There were the bulls, old hands, immovable, old like the institution. Not "counselors," not "correctional personnel," but bulls, just fuckin bulls with cop uniforms and guns. Jesus, guns. Like they say, a water cooled machine gun on one tower. Go ahead and try to make the wall and fence back toward the river. Oh yeah, go ahead. They want you to. And the other towers, rifles on those. And spotlights. And this is maximum security, baby. Like, forget it, you ain't leavin here. Not till the man says you're leavin.
Unlike at other joints, nobody was pressured into a job occupation, not at all. Like they say, in Folsom you don't gotta do nothin but time.
And as always his thoughts returned to the Flea-that filthy, prowling phantom Jimmy could not seem to escape. He'd see him in the yard, skulking around the housing unit, anywhere.
Jimmy knew it was probably imagination, but he seemed to be looking at him. Like he knew him. And smiling, or at least showing brown teeth, twisted and broken, and drooling. They let him alone because his mind was half-gone, even the bulls let him alone, and he prowled alone, this slinking bag of bones with tufts of hair hanging from each nostril. His only interest was oral copulation, and Jesus, he found guys! Jimmy felt the shivers surge through him. He found guys!
And Jimmy had nightmares about the Flea. In one dream, Jimmy couldn't seem to move through the yard, but it wasn't like he was walking with heavy feet, he just couldn't walk because he was old. He was an old man and had been inside most of his life like the Flea. Suddenly he was so old he could hardly walk through the yard. He was terrified because his life had gotten away. He couldn't remember how, but he could see by his hands, by his veiny brittle hands, that he was old! Then with a mighty effort he shuffled across the yard and through a door because a monstrous ugly con was eyeing him with lust and he didn't want them to do what he saw them do to the Flea. He ran to his cell and screamed for the bull to lock the door, and he fell across the cot, overturning the little wooden homemade table. The mirror crashed to the floor and he lay there, gaping in horror into the shattered pieces. He could see plainly in the slivers of glass. Clearly. He was the Flea!
Sunday afternoon, March 3, the house phone rang.
"Hi, Jimmy," said the cheerful voice which Jimmy recognized immediately.
"Hello."
"What're you doing?"
"Shavin. Come on up."
"Come on down. Billy and me'd like to take you to my house. We'd like to show you something."
"Be right down," said Jimmy, and for the rest of his life Jimmy Smith would also mark this moment.
Why the fuck am I wastin my time with these two fools? he thought.
But what else do I got right now? I can at least go with them this afternoon. They ain't gonna stick up somebody this afternoon. And maybe I can get next to the paddy and scam a few dollars off him. And then just cut them loose. Maybe I can scam a whole mess of dollars.
For the rest of his life he would wonder if he could've made another play, played his own hand, or drawn different cards. Or was the hand played* around him? Does somebody stack that fuckin deck, he often wondered, and ain't nothin you can do about it? It was something he never decided.
Jimmy saw that Billy Small was half in the bag even that early in the afternoon, and they drove aimlessly in Greg's six year old Ford station wagon making small talk about mutual acquaintances they'd known in prison. Small at last insisted on stopping at a liquor store for a half pint of Schenley's.
When they got around to going to Greg's three-room duplex apartment, Jimmy was surprised to see it was near Sixty-fifth and Figueroa, in an all black neighborhood. Jimmy was later to recall, "We went in the pad and he introduced me to this dumpy little pregnant broad named Maxine who he called his wife. She wasn't black like I expected, she was white. Fishy white, paler than him even. But she was pleasant enough in a plain sort of way and she had a quick smile which made her not quite so bad lookin."
"Max, step in the bedroom a minute," Greg said as Jimmy and Small sat down on the couch. Jimmy tapped his cigarette on the top of a cheap glass coffee table and tried to ignore Small's drunken babbling. He watched Greg gesturing angrily to Maxine and whispering, and then Greg bent over a dresser and turned sideways. Jimmy saw the revolver in his hand.
Greg flipped the cylinder open, checked it and flipped it shut with one hand as they do in movies. Then he came in the living room smiling cheerfully at Jimmy. Small sipped his third whiskey oblivious of them all.
"Why did you take that roll of dollar bills that was in the bedroom, Billy?" asked Greg.
