Blood, Bones and Bullets

by Tim Curran

  10

  Next day, it was all you heard about.

  Didn’t matter where you were or whom you were with, the topic of conversation was always the same. The prison became a rumor mill and awful, unbelievable stories began to circulate in that close, sullen atmosphere like disease germs, infecting anyone with a set of ears. Some of the stories were darkly humorous, others like something yanked out of a horror comic or a campfire ghost story. But they kept making the rounds, from the carpentry shop to the craftshop, the mattress factory to the library and the metal shop where license plates were stamped out.

  And it was funny, but all the groups and gangs that hated each other on site, mellowed incrementally, seemed to realize that they were all in the same boat together, running the same risk of sinking in the night like Reggie Weems. Sometimes, a common enemy or common fear could do wonders at a place like Shaddock Valley.

  Out in the yard that afternoon, Romero was sitting with his usual bunch—Riggs and Aquintez, a few Latin gangsters and white criminals that had been around the block a long time—discussing the shit, sifting fact from fantasy whenever possible. But it all kept circling back like buzzards on the trail of roadkill: what had happened to Weems was a lot like what had happened to those cons over at Brickhaven. And that got a guy to thinking, maybe trying to make some connections where there weren’t any or where they were strung so thick they’d trip you right up.

  Romero’s crew was joined by a shifty, bearded black guy in a wool hat called Beaks because of his sharp, Roman nose. Beaks was doing all-day for murdering his wife and her lover while he was on a coke binge: life without parole. Beaks was locked in the cell across the corridor from Reggie Weems, so people were listening to what he had to say.

  “Heard that scream, fuck yes, shit…how could you have not heard it? Weems…motherfucker was screaming like something was tearing his balls off. Never did hear nothing like that before.” Beaks pulled off his cigarette, watching some cons playing a game of pick-up in the distance. “Weems, shit, ya’ll know Weems, big ape-ugly motherfucker what ate his meat raw…I thought right away, somebody was in there, got to him. Shit, but you know that motherfucker, nobody play tag with his black ass.”

  “What’d you see?” Aquintez wanted to know.

  “It was dark and shit over there, but I heard something, something wet and sliding…I don’t know what the fuck it was…making funny-ass sounds or something, squealing or hissing or some such shit. That’s what I hear first and I think: Shit, what the fuck going down over there? Then Weems lets go with that scream. Man, it was crazy hoodoo bullshit, way I’m remembering it.”

  And that was as close as he could get to it.

  In the joint, murders were common place. Guys got shanked or piped, thrown off railings or had their food laced with Decon. Now and again, you had something more creative like an electrocution or what was known as a “down-home barbecue”: gas dumped through the bars while some con was in lock-up, his cell and himself drenched with the stuff, then a match tossed in there.

  But what the forensic team that went into Cell #17, Weems’ cell, found was unpleasant even for a prison killing. More than unpleasant, but vicious and psychotic and unexplainable. Houle, the hack who first found Weems, said he’d been ripped apart, mutilated, but that didn’t begin to cover it. He had been dismembered and eviscerated, his bowels strung around the cell like streamers of crepe at a kiddy party. His spinal column had actually been pulled out of his back, his head severed but not before his genitals were sheared free and shoved so far down his throat the pathologist had to open his esophagus to get them out. And that was only part of it. Besides the blood and macerated organs, some of Weems’ bones had been yanked through the skin and were riddled with teeth marks.

  And then there was Porker, Weems’ cellmate.

  They had to take him out in a straight-jacket after he was held down and shot full of Thorazine, the entire time babbling and moaning and whimpering crazy shit about “monsters” and “things that looked like people without bones.” He was taken to the state hospital that morning for intensive psychotherapy.

  “All I know for sure, man,” Beaks was saying to them, “is that something got in there, something I don’t want to be thinking about. Whatever it was and whatever the fuck it wanted, they had to take Weems’ ass out in bags and buckets, had to mop the floor to get the rest of him.”

  Romero listened and didn’t say a thing.

  But he was thinking plenty.

