Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  He wore military brogans for added ankle support, and began a leisurely pace, enjoying the freedom of his solitude. His mind began to calm, his thoughts faded, and he gradually began to withdraw from his surroundings...

  Just wrapping up a two-hour session in the weight lifting area, Benton Fulmer, Flatline and Bobbie Joe Weiss were catching their breath. It had been an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. They were pumped. The testosterone was flowing, and despite their surroundings it felt good to be alive...until Bobby Joe Weiss noticed Adrian.

  Nudging Fulmer, he nodded. “Ain’t that your boy out there, acting like a gazelle, or some shit?”

  Benton Fulmer spotted Adrian, and his gaze turned hard. “I never did square with him. Almost forgot about him after they gave him those crazy hours in the kitchen. I never see him any more, thanks for reminding me.”

  They watched Adrian round the track. As he drew nearer,

  Fulmer nodded to his henchmen, and they slowly began their approach. With several dozen other convicts exercising in the same area, and lost in his solitude, Adrian never saw them until they were almost on top of him. Warren had warned him to never feel safe in there.

  Wielding homemade knives, they came at him from a forty-five degree angle. Were it not for Bobby Joe Weiss’ last moment zig-zag motion past three other joggers, Adrian might never have noticed them.

  In sheer desperation, he spun away from Weiss, barely avoiding the knife that whistled past his midsection. Almost intuitively, his left foot snapped out and upward, catching Weiss high on the cheek. The kick landed flush with a slapping sound, and dropped him. The sudden activity drew the attention of everyone around them, and immediately a crowd gathered and a chorus of excited voices rose up.

  As Fulmer and Flatline paused briefly to watch Bobby Joe stagger and fall, Adrian used the momentary lapse to close on Fulmer, who was closest to him. He had learned in Asia that should he ever be outnumbered, his attackers would often be lulled by a false sense of security due to sheer numbers and that he could take advantage of that if he remained calm and acted quickly. There was also a mental numbness that prompted most people to pause and watch as the unexpected happened. The lesson had not been lost on Adrian, and he made good use of it. Not waiting for Fulmer to regroup, he closed the distance between them, punched him hard in the ribs, then again in the face. Without waiting to admire his handiwork, he immediately turned to Flatline who, without his companions, suddenly found himself with no backup. Adrian wasn’t up for talking about it; he simply moved in on him and kicked him hard on the knee, sweeping his feet out from under him and leaving him lying on the track, wincing and holding his leg.

  As was always the case, it didn’t take long for the administration to react. Their attention drawn by the crowd and the sudden activity, sirens blared, and people scattered, including Adrian, Fulmer, and his henchman as they blended into the retreating crowd. Adrian had become lax by his avoidance of Fulmer. After this he now knew that it wasn’t finished; it had simply been put on hold.

  He decided the best way to become obscure would be in the laundry exchange, where there was always a line. Upon entering, he casually grabbed some dirty laundry from an industrial hamper, trying to look as if he’d been there all along. He was just settling in when a tap on the shoulder jolted him. Spinning around, he found himself face to face with Carmine Ruffino.

  “I just saw what happened out there,” Ruffino said, practically beaming. “You handled yourself pretty well!”

  “Thanks, I guess some guys don't know when to lay off.”

  “I hear ya. Some guys need help layin’ off, especially in here. You want, I can have someone speak to ‘em.”

  “I appreciate it, that’s good to know, Mister Ruffino. If there comes a time I need it, I'll come see you.”

  ***********

  Adrian leaned over the sink and plunged into what looked like a bottomless tub of stainless steel utensils, pots, and pans. He had been at it five days a week for five weeks. He had gone from no work one day to a mountain of work the next. But just like everything else there, he had managed to adjust.

