knock – knock – knock
“Trick or treat.”
The girl stood there for a moment, giving the homeowner time to come to the door. She imagined their picking up a bowl of candy and gripping the knob to turn it. The person inside would probably be expecting several kids to be trick-or-treating together, so maybe they’d bring a lot of candy to the door. Since she was alone, that would mean more for her, right?
No one answered. She could hear scraping noises inside. She knew she was at Old Suzie’s house and the other kids said she was a witch. But the girl didn’t believe that. She decided to try one more time.
knock – knock – knock
“Trick or treat.”
The front porch light was suddenly flicked off.
That’s weird, she thought. Maybe they ran out of candy. She exhaled, disappointed. Momma always says when the porch light is out, it means they’re out of candy. She turned to leave and scraped one of her rays on the front door. She had come as the sun. A simple enough costume her mother could make for her. But the cardboard bent easily. Now she had a ray that flapped when she walked. Tonight just wasn’t her night.
“Light’s off,” called her mother from the street. She had spent the evening walking her daughter around the neighborhoods, trying to get what they could. “They ain’t got no more candy. Come on, Regina.”
Chapter 11
Wayne Alan Kitts walked the length of the wall again, judged the distance again, looked at the guards looking at him, then glanced away again and counted the seconds when they weren’t watching him watching them. He flexed his hands once, twice, used the action to count the seconds. Then he turned away as he saw the guard on the south tower turn back toward him. He had five minutes to go before out-time was over. Leaning against the wall, Kitts tried to be cool, like Steve McQueen in that old World War II movie where he tries to jump the motorcycle over the barbed wire and gets tangled up in it. He even styled himself “Cooler King” inside, the nickname for McQueen’s character in the movie. A motorcycle would help right about now, he thought, looking again at the razor wire that lined the prison wall, thinking how hard it would be to climb that thing without getting sliced up.
Or shot, bendejo, Kitts thought.
Yeah, or shot.
He looked around the compound, trying to seem nonchalant, when he saw her walking in. He preferred blondes, but without much of a choice these days, he wouldn’t have kicked this one out of bed. Her jeans were painted on, her boots cracking on the hard cement as she walked across the basketball court. She passed close enough that, had Kitts stretched his arm out, he could’ve touched her. And he was mightily tempted.
With the wind blowing, he thought, and with the right angle, he could see just inside the armhole of her sleeveless shirt. He imagined more than saw the curve of her right breast, just a glimpse. He could almost feel its weight in his hand. And the sunglasses. Jesus, women look so much better in three dimensions, he thought. He heard someone call what must have been her name, Caroline, and he stood and stared. Kitts put aside all thoughts of escape, replaced them with a downright desire to stay, boy. He almost fell over as she leaned up to kiss her boyfriend. As they walked across the yard together, the boyfriend looked in his direction.
“Hey!”
Kitts was startled back to reality. Never let ’em see you sweat, boy. That’s how you live in here. That’s how you stay alive in here. But it was a bit late for that now.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Keep your eyes to yourself,” said the sergeant of the watch, placing his arm protectively around the woman.
She was his woman. Ramirez’s woman. And God, how he hated Ramirez. But Cooler King Kitts played it cool. “Aw, c’mon, Sarge, I’m just window-shoppin. I ain’t buyin.”
Then Ramirez did the one thing Kitts hadn’t expected. He smiled. It was a sunny day, a hot day for this time of year, and he had those damned mirrored sunglasses on. Kitts hated not being able to see the sergeant’s eyes. The eyes are the windows to the soul, his grandmother had taught him. And on more than one occasion Kitts had found it to be true. It had saved his life and cost other people theirs. He always knew how to handle someone after he looked in their eyes.
But that damned smile. Wipe it off, lawman, thought the Cooler King. Or I’ll fucking cut it off your face and shove it up your ass.
With one thumb hooked in a belt loop of Caroline’s bodypaint jeans and his hand resting on her ass, the sergeant ambled in his direction. Kitts’s breathing got shallow. He’s bringing her over here. Fantasies blossomed in his head.
