Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  Then he saw Jennifer. Beautiful, sensuous, intuitive, she had remained loyal and faithful at a time when his world was crumbling around him. The weeks he’d spent with her after deciding to get out of the business had been the best times of his marriage. They had gotten close again, and for the first time he had gotten a glimpse of what really being a husband, a father and a provider was all about.

  Then there was his family. He hadn't seen much of them during his time in the business; not because they lived far away, but because he had felt too guilty to face them. They hadn't raised him to be the person he'd become; he'd roamed far beyond the confines of his home to do that. But even from a distance, they had helped him to keep in touch with the person he once was, and hoped to one day be again.

  He thought of his friends, the ones who weren’t in the business, but who had always been there for him just the same. Jackie and Rollo, two of the guys he trained with. He'd rather have them covering his back during a scrape than a dozen of anyone else. They weren't hired hands who provided muscle. They were brothers who had remained loyal during the worst of times. His best interests had been their only concern, not his money or connections. They, too, would be sorely missed.

  He thought of the events that had led to this first night in prison. They were things for which he had only himself to blame, things that had hurt everyone around him. The lure of easy, tax-free money and early retirement had been irresistible. The business had seemed the natural solution. He had begun slowly, building his market, carefully cultivating the people closest to him as he himself moved up. In time he had created his own little empire, one that earned him ten thousand dollars a week at times. The money had piled up quicker than he could spend it, and he should have pulled out long before he did. But he got cocky. He began using what he was selling, especially the cocaine. Because of the money and power that went with that lifestyle, he lost respect for life's intrinsics. Money, toys, juice and living life in the fast lane was all that had mattered. And then came the irony of ironies, getting busted after walking away from it.

  Now, after losing everything, he would spend his foreseeable future in the breakdown lane. And no matter how incredible it seemed, there was nothing he could do about it. His bed was in here now, and he'd have to sleep in it.

  This had seemed light years away from the days when he'd been a good kid living in a safe world with nice people. Yet, for as much as he'd loved people and being kind and gentle, he had an enormous anger-driven capacity for violence when provoked. It had always been an enigma to him. The thought of hurting another human being never occurred to him unless someone stole from him, assaulted him, or threatened him or his family. But then not only did the capacity for violence surface, the willingness to engage in it came with it. He had to remind himself on many occasions that violence wasn't his true nature. He wasn't a wanton predator; he reacted that way only when given no other choice. Still, it bothered him. And now, in here, he might have to rely on it to stay alive. That wasn't a comfortable prospect. How had this happened? It was such a radical departure from the days of his childhood when he had loved serving God and man as an altar boy.

  He sensed that this would be a nightmare that began, not when he closed his eyes at night, but when he woke up the next morning and faced yet another day in there.

  **********

  The guard raked his flashlight across the bars. "Rise and shine, gentlemen. Today you get to be real live convicts. Today you go into population."

  Adrian sat on the edge of his bunk, collecting his wits. Today was the day. After five weeks of incarceration, he was finally going to begin prison life. He didn't look forward to it, especially ten years of it. He'd doubted he'd ever adjust to being locked up.

  The guard at the end of the tier pressed a lever and all the cell doors on the tier opened simultaneously. A cacophony of heavy, metallic thuds rang through the cellblock. He hated the sound, but forced himself to accept it as part of his new life. Besides, if he let things like that bother him, his prison term would soon become unbearable. From his first day of confinement, he had sworn he wouldn't let that happen to him. He was determined to survive the ordeal, to not let one day of it go to waste or emasculate him. He'd committed to walking away a better, stronger man, no matter what.

  So far, prison was reminiscent of his four years in the military, especially the regimentation and role casting. Discipline was forced and strict, and authority was constantly exercised over the inmates. The ultimate goal of the staff seemed to be that of stripping the inmates of their identities, self-respect, and independence. The objective seemed to be that sixteen hundred drones would live in the institution, not sixteen hundred men.

