by Susanne Beck
The choice was an easy one, she said. After a year of trying and failing to obtain gainful employment in a town that spurned her name, she simply walked into Salvatore’s offices and offered her services.
And that was an offer he couldn’t refuse.
I remember her telling me the story of the first time she handled a gun with full and knowledgeable intent to use it. She didn’t count the slaughter in the warehouse. She’d been going on rage, hatred and blind instinct on that one.
Shortly after she had had her ‘talk’ with Salvatore, he’d taken her to his exclusive Hunt-and-Gun club where he showed her off like a proud father. Then he’d taken her back to the outdoor shooting range where several of his cronies were standing in the stalls, shooting at man-sized targets with rifles, shotguns, pistols and all other manner of projectile weaponry.
The sound of shooting was loud in her ears but she disdained the use of thick ear protectors. Upon seeing their leader with this young, beautiful stranger, the men had gathered quickly around, distributing pats to Ice’s head, though she was taller than the lot of them.
She told me that they hid their laughs quite well when Salvatore told them he was teaching her to use a gun. Apparently, the Mafia is very much an ‘old boys’ network where women, for the most part, are seen as fragile and peaceful doe-eyed creatures needing the protection of strong men. She was given a pistol along with explicit instructions in its use.
When she indicated she was ready, she was led to a stall of her own, with a bevy of middle-aged Mafia cronies watching her every move. When her first shot went errant, the wave of tittering, ‘I told you so’ laughter was cut off quickly by a look from Salvatore. After the next five shots were fired in rapid succession, the entire range was so silent Ice said you could have heard an ant crawl across the finely cut grass. Each shot had hit the target dead center.
After that, Ice told me, Salvatore Briacci knew he had the makings of a first-class assassin on his hands. And that’s exactly what he molded her into.
At first he sent her out with partners. The hits were simple and direct and caused her conscience, a tenuous beast even at the best of times, no remorse. Then she started going out on her own and the jobs became more demanding and difficult. And high profile, as well.
To this day, she’s never gone further than that on this subject, but I’d venture to guess that some of the more popular unsolved murders in this town may have their source in her; especially if the victim was a well-known Mafia member.
Like Salvatore, Ice went to great lengths to keep her ‘other’ life hidden from Josephina’s warm gaze. Briacci set out to find her gainful employment in one of his many legal business ventures. As a private citizen, he was best known for his string of new and used car lots and that’s where he sought to fit her in.
Direct and penetrating by nature, she would have made an abysmal car salesman, but when Briacci showed her to the auto-body shop, they both knew she’d found her calling. I’ve heard it said, and with no small amount of envy, that Ice can make a car walk and talk. Extremely talented with her hands, she is a mechanical genius. It wasn’t long before she was developing a client base of her own beyond the Mafia cronies and hangers-on that her benefactor so graciously supplied the up and coming young mechanic.
Again, I asked her what seemed to me to be the obvious question: why, if she had found legal employment, did she continue to work in another capacity for Briacci? She closed up some and told me the answer was complicated and to leave it at that. I suspect one of the reasons might have been some sort of debt she felt she owed him for getting her out of prison and taking her into his home and family. Though it pains me to say so, I think another reason was that she enjoyed the feeling of power being a hired gun brought to her. The same kind of power, over life and death, that Corinne so often talked about.
That insidious craving for the power of life over another remains, even after five years of living among women who feed on it like caviar, a thing as foreign to me as any other. And I pray every day to whatever higher power is out there to grant that it will always remain that way.
As if realizing, for the first time during our conversations on the subject, exactly how much she’d opened up to me, Ice shut down completely for a time, refusing to discuss anything more of a personal nature. Though I ached to push further inside her slowly opening shell, I knew to respect her boundaries and so resolved to wait for her to make the next move, if, indeed, one should ever come.
* * *
At long last, the deep bone chill of winter gave way to spring’s gentle warmth. The bright sun, birdsong, and return of green life to the land was a welcome change after winter’s brown, desolate and empty harshness. Inmates streamed out into the yard by the dozens, their skin winter-pale, pleased at last to have no roof over their heads save the sky, if even only for a short while.
One the first warm day, at the very toll of eleven o’clock, I strode out with the rest of them, blissful with the happiness only spring can bring. New life was everywhere I looked and it settled something deep in me that had been missing since the first hard frost had blanketed the earth several months before.
I walked into the fresh, tender grass, feeling the dew soak through the hem of my jumpsuit and grinning at nothing. My new status as an Amazon gave me the freedom to go where I pleased in the yard, and, believe me, I used that privilege for all it was worth. Skirting around the basketball court, which was definitely worse for wear after the brutal winter we’d suffered, I walked the newly limed foul line of the softball field, watching the women warm up.
Some of the inmates were taking batting practice while infielders and outfielders peppered one another with scorching tosses of the shiny white softballs. A pop fly headed out my way and, without thinking about it, I reached out and snagged it from the air, enjoying the looks of surprise when I threw it back to the catcher on the fly.
