air. Ronnie looked at the costly watch, tried it on, took it off and put it back in the box.
He walked over to the captain's office and showed it to Billy.
"Rolex! Jesus Christ, girl, what did you have to do for that ?"
"Bud sent it."
"Larrabee? Larrabee sent it?" He folded his arms and stared into space. Ronnie was startled to see him throw his head back and burst into wild barking laughter. When he paused, his eyes wet, he looked at Ronnie and burst again into redoubled hilarity.
"Oh, Christ," he murmured. "Oh Jesus Mary and Joe. My perishing ass."
"Billy. Gimme a break. What's so goddamn funny?"
"He -- he -- Larrabee borrowed the bread from Polack. From Artie, you might as well say."
They stared at one another. Ronnie murmured, "He set them up for a burn. Black Daddy said -- "
"He's inviting Artie to try and collect." Billy was smiling, a look of rueful admiration. "You said what about Black Daddy?"
"What? Oh nothing. What am I going to do with this ridiculous watch?"
"You're not going to wear it? You ain't got a hair in your ass -- "
Ronnie shook his head. "Uh-uh, madame. You don't agitate me into nuttin'. You're trying to stir up some shit for laughs."
"Who, me? Larrabee , you mean. When I think of how I have low-rated that boy. He's crazy? Some lunatic. The son of a bitch turns it on and off like a faucet."
"Crazy? No. Bud isn't crazy. The demon that goes' everywhere Bud goes is crazy."
"So what are you going to do with the bauble?"
Ronnie looked at the white box. "The impulse is to bury it with my other bones. But Larrabee's playing games. So I think I better send it back. Besides, it may be hot."
That evening Polack and Artie came in looking grim. Ronnie was lying on the bed reading a magazine. Artie sat down by him. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"Larrabee gave you a gold Rolex. Where is it?"
"I, uh -- sent it back."
"Where is it?"
"I told you, Artie, I sent it back."
Polack came over. "Forget all that, forget it." To Ronnie, "What's with you and Larrabee?"
"Nothing, Polack. He's hot at me, so he's trying to put me in the middle, that's all."
Artie said, "You sure you sent it back?"
"I told you, partner, forget it. We got more to think about. I got some muscle lined up. We go in there tomorrow."
"Into the Rock ?"
"You know any other way to get that wise punk?"
Artie got up to walk. "Christ, Polack. He's got half the Rock with him."
"He thinks he has. They'll fold when it comes down to it."
"Jeez, I don't know. That cat's out of his skull."
The deep-set eyes measured Artie. "If you're chicken I better know it now."
Artie swung around, bristling. "Wait a minute, Polack, I ain't chicken but I ain't crazy either."
Billy had been sitting there immobile and silent, his head down. "He's right, Polack. Go in there now is stone bugs."
"Keep your jaw shut or I'll wire it shut." To Artie, "Either we're in business or we ain't. I'm not lettin' that punchy athlete back me down. So make up your mind."
Artie chewed his lips. "I'm with you, but -- "
"Awright. Tomorrow early."
Billy said, "I truly hope you know what you're doing."
Polack wheeled, pointing, livid. "I told you once!"
"Okay, okay." Grimac
ing in distaste, he got up. "I have to work tonight. I'm way behind. If you'll excuse me."
That night, instead of the routine perfunctory sex, Artie stayed for most of the night with Ronnie, lying silent in his arms between the surges of bleak troubled sex. For the first time in a long time Ronnie was stirred by his nearness and held him close, his face pressed into the thick lustrous black hair.
It was not yet daylight when somebody tried to force the door of the room open, and failing, rapped violently. Artie slid into his own bed. The pounding grew in volume, till Bill got out of bed and deftly removed the spike holding the door shut.
One of the night guards pushed it open. "Majewski?" He stepped further into the room. Louder: " Majewski?"
Polack raised his head from the pillow and growled, " What? What do you want, Peters?"
"Pack your shit, Polack. You're going to the road. Be at Control Room in half an hour."
Polack leaped naked from bed. " What? What the hell are you talking about?"
Peters retreated to the door. "Control Room, half an hour, Polack."
Billy sat huddled on his bed, seemingly locked in. Artie got up to stand aimlessly in the middle of the room, as Polack, muttering curses, stumbled into his clothes. The brass tang of panic thickened the air.
"I'll get that shitbird Miller on the phone. Somebody's ass is gonna burn for this'." He banged out of the room.
Artie started to put his clothes on.
Billy said, "Better stay out of it, Artie."
"Hell, you mean stay out of it. I'm goin' down there."
" Artie. Go back to bed. I'm telling you, baby, this is sticky shit." Billy had finished dressing and was at the door. "For once use your pretty head. Get back in your rack." He gave Ronnie a tight tired smile. " Sauve qui peut, chéri. I'll try to rescue the groceries. Looks like happy Armageddon."
He went out. In a few minutes the door burst open again and Polack came in, two guards along with him. One, the burly Lieutenant Johnson, said, "Awright, Polack, quit stallin'. Get your stuff and let's ramble. The bus is waiting."
The formidable face was clogged, incandescent with fury. He threw the contents of his footlocker into a cardboard box.
Artie hovered anxiously. "What happened, Polack, did you get him?"
"Bastard won't answer. It's a shanghai job. I'll be back, partner. Just hold the fort." He hoisted the box on his shoulder and left with the two guards.