Small looked at Greg, down to the gun in his belt, and back up. "You gotta be kiddin," he said finally. "I don't know what you're talkin about."
"Yes you do. You took a roll of one-dollar bills that belongs to me. Max said it was laying on the dresser yesterday morning when you and Max were here alone. She said she's looked everywhere for it and can't find it."
Now Greg's tone was changing, but only a little. The gun was in his belt but Jimmy was watching the blue eyes carefully.
"Also, Billy, I'm reminded of the fact that yesterday downtown you were flashing an awful lot of one-dollar bills. And I know for a fact that when we split up the last take, I only gave you about twenty one-dollar bills and kept the bulk of them to make up that roll."
"I swear I didn't, Greg," said Billy, getting more sober by the minute.
"Furthermore, Max says that yesterday while I was gone you were fooling around the bedroom and even patted her on the fanny. Now, I don't care about the pat. We're sort of a little family, the three of us. I'm sure it was done in a friendly way and doesn't mean anything, but don't make it a habit."
"No, Greg, I swear . . ."
"What I do care about is the dough, and it's missing. I want it."
Small picked up the Schenley's, took a long gulp of courage, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slammed it on the coffee table.
"All I got in that fuckin wallet is tens and twenties. She's a liar!"
So that's the way to talk to this weird guy, thought Jimmy, this oddball with his long neck and his funny talk-with his alsos, fur- thermores, moreovers, and all his other bullshit. He talked like some hick from Nebraska just come to town and begging to be flim- flammed.
"Max never lies to me," Greg said, and turned, taking a step toward the bedroom. Jimmy thought that even a drunken black shoeshine man could handle the likes of this paddy. Then Greg wheeled.
He crouched slightly, taking shuffling steps toward Small, the gun in his hand, pointed at Small's face, finger tight on the trigger, hand trembling.
Jimmy saw all of it, but mostly he saw the eyes: blue, cold, without life, so that the voice full of rage only exaggerated the promise of death in those eyes.
"I ain't never gonna forget those eyes," Jimmy was to say. "With a gun in his hands, something happened to them. Give him the gun and he could scare the shit outta anybody with his weird looks and those eyes."
"After all I done for you," Greg whispered, knuckles white, gun muzzle weaving a tiny circle. "I split with you fifty-fifty. All I done for you and you dare to steal from me?"
Then Greg put the muzzle six inches from Small's forehead and cocked the hammer.
Small was frozen. He looked like the stunted rat Jimmy had seen in the hotel as a child. It was paralyzed when the gray cat cornered it, impotent before the great yellow eye.
Jimmy realized he was panicking and tried to think of something to say, something . . .
But Greg spoke: "I oughtta blow your goddamn brains out."
Now Jimmy could smell the sweat, his and Small's. His breath was coming hard but he sensed that Small was not breathing at all.
Greg stared for another ten seconds and slowly let the hammer down, the muzzle still pointed in the face of Billy Small.
"I love you like a brother, Greg," Small was finally able to croak. "Greg, we are brothers. I wouldn't steal your money."
"If I was one hundred percent positive you did, I'd kill you now, you
son of a bitch," said Greg, putting the gun back in his belt.
"I didn't, Greg. I didn't, brother."
"We're going out tonight, Billy," said Greg, "only this time you're gonna pull your own weight. You 're going in alone, not me. Jimmy's gonna drive. I'm just gonna wait outside. And if you come out without the money, without doing your work, I'm gonna kill >>
you.
"Sure, Greg, sure, I'll go in. Sure."
"And maybe it's possible you didn't steal my roll, but we're going out and make it all up tonight anyhow, and you're gonna do all the making."
"Sure, Greg," said Small, sagging back on the couch. "Can you drive, Jim?" Greg asked.
"Sure, drivin's my game, Greg," said Jimmy, beginning to calm down, shakily lighting a Chesterfield. "Like, I'm a pretty good wheel man, you know what I mean?"
"Come into the kitchen, Jim," Greg said. "Let's have a drink. Billy, I don't think you should have any more."
"Anything you say, Greg," said Small. "Anything you say." Maxine mixed them both generous portions of Schenley's, and Jimmy was grateful to get it.