Softball was a sport that I both dearly loved and was very good at. It was also the only thing in my life, prior to my elopement, that I was able to gather enough courage to stand my ground on. Despite my mother’s thinly veiled disappointment and my father’s snide comments, I tried out for and won a starting position on the Varsity team in my sophomore year of High School. I played shortstop, and don’t think I haven’t heard every single joke there is about being the perfect height for the position, because, believe me, I have. A dozen times over, at the very least.
In answer to the congenial summonses, I was drawn into the inmates’ game and took up my accustomed position, pounding the webbing of the grubby mitt I’d been given. Crouching low, my muscles feeling limber and loose despite the winter’s confinement, I swept the hair from my eyes and began to heckle the batter, giddy with the feeling of being five years younger and a lifetime more free.
The coordination and skills came back quickly and I lost myself in the game, scooping up grounders, tagging out runners and batting the living hell out of the ball like a woman possessed. I was dirty from sliding and sweaty from running and generally feeling just fine.
It was the top of the sixth and my team was leading by a comfortable margin. The batter was arguing with the umpire over some disputed call and I found my attention wandering. Looking over toward the prison, I watched as the door opened and several of my friends filed out, followed by Ice. There was a rare smile on her face and though it wasn’t directed at me, I felt myself smile in response. She’d gained back all the weight she’d lost while in isolation and while still pale, her normal olive skin tone had returned to her face, making her look vibrant and healthy. An errant gust of wind lifted her hair from her shoulders and blew it back from her face, exposing its angled planes in all their glory.
No doubt about it. I was smitten.
So much so that I almost had free orthodontia courtesy of a blistering line-drive headed right for my face. In total reflex, I brought my glove up and neatly snared the screaming missile, thereby ending the game.
I soon found myself
buried under a mound of cheering teammates, suffering congratulatory pats on every exposed part of my body and grinning like a fool, I’m sure. I was finally rescued from the pile, pulled to my feet and brushed off by a solicitous first-baseman who smiled shyly at me as she brushed the last bit of dust from my shoulder.
Warning bells went off in my head and I toned down my smile, flattered at her shy interest, but wanting only one person to look at me that way. I increased the distance between us smoothly on the pretext of straightening my sleeves. "Thanks."
The young woman’s smile broadened. "Oh, hey! No problem! You did great, by the way. What an arm."
"Thanks. You did pretty well yourself."
She shrugged self-depreciatingly. "Eh, I was kinda rusty, but I’ll get better once I have the time to work the kinks out and get back into the groove. Say, you wanna practice together sometimes?"
Uh oh. I could feel my smile become a little forced but hoped she couldn’t detect it. "Um . . .yeah. Sure. Why not?"
"Cool! That’d be great! My name’s Digger, by the way."
I grasped her extended hand, pumped once, then released it again. "Nice to meet you, Digger. I’m Angel."
Her smile went goofy. "Yeah," she said, drawing the word out. "I know. I’ve seen you in the library and with the Amazons and stuff. You guys are so cool."
Oh boy. I mentally rolled my eyes but managed to keep a straight face. "Thanks."
"No, thank you. So . . .can I walk you back inside?"
I reached up to scratch the back of my neck, neurons firing at a rapid rate trying to come up with some graceful way to decline the advances of my newfound admirer. The rest of me was just laughing its fool head off. "I . . .um . . .appreciate the offer, Digger. Really. It’s just that . . .um . . .I . . . ." My eyes lit upon the answer. " . . .promised my friends over there that I’d meet up with them as soon as I was done here."
Her whole face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. "You’re going to hang out with the Amazons? Wow! Maybe you could, like, introduce me to some of ‘em?"
Wrong excuse, Angel. Declining was on the very tip of my tongue when I remembered a slightly younger version of myself being warmly welcomed among those women for the first time. Unlike me, though, Digger obviously already had friends in her gang. However . . . .
I turned to her, smiling again. "Sure. C’mon."
"Alright!"
She followed along behind me like a newly trained puppy and I winced at the smug grins I was getting from my friends who, as always, had gathered in the free-weight area. As I entered the area, Pony sat up from her place on one of the benches and gave me a pat on the side. "Way to save the ol’ puss, Angel."
I wrinkled my nose at her, my own version of a smirk. "Better than you, at any rate."
My friends all laughed as Digger stood open-mouthed, doubtless shocked at my seeming audacity to kid Pony about the skull fracture she’d received during the riot. Pony laughed with the rest of them, then mock-punched me in the gut before laying back down to push out another twenty reps on the chest press.
Stepping back, I pushed my new friend forward a little. "Everybody, this is Digger. Digger, these are the Amazons."
As Digger began her effusive greetings, I looked around, searching for and failing to find Ice anywhere within the group. Raising questioning eyebrows toward Critter, she nodded at me, gesturing with one arm toward some spot behind my left shoulder. Doing a slow turn, I saw Ice standing up against the nearest part of the fence, her body taut with tension and her hands gripping the chain link so tightly I could easily see her whitened knuckles even from this distance. I looked back at Critter again, who shrugged.
Squaring my shoulders, I completed my turn and began to walk toward the fence, eyeing the nonchalant tower guards as I went. Normally, of course, the guards get itchy when you walk too close to their precious fence but, at least so far, they seemed singularly uninterested and so I quickened my pace.