  Adrian gathered up his bedding and other personal items, andwalked out to the corridor where he fell in stride beside Warren.

  "You ready for this?" he asked.

  Warren shrugged. "It ain't nothing new. This is my third time down. I'm thirty-eight years old, and almost half my life has been spent in these whorehouses. The players are different, but the game's always the same."

  "Yeah, well this is my first go round and it's still new."

  "Don't worry, you'll learn to hate it just like everyone else."

  After turning in their bedding, they were led to ‘A’ cell house. It housed the most recent arrivals, and sounded like a zoo. No one talked. Everyone yelled. Curses and threats and digs echoed off the pale-green walls. To Adrian it seemed like an insane asylum where the patients were allowed to run amok in confined areas.

  As he was led to his cell, he stole a glance at the men on the block. Many were caught up in shouting matches, while others lay quietly on their bunks, reading or napping. The remainder simply stood in the doorways of their unlocked cells, carefully scrutinizing the newcomers. Adrian didn't know if it was because they were new or because they were loners - or just predators - but this last group seemed ghostly and soulless. Their pallid complexions and haunting, tombstone eyes looked lifeless and purposeless. Experience told him they’d be the ones who’d require close watching. They were the ones who had little interest in life, and therefore had the least regard for it.

  Adrian and Warren were ultimately led to one of the six-man cells by a guard.

  "Cabraal, Gates, this is where you get off." He made a notation on his chart, then motioned toward the cell with his thumb. "Welcome to the sum total of everything your life has amounted to so far." Adrian was quickly learning that part of the curriculum was hate.

  He walked inside, followed by Warren. The first thing that struck him was the close quarters in which he'd be living. For six men to live this cramped would require them to get along with each other – no matter what. The bunks were piled in pairs. A steel toilet with no seat and a gray metal desk were the only furnishings aside from a sink. One toilet, one sink, six guys. Great.

  He walked to the double-bunk in the corner. To Warren, he said, "Take your pick."

  "I'll go up top," he said, tossing his bedding and clothes on the upper bunk.

  Adrian took a handful of hangers from the bottom bunk, put his extra clothing on them, and hung them from the crossbar at the foot of his bed. It occurred to him how far removed he was from the BMW, the money, the clothes, and the expensive digs that had been his on the outside. Like everything else, they were gone now.

  An elderly black man with a shaved head entered the cell and sat down on the bottom bunk across from him. It surprised him that the administration engaged in interracial domiciles. He’d heard that the established norm was for everyone to stay with same race. Adrian had no such problem, having spent years in the company many different races and cultures. Regardless of policy, he took an instant liking to him. He had the look of a gentle patriarch -- furrowed brow, kindly eyes, and an air of quiet dignity. So much so, that he looked out of place. Unlike the other inmates, he seemed content, and at peace. An aura of unpretentious wisdom surrounded his stately, weathered face.

  He looked at Adrian, as though notici
ng him for the first time. "You the new kids, huh?" he asked with a smile.

  Adrian smiled back at him. “Yeah, right.”

  "First time down?"

  Adrian nodded. Warren said nothing.

  "You'll get used to it."

  "How about you, Pop?” asked Adrian. “Are you used to it?"

  "First of all, my name isn't 'Pop.' It's Nazareth, and I'd appreciate it if you called me that."

  Adrian flushed. "Okay, Nazareth. I'm Adrian."

  "Now, as far as doing time is concerned, I've done twenty-six years and some months." Adrian was shocked. Nazareth had been in prison almost as long as Adrian had been in the world. Yet, to look at him and talk with him, he seemed like a man devoid of criminal inclinations. He was soft-spoken, and the gleam in his eye was contagious. He presented the image of a sage, not a long-time inmate in a maximum-security penitentiary.

  "Damn, Nazareth. What did you do to get all that time?"

  "Ain't none o' your damned business."

  Adrian flushed again. This sucked. He'd have to learn a few things if he expected to get along in here. He'd have to learn the rules of engagement in yet another arena he had never played in before.