"I can understand how you feel," said Jimmy after a few sips. "But honest, Greg, I been knowin that guy for a long time, and maybe he didn't take it. And if he did, maybe he was drunk. I'm glad you gave ol Billy a break. Shoot, it's just the whiskey."
"I thought of that, Jim," said Greg, with a friendly smile again, his front teeth protruding slightly, a partially filled silver tooth just right of center, much like Jimmy's own. "I thought the whiskey probably made him do it and I made allowances. Otherwise, I'd have busted a cap in his goddamn head."
"That's right, Greg," said Jimmy, spilling a little of the drink. "Stealin from a partner is jiveass bullshit, is all it is."
"Well, it's getting dark now," said Greg. "I gotta get ready for our night's work."
Greg went to get ready and when he came back he was wearing dark clothes, a pair of half-boots and a stingy brim hat.
"How do I look, Jim?"
"Uh, fine, Greg, you look jist fine."
"I mean the difference. Don't I look different?"
"Oh, sure, Greg," Jimmy said, getting nervous again, because he didn't want to make Greg angry.
"Do you know why I look so different?"
"No, well, yes, no, not really, Greg. You see, you got me fooled. You look so different, but I can't exactly figure why you look so different. If you could maybe give me a little hint I could sure as hell tell you why you look so different."
"It's this," said Greg triumphantly, pointing to his ear. "I put a mole on my earlobe, and I stuck three little hairs on it. You see, Jim, people facing a gun will remember outstanding characteristics about the guy, and they'll all remember my mole. But after the job it'll be gone."
"That's slick, Greg," said Jimmy whistling, and holding up his glass in a toast. "I gotta hand it to you. That's slicker'n snot."
"And that's not all. You notice what else?"
"Else?"
"Well, goddamn, Jim, my appearance is completely different and you can't even see how I've done it!"
"Well, it's just the job you done, Greg. Honest. And my eyes are real poor. I should wear glasses but ..."
"The eyebrows."
"Eyebrows?"
"They're darkened and made larger. The witness'll say the guy had bushy eyebrows and a mole on his earlobe. And I got a thin pencil-line moustache here. See it?"
"Oh yeah, yeah, now I see it."
"Well those're the things they'll notice."
"Oh yeah. I get it. Right. Righteous. I get it!"
"Just one more thing, Jim," said Greg going back in the bedroom. He returned wearing a trenchcoat, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.
"I ain't lyin," Jimmy was to say later. "A trenchcoat! So now he looks like Bogart, he figures, and he's ready to go to work. You couldn't tell him though, and I didn't try neither. And I still coulda cut them loose, coulda made some excuse, even coulda weaseled out, pleadin sheer lack of guts. But I didn't. I thought, shoot, one good score could give me the stake I need. Just one job with this crazy sucker."
"Get behind the wheel, Jimmy," Greg said, and Jimmy watched him kissing Max goodbye. "We'll cruise around for a while until you get the hang of it. Billy, you sit next to Jimmy."
Then Greg sat on the far side and Jimmy started up the tired old station wagon. He hadn't driven a car in years and the clutch slipped so badly it was impossible to do more than crawl from the curb.
"I had the clutch fixed that way on purpose, Jim," Greg said turning up the collar of his trenchcoat.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, it keeps someone from speeding away from the scene of a job and drawing the heat."
"Oh yeah," Jimmy said, "that makes sense." But he later said, "It really didn't make no sense at all. To have a slippery clutch, you know what I mean? Like, he was the only guy to drive the Ford, you know? Small didn't drive, period. And since he was the only guy to drive his car he could control his own speed, you know? I figured he just didn't want me to think he had a car with a bum clutch."
"Runs pretty good when you get her in high," Small said as Jimmy pulled out onto the Harbor Freeway and kicked it up to seventy with ease.
"She's a good car," said Greg. "I picked her out with care."
"Oh yeah," said Jimmy.
After what seemed like aimless driving on the freeways and surface streets, Greg directed Jimmy to the first job of the evening.
"This is the store, Jim. I've cased this one and it's ripe." But when they pulled up in front of the large market they found it closed.