  Once his extra duty had been completed, he settled into the chore, never once complaining. He was intent on maintaining a low profile, in hopes that Billings and Atkins would forget him. Since then it had gone well; so had all the other aspects of his imprisonment. He’d settled into a regular workout routine with Warren and Tiny; the days were passing more quickly, and life had finally become as normal as he could expect under the circumstances. Because of that, his confidence had grown.

  As he put another serving tray into the scalding, soapy water, the kitchen's chief steward approached him. He was an older man, strict but fair, and Adrian had come to respect him.

  "How we doing today, Adrian?"

  Adrian wiped the sweat from his forehead, and smiled at George Donovan.

  "I'm doing all right, Mister D. How 'bout you?"

  "I'm fine, Adrian."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "It's more a case of what I can do for you. How’d you like to get off pots and pans? Today."

  “I wouldn't hold it against you, as long as there's no strings attached."

  “No strings. You've paid your dues. You've more than paid them. Most men spend only a few days on this detail, but the warden ordered that I keep you at it for five weeks."

  "This his idea?"

  "No, it's mine. I run this kitchen, not him. So how about it? You ready for a new job?"

  Adrian smiled. "Man, I've been ready."

  "I know. You handled yourself well, and your work was fine."

  "Thanks."

  "Tell me, you ever done any cooking?"

  "I did some on the outside, never any mass production like this. But hey, I could learn. Why?"

  "I need a grill man to replace the one who just transferred to the camp. Think you can handle it?"

  "I can learn."

  "Good. We got pork chops for lunch, three hours from now. How about if you help out with them?"

  Adrian extended his hand. "Sure. Just point me in the right direction and turn me loose."

  He led Adrian to a row of massive grills banked along one of the kitchen walls. Several men were already laboring over them, their forearms wrapped with towels to protect them against the spitting grease. Adrian was assigned the grill on the end. Beside it stood a stack of metal pans covered with raw pork chops. On the grill beside him, a thin man with wire-rimmed granny glasses and a long gray ponytail looked at him, nodded, and kept on working. Donovan motioned for the man to take a break.

  "Adrian, this is Albert, my lead grill man. If you need anything, he can help you."

  Adrian nodded at Albert. "Yeah, okay."

  The introductions completed, Donovan walked off.

  "Ever worked a grill before?" asked Albert.

  "Yeah, but nothing like these."

  "Don't sweat it, it ain't nothing. I can pick up your slack until you get the hang of it. That's the least I can do for a guy who pissed 'em off so bad they put you on pots and pans for over a month. Oh yeah, one other thing. The hack called me Albert, but everyone calls me 'Woodstock.' And yeah, I was there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Adrian lay on his bunk, relaxing. It was Saturday afternoon, and he and Tiny were waiting for Warren to finish up at the piggery so they could do some lifting out in the yard. Nazareth was lounging on his bunk, and Kristen was painstakingly applying makeup to 'her' face in front of a small, circular table mirror that came complete with its own lights. Adrian didn't know where she had gotten the makeup or the mirror, and wasn't about to ask lest she try talking him into letting her help him ‘freshen up’. Besides, they likely were the spoils from a sexual encounter of one sort or another, and details like that he could live without.

  For the moment, things were quiet throughout the cell house. The respite from the usual bedlam was a relief. If things went well, they would remain that way, especially if everyone we
nt to the Hannibal Lector re-run scheduled for later in the evening. In there, guys like him were folk heroes.

  Adrian stretched languidly, just as Woodstock walked into the cell. With all the time they had spent working together, he’d become very close to the wiry old hippie. He sauntered over to Adrian and slapped the soles of his feet.

  "Hey, boy," Woodstock said cheerfully. “Can't be spending all your time in the rack. Get up, move around. Damn!"

  "Come on," said Adrian in a lazy tone. "I thought we were supposed to be brothers."

  "We are." Glancing around, he leaned over and whispered, "Don’t tell me I came all the way over here with this for nothing?" Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a joint and showed it to Adrian. "Know what I mean?"