  "Hey, I didn't mean to get personal. It's just that you don't look like a man who's spent all that time locked up."

  "You got some things to learn, young man,” Nazareth retorted, wagging his finger. “First of all, you shouldn't be askin' people why they're locked up. Makes you look like some kind of rookie or somethin'. Most of 'em will lie to you, anyway."

  Adrian was adamant. "You still don't look like anyone who'd do anything all that serious."

  Nazareth chuckled, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and lay down. Warren, on the other hand, lay on his bunk, listening with detached interest.

  "Let that be your second lesson, don't judge nobody in here by their looks. You never know what a man can do until he does it. Take me, for instance. How do you see me?"

  Adrian shrugged. "Like I said, you seem like a nice old man. You don't look like you'd hurt anyone, especially at your age."

  "See?" said Nazareth, packing some loose tobacco into a pipe. “That's what I mean. You never know who's who in here. Me, I didn’t get sent here at my age. But I belong here. That's my problem. I've been locked up so long, I don't know nothin’ else. Twenty-seven years ago, I was runnin' ‘shine out of Kentucky. Was doing all right, too. But then the ATF people caught on to me. They couldn't catch me at nothing, so they began messin' with my people. Came home one day while they were there and told 'em to leave my people alone, or I'd teach 'em a lesson. Well, they didn't pay me no mind, and kept right on bothering them. So the next time I caught 'em there, I pulled a gun on 'em. One of ‘em tried to be a hero, so I shot him. Blew half his head off. I took the other two down cellar and handcuffed 'em to a pot-bellied stove with their own handcuffs. Then I gagged 'em real good, and lit a big fire in the stove. Cooked 'em right on the spot. After that I grabbed my family and ran off. By and by, some government people came around, found the bodies, and began huntin' me. Next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a judge, getting three life sentences.

  "Then I messed up in here and lost my good time. Ended up doing twenty-six years on a thirty-year bid. They let me out last year, but I only lasted three months on the street. Couldn't find a job, and my welfare ran out. Main thing, though, I just couldn't adjust because everything had changed while I was away. So I did the only thing I knew. I stuck a pistol in a bank teller's face and said, 'Give up the money.' Next thing I know, there's cops all over the place an' I'm busted. FBI prosecuted the case, an' now I got me a fresh twenty-five. Shit, I figure I'll die here. But all that's my problem. You just let it teach you that you can't judge nobody. If you're smart, you'll find a couple cons you can trust, and stick with 'em. All-for-one-and-one-for-all, an' all that ol' musketeer shit."

  Nazareth had made his point. His advice about picking friends seemed sound, too.

  "Thanks, Nazareth," he said, grateful for the heads-up. "I guess I have some things to learn."

  “Don't worry 'bout that. Everyone's green their first time down. Just watch you ass an' use your head. Make sure you learn something new every day. An' whatever you do, stay way from the homo's and the druggies. Ninety percent of the guys who die in here, die behind messin’ with them. Remember that."

  Adrian nodded. "I'll do that."

  "Feel free to tug on my coat tail anytime, I'll set you straight."

  "I'll bet you will. Thanks."

  *************

  Adrian and Warren stood in line, waiting to get their food. Lines were part of the unavoidable toll that convicts paid for whatever they needed. There were lines at the laundry, the commissary, the dining hall, the dispensary, the dental clinic, the showers, and often the rest rooms.

  "Old Nazareth is all right," said Adrian. "I like him."

  "Shit," said Warren, "he's just another black dude to me."

  "Come on, man,” countered Adrian. “You heard what he said about judging people. Besides, I got a lot of black friends on the outside. A few Spanish dudes, too. They've treated me better than my own sometimes."

  "Yeah, well I was raised in a place where we got our own understanding with them. They stick to their kind; we stick to ours. And you better watch that interracial shit in here. You get too friendly with them, someone'll stick something in you, maybe even one of them. Especially this part of the country. Damn, what'd they send you all the way out here for, anyway? They should have left you back east, where people don't care about shit like that. You'd be safer there."