As my steps brought me closer to Ice and the fence, the corner of the prison slid out of my vision, giving me a clear view of the parking lot beyond. It was painfully obvious to me that Ice was watching with grim determination something happening in that parking lot and I very much wanted to know what was going on.
Standing slightly apart from my friend, I peered into the lot, spying the warden talking to a short, well built man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses. One of the stranger’s hands rested possessively on the hood of a shiny black Cadillac while his other gestured wildly in time with the movement of his lips. His dark hair gleamed in the bright sunlight whose rays bounced and twinkled off the layers of gold jewelry he was also sporting. He threw back his head in laughter after some comment of the warden’s, and then stuck out his hand to be shaken, which it was. After another moment, he got into his expensive car and drove off. The warden returned to his office.
I could easily feel the tension radiating from the body of my friend as her head turned to follow the path of the Cadillac. A moment passed, and then another. Then she grasped the fence so hard I was sure the metal links were going to simply shatter under the force of her hands. She shook it once, violently, then turned and, without a word or a look in any direction save straight ahead, stalked back into the prison.
I barely restrained myself from running after her, remembering my promise to myself in the nick of time. With a sigh of dejection, I turned and walked back to the weight area, where my friends looked at me with expressions of concern on their faces. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head just as the change of shift bell sounded, signaling us all back into the building.
* * *
As I sat in my cell that evening, I thought about what had transpired during the day. Ice had disappeared, as was usual with her when she was upset, into her cell and was not seen for the rest of the day. Corinne and the others badgered me, asking me what I’d seen and why I thought Ice had reacted the way she did. I could tell that they didn’t trust her seemingly tenuous hold on her sanity. But I did, and I refused to give them fodder for their grist mill. That she’d known the man speaking to the warden was obvious. Who he was and what his presence meant to her remained, however, no one’s business but her own.
I’m afraid I got a bit cross with them all and, rather than subject them further to my fit of temper, retreated to my own cell, well realizing the irony of my actions. I’d gone through several roommates in slightly over a year and presently my cell was empty of any other human habitation, so I was free to mope in peace.
Though it was still relatively early in the evening, I decided to call it a night, thinking that perhaps sleep would provide me with the answers to my questions. I was in the process of turning my bed down when a soft sound just outside my cell caused me to stop and look over my shoulder curiously. Ice stood in the hallway, arms loose at her sides and a slightly chagrined look on her face. I smiled hesitantly.
"You busy?"
"No! No, I was just . . . ." I gestured toward my half unmade bed.
"Wanna go for a walk?"
As I turned, my grin became full-out. "Sure. That’d be great."
Smiling, she bowed me out of the cell, then led the way back through the main part of the prison before going down one of the many hallways that branched off the main square. A left and then another left and we were heading into a section of the prison I’d never been in before.
One of the first things you learn when you’re incarcerated is to not stick your nose into too many places because you can bet you won’t like what you find. Or, often, what finds you. Following that particular philosophy like a bible, there were many places in the Bog still unknown to me.
Still, I felt little unease with the developing situation. I trusted Ice with my life, and I also had a pretty good idea where we were going.
Before I continue forward, it might be best to step back a moment and explain the employment system at the Bog. While in many prisons, inmates are expected to work for their room and board, it’s different in
the Bog. Those inmates who have a desire to work, for either the money or to make the time pass more quickly, do so. They are paid a flat wage of twenty-five cents an hour, which goes into their personal prison account. Those prisoners who don’t feel like working aren’t required to.
The work I do for Corinne in the library is done out of love and I won’t accept any payment for it. My ‘side’ job, that of article-obtainer more than pays for whatever frivolous items I might want. There are plenty of opportunities for work in our happy little home, ranging from laundry and cleanup to cooking and groundskeeping. In the nineteen fifties, a large new wing was added to the main prison and housed the new workshops which were added to increase prison income. An auto shop, a sheet metal shop and a woodworking shop share space in the new wing and I’m told the profits from these slave-labor ventures are quite high.
Given her background, or at least that part which constituted legal income, it shouldn’t be hard to guess where Ice went to pass the time by working. Sure enough, after we walked down the last hallway, the area opened up into a larger space with several doors all on the far side of the wall. Three guards patrolled the area and looked up inquiringly as we entered. They all waved and one walked over, smiling. "Puttin’ in some overtime, Ice?" The others chuckled at her witticism.
"Something like that," Ice allowed, lifting her arms so the guard could pat her down.
"How ‘bout you, Angel?" the guard asked me, reaching out her arms to pat me down as well. "Gonna build some new bookcases for your library?"
"Nah," I replied, trying not to giggle as the guard’s professional hands patted over some very ticklish spots. "Just having a look around. I’ve never been to this part of the prison before."
The guard grinned and stepped back. "That’s fine. Don’t stay down there too long, though. Lock down is in a couple hours."
Ice nodded and the guard led us to one of the center doors along the wall, reaching down to unlock it with of the keys hanging from a huge ring on her belt. The door unlocked with a quiet click and she pushed it open, gesturing us inside.