  11

  Romero was sitting alone in the bleachers by the football field when Aquintez showed. “Hey, home, been looking for you.”

  “Lot of people seem to be looking for me.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Aquintez said. “Word’s out that Black Dog warned you off of Palmquist.”

  “Sure, they’re saving him for Tony Gordo. Don’t want me interfering, doing anything impractical like trying to help the kid out.”

  He shared his conversation with Black Dog, though Aquintez had pretty much guessed the lay of it. That was prison life: nothing new behind those walls, just the same old games played year in and year out.

  Aquintez pulled off his unfiltered cigarette, spitting out a few stray bits of tobacco. “All right, home. I want you to listen to me and hear me on this. You can’t stand up against these people. You can’t throw yourself against the might of animals like Black Dog and the bikers, the ABs and Papa Joe. They’ll fucking skin you, bro.”

  “I know that, JoJo.”

  “Then why we having this convo, eh?” Aquintez said. “Why am I seeing something in your eyes that looks like suicide? Why am I thinking you’re just crazy enough to try and protect that fish and forfeit your own life at the same time?”

  But Romero would not and maybe could not answer that one. Maybe he didn’t know himself. All these lean, hungry years just getting by, just existing in this cage, not caring, not giving a damn, getting real slick and practiced at turning a blind eye…and now this. Now something he could not understand had been activated just south of his soul and he could not get a handle on it. It told him he had to help the fish regardless of the consequences.

  It would not listen to reason.

  It would not be practical.

  It refused apathy at every turn.

  “There’s your boy,” Aquintez said, scoping out Palmquist over by the fence, trying to fade away and blend in like a stain on a wall. “There’s your fish.”

  “He ain’t mine,” Romero told him.

  Aquintez exhaled smoke through his nostrils, then he smiled. “Ah, but you’re feeling bad for him and the ugly fate awaiting him, eh? Something in you—probably that part I love and respect—wants to protect this kid, beat down any of these vermin who come after him. But you gotta be practical, my friend. Papa Joe says you’re going over, you’re going over. You stand in the way…bad, very bad. It don’t have to be Black Dog’s people or the ABs or Papa Joe’s social club, he throws the casheesh out there and every con with a shank’ll be coming after you. You can’t fight that.”

  “No.”

  “But you’re considering it…”

  Romero did not deny that because he couldn’t. Part of him very badly wanted to stand up for Palmquist before those animals got their dirty hands all over him…but another part wanted to distance himself from the fish as much as possible. Because there was no getting around one thing much as he himself tried—Weems had fucked with the kid and now Weems was dead. Something had happened last night. Something had happened when Palmquist was sleeping and Romero could tell himself again and again that he had dreamed it, but he just didn’t believe that.

  He kept thinking about what Palmquist had said about this brother of his. Crazy shit. It made no sense, yet Romero could not stop thinking about it.

  My brother…Damon…he’s not like us, he’s different.

  Ah, it was nonsense. Goddamn fish probably wasn’t right in the head. He’d been victimized at Brickhaven and he wasn’t in touch
with reality, threading the needle in fantasy la-la land. That had to be it.

  “But something got Weems,” he said under his breath, but loud enough for Aquintez to hear.

  “That’s true enough, home.”

  “Bodies keep turning up around Palmquist. Cons are slaughtered in locked cells. Cons that seem to be hooked up with the kid in some way.” Romero shook his head. “I’m thinking out loud like some kind of headcase.”

  “You ain’t thinking nothing I’m not, bro,” Aquintez said, standing up and butting his cigarette. “Maybe the fish got something going on, eh? Maybe he got a guardian angel. Maybe Tony Gordo ought to think about that.”

  Romero watched him walk away, thinking pretty much the same things. The problem was that guys like Tony Gordo did not think. They acted, they reacted. Like dumb animals. They were hungry, they ate. They were tired, they slept. You cornered them, they clawed out your eyes. And when their hormones got the best of them, they—

  “Hey, Romero,” one of the hacks said, motioning with his stick. “You got cigarette butts on the ground. Clean it up. Don’t be messing up my fucking yard.”