Ramirez took a drag on his cigarette, standing at ease. “You still planning your breakout?” he asked. “’Cause me and the boys got a bet. Y’know, kinda like a baby pool. We figure you’ll be over the wall before the first real warm day. ’Course, to be fair, that’s to say the first real warm day. None of those iced-tea-on-the-porch winter days we have around here. The month of June is right popular with the pool, in fact.”
Kitts heard Caroline giggle a bit as she mock-swatted her beau’s badged chest.
Goddamn him. Goddamn the fucking bastard. First thing I’ll do when I get out . . .
The guards on the towers, which couldn’t have been more than two-hundred feet apart, were laughing at him. They couldn’t’ve heard Ramirez. Could they? Or was Kitts such a joke to them that they must’ve known what Ramirez was chiding him about?
Goddamn bastard.
Kitts just shrugged, which was a bit difficult because he was also trying to lean further into the wall at his back to present the most unconcerned portrait possible. Indifferent nonchalance. A look that said, Sticks and stones, motherfucker. “I figure I might go as early as December,” he said, smiling back. “Cooler then. Who wants to break out in the heat?”
Ramirez nodded. “Cooler then, for the ‘Cooler King,’” he said, laughing. Turning to Caroline, he flicked his eyes Kitts’s direction. “Ever seen The Great Escape, doll? This guy thinks he’s Steve fucking McQueen. Digging tunnels and riding bikes across Germany like some goddamned movie star war hero.”
First thing I’ll do, motherfucker. First thing.
“December, eh? Good idea,” Ramirez mused. “Let me know when it’s gonna be, and I’ll split the kitty with you. Fifty-fifty.”
Kitts forced himself to laugh for the audience. “Yeah, man. And I’ve been looking for some swampland to buy for a homestead—know of any?”
“Yeah,” said the sergeant, grabbing his crotch. “You can take up residence right here anytime you want. A little grassy, and one great big hard rock to climb, sweetcheeks.”
Despite their distance, the tower guards laughed out loud, and now some of the prisoners were looking on and smiling, currying favor with the deck warden, as they called Ramirez. And then Caroline laughed too, though she swiped playfully at Ramirez’s chest again as if to say he shouldn’t make such jokes when she was around. Still, she laughed, a lilting giggle that put the lie to her false modesty. Her sunglasses flashed on Kitts, taking in the funny little man.
Goddamn bastard. Fucking humiliate me. Cooler King Kitts said, “Really? That’s not what I heard. I heard Franklin damn near went blind looking for it and you beat him to death because he couldn’t find it. Lethal injection, my ass.”
(too far)
The warning came from way back inside Kitts’ head. This was a game they were playing, always fixed in its outcome. Guards and prisoners traded insults, mostly one-on-one, sometimes with an audience, but never with the prisoner getting the better line. This was a game, and he’d just jumped out of bounds. And now, the penalty phase.
“You fucking red-haired bastard,” said Ramirez, advancing. The yard went quiet, and the tower guards took the safeties off their weapons smoothly, with the flip of a thumb hidden beneath a covering arm. “You best learn to keep that mouth to yourself.”
The Cooler King went cold. His heart skipped fear into his veins. In another place, the street, anywhere but here, he’d
meet Ramirez head-on, damn the weapons and everything else. But here he was helpless, a chained dog about to be whipped with nothing to do but stand there and take it and hope it didn’t break anything vital. He stood up from the wall so he wouldn’t be off-balance. But it was the wrong thing to do because, off-balance or not, he was about to take a beating, and now he just appeared more threatening to Ramirez.
“Ramirez, I—”
“What? I can’t quite hear you.”
“I was about to say that—”
The billy club went up so fast and across Kitts’s mouth that he was still trying to finish his sentence as he hit the ground, wondering why his mouth wouldn’t move. He realized, finally, through the numbness, that he’d been hit, hit hard, as the warm, coppery blood flooded his mouth. Pain began to radiate like a thousand tiny pinpricks in his jaw.