  Adrian threw back his head, closed his eyes, and smiled. "Woodstock, my man. To the rescue." He wasn't about to go back to his old ways, but an occasional departure from reality helped break up the monotony.

  "Woodstock’s on the case. Can’t let you lay there like a beached whale. C’mon, let’s take a walk."

  Adrian sat up on the edge of the bed.

  "I'm supposed to jack some iron in a few minutes."

  "Hey, we can wait till later. I ain't one of those dudes who makes you drop everything in life. Matter of fact, maybe I'll go with you."

  "Cool. I'm going down with two of my cellmates. Be glad to have you."

  Just then, Warren and Tiny came back. Warren walked in first, covered with filth and smelling like a garbage scow. Tiny was behind him, holding his nose, and pointing at Warren.

  Adrian got a whiff. "Come on, man! This is supposed to be our house. Take that shit off and go burn it somewhere."

  Warren smiled broadly. "Sheeit! It's good for you. It'll clear your sinuses and wake ya up. Go ahead, close your eyes and pretend you're on a farm out in the country."

  Kristen looked up from her mirror and grimaced effeminately, then waved her hand back and forth in front of her face.

  "Warren Tyler Gates! Get rid of those things. I have a date later, and I can't afford to show up smelling like pig shit. It would damage my image."

  “Beautiful as you are baby, ain’t nothin’ gonna do that.” Warren then looked at Adrian, who shrugged.

  "You heard what she said. A man can’t walk into a lady's boudoir smelling like Fragrance of Old Hog Crotch. Show some respect."

  Kristen pursed her lips, nodded curtly, and said, "Thank you, Adrian. I'm glad someone around here has proper etiquette."

  Warren looked at Kristen, imitated her pursed lips, and flicked his wrist limply. "Damned sure wouldn't want to spoil any reputations. S'cuse me while I go douche."

  As Warren left the cell, Adrian called after him.

  "Don't drag your feet. We only got two hours to work out."

  ***********

  The mid-afternoon sun beating down on the prison yard was oppressive. But the men who were exercising paid no attention to it. They were lost in the agony that comes with dedicated body-building and the harsh light and stifling heat. The thick humidity just added a deeper resolve to achieve their intended purpose.

  Tiny, followed by Adrian and the others, picked a vacant bench in the center of the exercise area. The men around them gave them cursory glances, and went about their business.

  Adrian was becoming much more familiar with how things went behind the walls, especially regarding eye contact. It was all right to give someone a look, provided it was brief. Everyone did it. If the look lingered, however, trouble could start. Anything more than a glance constituted staring. Staring was considered a challenge. Not responding to a challenge meant backing down and losing face. Accepting the challenge usually led to violence.

  People fought for space, respect and recognition behind the walls. It was one of the first things Nazareth had taught him, and it was one of the things that most often led to an ex-con getting sent back to prison after being released. Someone on the outside would look too long, there would be trouble, and the ex-convict became a convict again. To Adrian, this showed how the penitentiary credos worked against themselves and the men who were forced to live by them; it was one more way that the prison system was self-perpetuating, and worked against rehabilitation.

  Tiny and Warren lifted a barbell laden with weights up onto the bench. Once in place, Tiny added several more plates to the bar, announcing, “Four hundred-and-fifty pounds."

  A man lying on a nearby bench scowled and looked at Tiny grimly, and then sat up and as though he had been insulted.

  "Shit," he said. "What's so special about four-and-a-half? That's bitch weight."

  Tiny looked up. Equal in size, and just as muscular, the man continued to look at Tiny as he stood up. The sweat glistened on his chest and shoulders, which were massive from years of heavy lifting.

  The stranger swaggered over, gave Tiny an insolent smirk, then viewed the barbell with contempt. Tiny, for his part, just stared back at him.

  "You gonna work out with that?" the man asked. "Think you can handle it? I mean, you wouldn't want to hurt yourself."