  “Yes sir, boss,” Romero said.

  12

  That evening, in C-block rec room, a child molester named Neil Givens was hiding out in a darkened corner reading his Bible, trying to figure out a way to make God forgive him for violating one of his lambs.

  “The way I understand it,” he said in a low voice, “is that we are brought unto this earth imperfect and therefore, we sin.”

  A skinny black kid named Skiv, nodded his head without looking up from his magazine. “If you say so.”

  Every day at Shaddock Valley was the same for Givens. Hour after hour, hoping, praying he would not be noticed by the other cons that came and went. Today, he had been successful. None of the usual toughs baited him, noticed him, or even insulted him. Nothing.

  Like he was invisible.

  Did not exist.

  And that was oh-too fine with Givens. He did not deny what he had done. He lay awake most nights thinking about it in detail and if that was from guilt or simply the fact that he enjoyed gloating over his crimes in the darkness, nobody knew and Givens was not talking. He just wanted to do his time, make no trouble, and get out on the streets again…even though by the state clock that would not be for many, many years, if at all.

  “Would you like to pray with me?” Givens said.

  “No, I’d rather not,” Skiv told him.

  Skiv was doing time for molesting several native American boys during his tenure as a reservation student teacher. Givens felt superior to him in that his victims had been female; Skiv, on the hand, thought he was worlds above Givens because at least his victims were still alive, he had not kidnapped a little girl, brutally molested her, and left her corpse in a shallow grave.

  Maybe he’d scarred some little boys for life, but, hey, he hadn’t killed anybody.

  They were both keeping an eye on the only other person in the room: Palmquist. Funny one. He didn’t try to fit in with the other cons nor did he try and hook up with the other losers and rapos. He stayed to himself. When you spoke to him, he barely acknowledged your presence.

  Givens had tried to get him to read scripture, but Palmquist wasn’t interested in that either.

  When a con named Poppy came into the room, both Givens and Skiv visibly tensed. Poppy was just a little guy with bad skin, worse teeth, and graveyard eyes that were constantly searching the yard for new fish to pop. He was the sort of con that went scampering away when guys like Romero, Black Dog, or Riggs came bearing down on him. He did not want to know pain; he only wanted to give it.

  Palmquist stared off into space, unconcerned.

  Givens and Skiv looked at Poppy quickly, then went back to their respective literature.

  Poppy liked that, thought that was funny. As if maybe they ignored him he would just go away. But he figured they knew better. “Must be rapo center in here,” he said. “We got nothing but short-eyed chi-mos as far as the eye can see. I feel like a kid in a candy store.” He smiled, revealed his yellowed teeth, giggling with a high repetitive squeaking laugh that was known to go right up spines. “Eeny-meanie-miny-mo, catch a nigger by the toe.” He got up close to Skiv, put his hand’s on the arms of Skiv’s chair, leaned in so close Skiv could smell the rank decay of his teeth. “If he hollers, let him go. My mama said to fuck the very best one and you ain’t it!”

  He rasped that last bit right into Skiv’s face. Skiv dropped his magazine, badly trembling.

  “I said, you ain’t it,” Poppy told him. “Go over to that candy machine. Get a couple Milky Ways, you hear?”

  Skiv did but he was trembling so badly he kept dropping the money. He knew what was going on here. This is exactly what had happened to him when he first got to Shaddock Valley. It had happened to Givens more than once. Maybe it was Palmquist’s turn.

  Thank God it’s not me this time, oh thank God—

  Then Tony Gordo came into the room, filling the doorway, picking his teeth with a needle. Gordo was so big he had to stoop over to get in the door and turn himself sideways to fit through it. His head was like a cinder block, a steel gray buzzcut on top and a square jaw below, everything in-between a no-man’s land of old knife cuts, cratered scar tissue, and pockmarks sunk so deep you could fit the tip of your thumb into them. He had no neck. That block of a head sat right atop his shoulders which were nearly as wide as two men standing abreast.