Artie opened the cupboard and took a long drink of alcohol from the bottle. He sat on Ronnie's bed. "Jesus. Miller blew it."
Ronnie, at a loss, curved his hand around the big hairy forearm. "Hang loose, Artie. Better his ass than yours, right?"
He jerked his arm away. "Aw, man?" And began to pace the floor again.
Billy slipped in. He raised his eyebrows at Ronnie, exhaling a long breath. "Hoo-eee, baby. Groovy moving day. Lions in the street."
Artie grabbed him by the arm. His voice shrill, "What the goddamn hell is going on?"
Billy spread his long pale hands, shrugging his thin shoulders. "Caesar finally nailed Polack. Simple as that. They put him on a bus for Deep Lake."
They gaped at him and repeated, "Deep Lake!"
Billy nodded, a mordant smile touching his lips. "Siberia. Sic transit gloria. "
Artie said, "What the hell is that?"
"Gloria vomited on the subway. You want some coffee, Ronnie?"
"Coffee. I need a pill. Everything's moving too fast."
"As to that, I saved the groceries, anyway. Now all we got to sweat is getting shipped across the river."
Ronnie said, "I still don't know what happened."
"It's shit-simple, babe. Darby shipped Polack before daylight so he couldn't reach Miller. Before Miller got here, dig? And he sent him to Deep Lake, dig?"
"In the middle of the goddamn Everglades," Artie said. "Higgins is Boss there. A murderin' redneck bastard."
"You get the picture. In a couple of weeks or so we'll hear that Polack escaped."
Ronnie said, "You mean they'll let him escape?"
"I mean that in a couple of weeks or maybe sooner, Polack is going to be belly down in the swamps with the ants munching his eyeballs. I guess you could call it a bust-out. Poor bastard."
Artie sat on his bed, his elbows on his knees, face in hands, staring at the floor. His dark tan was sallow. "What happens now?"
Lips pursed. Billy considered him. "Us poor kids, you mean? Hmmm. Speak low, walk slow, love Jesus."
Ronnie went about his' duties at the chapel, anxiously wondering what Darby's next move would be. He passed him on the grounds one day. Darby had nodded cordially, with the familiar smile that seemed to be secretly amused, perfectly devised to disconcert those with guilty knowledge. But that was all.
Avoiding Billy and Artie as much as possible, he delayed returning to the room in the evenings until just before Count Time. And usually when he got there, he found the two of them deep in conversation.
And to further puzzle and discomfit him, convicts who had been giving him frost suddenly began to greet him ostentatiously, or to seek him out when he was eating in the canteen.
I liked these creeps better the other way, he thought. They act like I personally turned Polack up. The idea hooked in his mind . . . Turned Polack up . . . He stared blankly as his thoughts raced, circling the sudden suspicion. Something like fear moved in him . . .
The sex scene with Artie became a source of acute uneasiness now, with Billy lying alone in his bed, listening. It improved some when Billy eventually began spending the first part of the night away from the room, with the stay-up cons around the barber shop.
One night when they were alone in the room and in bed, Artie startled and shocked Ronnie by presenting himself, making it clear that he wanted Ronnie to assume the aggressive male role.
Stunned and baffled, he concurred, his mind in a turmoil, his body operating automatically and seemingly without direction. On the ensuing night the reversal of roles became the permanent arrangement.
He spent much of the day dreading the coming night -- in a daze of conjecture, trying to figure what had happened. It was not uncommon in the joint, it even had a name -- FlipFlop -- but it was the first time in Ronnie's experience. He forced himself to function, in a riot of confusion and ambivalence.
He had been tempted to confide his dismay to Billy -- but increasingly, for the first part of the evening between Count Time and lights-out, Artie and Billy were together, to the pointed exclusion of Ronnie. The relationship between Billy and him grew steadily cooler, Billy's manner one of careful distant politeness.
One day during lunch hour, Artie came into the chapel office. "Can I see you for a minute?"
Ronnie took him into the empty church and they sat in a pew. Artie's manner was' portentous -- grave, and subdued. Blue-eyed sincerity, Ronnie thought, nagged by the remembrance of the bed scene the night before, of Artie's unnerving and shameful turnabout.
"I don't know exactly how to say this, Ronnie."
Ronnie regarded him in silence, calmly waiting, feeling the strange and new poise that stemmed from his domination of Artie in the sack.
In the daylight Artie seemed the same as always. "It's like this, Ronnie. We ain't squares. We're both hip intelligent people, right?"
Ronnie nodded. "Both hip, yes."
"Well -- " Then in a rush, "See Billy and I got eyes for each other and I wanna -- we wanna -- "
Remote, he watched the dialogue unfold as in a predictable movie. "I think that's wonderful, Artie. I think that's beautiful. I love you both."
"You're not -- you don't mind."
The boyish eyes so troubled, so blue. So true-blue. "Mind, Artie? Well, yeah, how could I not? But what kind of a prick would I be?"
"Jesus, thanks a lot, Bracken. You're beautiful, you're too much." He got up, blushing, and shook Ronnie's hand warmly.
Artie gone, he sat for a while, speculating, bemused by the charade. In some tribal way, he had failed. Falling among
jackals, he had sought acceptance by accepting jackal rules, jackal manners. And all along they had known he was not a true jackal, and would have to go. His chest was stuffed with what felt like a gusher of wild insane giggles ready to erupt. (Were they sobs?) And a squalid sense of pique at having been rejected and jilted.