  Adrian perceived a subtle change in Tiny. Imperceptibly, Tiny was no longer the easygoing, amiable giant that Adrian had come to know. His face turned to stone, and Adrian noticed that he had turned slightly sideways and planted his feet firmly in the dust. Adrian's martial arts experience told him that Tiny was preparing for combat, not weightlifting.

  Adrian glanced around him, and saw that everyone in the yard had stopped working out. All eyes were on them, and things had become very still. Two behemoths were about to collide.

  Tiny stared hard into the other man's eyes. "You always go around jumpin' into other people's shit, or is this somethin' you saved just for me?"

  Adrian leaned close to Woodstock, and whispered, "A beef between a brother and a white boy could start all kinds of shit."

  "Not this time," said Woodstock softly. "The dude hassling Tiny isn't loved."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That’s Bumps Cabot, strongest guy in the joint. He's also the biggest snitch. No one likes him."

  "That guy's a snitch?" Why hasn't someone straightened him out?"

  "Shit, look at him. Who's gonna do it? They been trying to figure out how to kill him for a long time. A guy stuck a shank in his back last year, Bumps turned around, grabbed they guy and whaled the shit out of him, then walked down to the dispensary with the knife still in him, and told them to take it out because he couldn't reach it. How do you kill someone like that?"

  "So what's his beef with Tiny?"

  "He wants to show him who the boss is. Wants to out-lift him in front of everyone or make him back down. That way he stays king of the hill. To him, Tiny's a threat."

  When Tiny remained silent, Bumps took a step closer. "Hey brother, you gonna answer me, or what?"

  Tiny looked at him, and said, "You know, my pop told me somethin’ when I was just a kid. He said, 'It ain’t good to mess with a peaceful man.' You oughta think about that."

  "Oh yeah? Or what?"

  The lines on Tiny's face softened, and he answered with a cold, mirthless smile, "A man can't tell what might happen when he ain't expectin' it. Could be damn near anything."

  Drawn by the confrontation, two guards walked up to Tiny and Bumps and stood between them. One of the guards was Jimmy Atkins.

  "What's the problem?" he asked.

  Tiny spread his hands and smiled. "No problem, Officer."

  "Bullshit! There damn sure is," said Bumps. "This guy just threatened me."

  "Is that right?" asked Atkins, looking at Tiny.

  "I didn't say shit to him," said Tiny.

  "I think you'd better come with me. The rest of you go back to what you were doing."

  To Bumps, he muttered, "Give me a half hour, then stop by."

  "Sure thing.” He then looked at Adrian and the others, smirked, and went back to his bench.

  Adrian looked at Woodstock, shocked. "He just dropped a dime in front of everyone like it was not
hing."

  "To him it is nothing. He's used to it. And he don't just drop dimes. He drops quarters and halves."

  "And they let him get away with it?"

  "That's the way it is, man. The only one he won't snitch out is Carmine Ruffino. Even Bumps got more sense than to do that."

  "I think Bumps just messed with the wrong man."

  ***********

  Jimmy Atkins led Tiny into his office. After closing the door, he sat down, and motioned for Tiny to do the same. He studied the much larger man for a moment. Tiny pegged this as part of his game. He’d seen it in Atlanta, and it was the same here. Only the faces were different.

  Atkins then made his pitch. "You heard about my list?"

  "Of course, everyone knows about your list."

  "How do you feel about it-- Damn, what the hell is your name, boy?"

  "Name's Clarence, not 'boy.' "

  "You sensitive about that, Clarence? You don't like bein' called ‘boy’?"

  "I don't know any man who does, especially a black man."

  "You're one of them proud ones, huh?"

  "If one of the cons called me that, you'd be sending some folks around to scrape him up off the pavement."

  "Yeah, well, I ain't no convict."

  "That's why you got away with it...this time, but don't make it a habit. I'm doin' natural life and I got nothin' to lose. My freedom's gone. All I got left is my self-respect."

  "Damn! You’ a feisty son of a bitch, aren't you?"