"Well, I cased it, Jim, but you know, it's after nine. All that time we wasted at the house with Billy, that's why we're late. Market probably closes at nine. In fact, I'm sure the market closes at nine. Well, that's Billy's fault. Let's just hit a liquor store. There's plenty around here. Make a U-turn, Jim."
It was 9:30 p. M. when Jimmy pulled around the corner from a small liquor store near Washington and Leo Streets, turned out his lights, and parked in the shadows.
"Now listen, Billy," said Greg. "The fifty bucks is our main concern here. That's what you probably stole from me, you know. Now we're gonna hit this place together and maybe that'll prove to me that you didn't take the money from the bedroom."
Jimmy Smith said later, "I couldn't understand his logic in forcin Small to pull a job to prove he didn't take the money from the bedroom. You couldn't tell him though, and I didn't try neither. The only thing that made sense to me about the whole deal was that durin their past robberies Greg had did all the gun handlin and that's the way it should be. But Small nodded at Greg, so I thought, what the fuck, it made sense to him. But when we got there Greg changed his mind and went in alone."
"Okay, Jimmy," said Greg, "don't panic when I come back. Just start nice and smooth and don't try to make a quick getaway."
"Okay," Jimmy said as Greg walked toward the store. Jimmy felt the sweat rolling down his body and he and Small did not talk as they waited. Now you're in, Jimmy baby, he said to himself. Now you're in.
"Give me a bottle of Schenley's," Greg said to the proprietor.
"What kind do you want? Schenley is a distributor."
"Then give me a bottle of Seagram's Seven. Half a pint."
The proprietor got the bottle and returned facing Greg's gun. Greg cocked it.
"Open up and give me your money," he said, motioning toward the register. And to a man who was shopping in the store and didn't notice the holdup, "You, get around to the back."
The customer threw up his hands instinctively and Greg glanced toward the windows and said, "Get those hands down or I'll blow your brains out."
Minutes later Greg was in the wagon, and Jimmy was in gear, panicked, ready to snap the clutch.
Suddenly he heard terrifying explosions! "The guy's shooting at us!" Jimmy howled, and the wagon crawled out into the traffic lane and Jimmy forgot the clutch, forgot the money, forgot everything except getting the car going, trying to drive th
e gas pedal through the floor.
The engine was racing and the clutch was whining and the car was going so slow the liquor store proprietor could have outrun it. But he didn't.
"Bum couldn't hit the side of a barn." Greg laughed excitedly. "Firing blind at us with his hand around the corner."
"Are we hit, Greg?" asked Jimmy.
"Are we hit? What the hell, Jimmy. You'd feel it if you were hit."
My first robbery, Jimmy thought when they'd gotten two blocks away. A^d there's shootin. That's a sign, that's a fuckin sign to cut this guy loose. But then he thought of the money. Greg felt Small owed him fifty and he'd probably take that first. But how much was left? He wondered if he'd split the remainder three ways. But the take turned out to be only forty dollars.
When Greg saw the amount he got angry again. "Bastard," he said. "Taking pot shots at us for a lousy forty bucks. Probably wasn't even his store either. Some brave boy protecting the owner's money. I should go back there and blow the bastard's brains out to teach him a lesson."
Jimmy and Small did not reply, but both were relieved when Greg jammed the paper sack full of money into the glove compartment.
"Billy," Greg said thoughtfully, "what do you think about that place over on Western Avenue where you get your hair fixed?"
"The process parlor?"
"Yeah, think they got plenty of money in there? I believe they're open at night."
"Maybe," said Small, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here at the moment.
They left the freeway at Santa Barbara Avenue and got caught in the Sports Arena traffic. Horns, headlights, streets jammed from a basketball game, traffic backed up a quarter of a mile in all directions. Jimmy made two turns and got out of it but now they were going in the opposite direction from the process parlor.
"Uh, Greg, we're goin the wrong way," said Small.
"Don't worry about it, we'll hit a liquor store down the street here. I think there's one."
Jumpin fuckin Jesus! thought Jimmy Smith. We're goin the wrong way so what the fuck we just hit a place this way, and if we come up on a "no left turn" sign, we just turn right and look for another store. This is how they case a job? These're professionals? Jumpin fuckin Jesus.
the Onion Field (1973) Page 10