  "Hey, it’s not like I volunteered to come out here. They did it because I wouldn't cooperate with them."

  After passing through the serving line, they began looking for a place to sit. Adrian spotted an empty table in a distant corner. "There's a spot over there."

  They went over to it, and sat down. As they were about to start eating, a silver-haired, distinguished looking man put his tray on the table and sat down. He said nothing, but one of the two men with him did.

  Joey Massaglia, a short, stocky, brutal looking man gave a 'get lost' signal to Adrian and Warren with his thumb. "Sorry pal, you're outa luck. Find another table."

  Adrian viewed it as a challenge. "What are you talking about? We're not going anywhere."

  Massaglia gave the silver haired main an impatient look, but received a calming nod in return, indicating that Massaglia should restrain himself. Massaglia appeared not to like it, but did as he was told.

  "Look," he said, "you guys are new, so I'm gonna give you a break. This is a special table. No one sits here without an invitation. That being said, you got to leave. Question is, you want to do it easy, or you want to do it hard?"

  Adrian pegged the situation for what it was. He'd spent enough time around wiseguys to understand their dialect, their body language, and the way they thought. What had just been said was a no-bullshit, matter-of-fact, step up or step off take-it-or-leave-it offer.

  Realizing what would happen, and having one altercation already, he said, "Come on, Warren. Let's find another spot."

  A short distance away another of the picnic-type tables was available. Two seats were empty, both next to the aisle. Warren wasn't pleased.

  "What's the matter, you don't like the view?"

  "I don't like sitting with my back to an aisle. It's safer with your back to a wall. Make that something else you remember."

  Once they were seated, Adrian leaned toward Warren. "I think we just saved ourselves a lot of grief."

  Beside them was a man of about forty. He gave them a sideways glance, then said, "I know you did. That gray haired guy is Carmine Ruffino. He's a big time mob guy from Florida. You don't want to piss him off. The two guys with him are his bodyguards. He don't ever leave home without 'em." After which, the man returned to his meal.

  Adrian glanced over his shoulder. "So that's Carmine Ruffino, huh?" He was about to question the man further when,
looking beyond him, he saw Benton Fulmer and his two henchmen walking toward him, lunch trays in hand. Fulmer seemed not to have noticed him. If he did, he gave no indication of it. Adrian hoped the confrontation in the holding area was a dead issue.

  Adrian was about to return to his meal when he intuitively took a second glance at Fulmer. And it may well have saved his life. Fulmer's piercing gaze was squarely on Adrian, and the look in his eye was murderous. It was then that Adrian saw the home made knife in Fulmer's hand, which had been concealed beneath his tray. When he had closed the distance between himself and Adrian to less than five feet, one of Fulmer's henchmen - a man Adrian would later come to know as 'Flatline' - abruptly pitched his tray of food at Adrian. As Adrian instinctively raised his hands to fend it off, Fulmer used the opportunity to thrust the knife at Adrian's exposed chest. Adrian was able to deflect the attack, but not to avoid it completely. A sizeable gash was opened in his bicep, which immediately began streaming blood.

  As this was happening the other henchman, Bobby Joe Weiss, had jumped over the table and was now behind Adrian. He locked his arm around Adrian's throat, choking him while exposing Adrian's upper body to further attack. As Fulmer was about to stab Adrian again, he was hit on the face with a metal lunch tray wielded by Warren. Fulmer, his forehead split and bleeding, staggered backward and groggily dropped to the floor.

  Adrian went into a rage, the fear based kind brought about by the threat of impending death. Two elbows to Weiss' ribs and a spinning back fist to his cheek dropped him to the floor. As Adrian turned to face Flatline - the first henchman - Flatline groaned and doubled over with Warren's fist buried deep in his diaphragm. His mouth opened, and his eyes bulged as he lay in silent agony, unable to breathe.

  Adrian returned to Weiss just in time to see Weiss skulking off through the crowd. A moment later, Flatline was close behind him.