  He stood there in his oversized orange jumpsuit, eyes like crouching death taking in his little harem because that was exactly the way he saw things. These were his bitches and he would have them and nobody had better think of stopping him.

  As he told Poppy, Any rapo ass walks through those gates, it belongs to me. I break it, I fuck it, I school it, and I sell it.

  Gordo saw Skiv shivering in the corner and went right over there.

  “Please, Mr. Gordo, I—”

  Gordo gave him a quick open-hand shot to the face that left a stinging imprint in his brown skin. Skiv was on his knees, sobbing, remembering oh too well what had landed him here and how those boys themselves had sobbed.

  “Stand the fuck up, nigger,” Gordo told him, his eyes gleaming like dirty nickels. He smiled. There was blood on his teeth from poking his gums with the needle. He did not seem to notice. “Gimme them bars.”

  Skiv stood up, handed Gordo the candy bars and Gordo very carefully, almost effeminately, unwrapped them. He shoved one after the other into his mouth, working them together into a melting ball of chocolate and caramel. He chewed them slowly, staring at Skiv the entire time, then he swallowed. He grabbed Skiv and pulled him close, running his chocolately tongue over his face. Skiv shook so badly his teeth chattered. You could easily hear the sound of his piss striking the floor.

  Gordo threw him aside.

  He put his eyes on Givens. Givens tried to make a break for it and Poppy took hold of him, held him.

  “You’re the one that raped that little girl and strangled her,” Gordo said. “I enjoyed your sweet ass, oh yes. But it ain’t your turn neither. You ladies get out of here.”

  Poppy giggled.

  Givens sobbed.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Gordo said. “And close that door behind you. You think of ratting me out and I’ll use the both of you every day for a fucking month.”

  Skiv and Givens raced out the door, slamming it shut behind them.

  Gordo turned to Palmquist who stared up at him with dead gray eyes. There was no true fear in those eyes. In fact, there was very little of anything.

  Gordo grinned. This was the one. This was the one Papa Joe wanted to feel some pain. And, good Christ, what a treat that was going to be, hell yes.

  “All right, Palmquist. I been looking for you. Time to go to school. Lights out, motherfucker, lights out for you…”

  Palmquist stared at his tormentors. He was not surprised by any of this. He expected it just like he’d expected it at Br
ickhaven. His eyes were shiny, almost mirrored, just as black as the steaming mud at the bottom of a well. He stared blankly at both men.

  “You sure you want this?” he asked them, blinking his eyes.

  Poppy started squeaking with laughter. He’d heard a lot of punks say some damned crazy things before Gordo had them, but this beat all and he couldn’t stop laughing.

  “First thing,” Gordo said, “is I like my women to do a little begging so you start getting into the act and I won’t hurt you no more than I have to.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Palmquist told him.

  But Gordo didn’t see it that way. He moved fast for a big man. Before the words had barely left Palmquist’s mouth, he had him in those big grimy fists. He pulled him up into the air and planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth that was all tongue. No romance here, just a beast tasting its food before it took a bite. That and nothing more.

  And that’s when the door opened and Romero came storming in.

  “Hey—” Poppy started to say and Romero gave him two quick jabs to the face that opened his nose like a blood blister and brought him to his knees. Romero grabbed him by his greasy hair and kicked him in the stomach. When he folded up, he brought his elbow down with considerable force on the back of Poppy’s neck and Poppy hit the floor with his eyes rolling.

  Gordo tossed Palmquist aside. “Fucking beaner,” he said. “You wetback fucking spic fucking bean nigger.”

  As he moved at Romero, Romero leaped at him, every bit of anger and frustration and deprivation that life behind those walls had inspired in him coming out, boiling out of him like poison. Before Gordo got his hands on him, Romero drilled him in the face with three fast piston-like blows that barely even registered. Then Gordo had him, crushing him in his massive arms. Romero thumbed him in the eye and Gordo responded by delivering a head butt that drove the smaller man right to the floor.

  Palmquist, bless him, tried to intervene and Gordo backhanded him, dropping him like a felled tree.