“Still can’t hear you,” Ramirez said.
Kitts tentatively touched a loose tooth with his tongue. The club came down three times quickly on the back of his knees, and he forgot all about his mouth. The rest of the prisoners looked on, some in impotent rage at the abuse of a fellow inmate, some in happy appreciation for the entertainment before them. Most were just glad it wasn’t their day in the barrel. Kitts cried out, and he thought he saw at least one prisoner begin walking toward them.
Nonono, don’t make it worse, goddammit—
But then the tower guards chambered rounds in stereo, and the blurry figure coming in his direction stopped.
“Don’t ever open your mouth to me like that again, Cooler King,” said Ramirez. “Get up.”
“Mmmmph.” Kitts struggled with his rage, his pain. He tried to put on a properly cowed manner for Ramirez, anything to end the beating sooner rather than later. Then the baton came down three more times on him, and his lower back went numb. He dropped to the concrete again.
“I’m not fucking with you, you little prick,” said the sergeant. “Next time I’ll take more than teeth out of you.” He turned around to the audience, picked the one prisoner who’d walked forward as if to help Kitts, looked him right in the eye and said, “Break it up! Everybody to your cells. Lock down.” The inmate eyed him a moment longer, then cast his eyes down to show the proper respect and headed slowly toward the door to the inside.
“Get up, Kitts,” said Ramirez. “Get up or you won’t be able to get up again.”
Gasping for breath, Kitts put his palms flat on the concrete and pushed. Pain shot through his lower back and legs. Blood drooled out with spittle onto the ground. He lifted himself up onto his knees.
“You haven’t been here that long, Kitts,” said Ramirez. “That’s why I went easy on you. Fuck with me again and they’ll have to dredge the Trinity to find you. Understand me?”
Kitts nodded, whatever it took to get past Ramirez now. This didn’t make any difference. It wasn’t important. Live to fight another day, said his head, then added, Cooler King in Ramirez’s snide voice, just to mock himself.
“Walk to the infirmary,” said Ramirez.
Kitts stood up warily, his head spinning, his lower body in agony. He saw the baton coming at his head then and shied away, staggering, arm up. Ramirez stopped the swing before it hit. He bent down and whispered in the prisoner’s ear.
“That’s right. Know your betters, Kitts. Keep it that way and your fucking mouth shut when we have an audience, and you and me’ll do fine.” The sunglasses reflected Kitts’s scared, bloody expression back to him along with his knowledge that Ramirez had beaten him, was in total charge of his life, no quarter.
“Now get to the fucking infirmary,” said Ramirez. “And when the doc asks you how you got your injuries for his files, you just tell ’im you were playing basketball and fell on the court . . . hard. Understand?”
Kitts nodded as he staggered away toward the main building. All the other prisoners had been herded back into the cellblock by now. All he could see was a blurry, kelly-green surface he knew was the basketball court and a great stone building in front of him he knew housed the infirmary. His hearing was acutely attuned, however. Maybe that was his body making up for the blurred vision. Or maybe it wasn’t his body at all; maybe it was God or the devil having a joke on him. The only sounds he heard were the wet squeaks of his bloody-bottomed sneakers, a light slap as Ramirez bounced the baton in his open palm, and the mocking laughter of the tower guards as they watched him stagger away. He stopped for a moment as his palm found the doorjamb to the main building, where he caught his breath.
I’ll bring that motherfucker to his knees, Kitts promised himself. I’ll stick that baton so far up his ass he’ll choke on it.
He walked into the building rubbing his eyes, and his vision began to clear a little.
“Fall down, Kitts?” asked the door guard sitting behind the first gate desk.
“Uhmm,” he mumbled, trying to nod.
“Yeah, I saw it,” said the guard. “Damned shame, but accidents happen.”
The guard began to laugh, and Kitts’s spine froze with hatred for Ramirez, for all of them. And especially for the woman who’d just stood there. Caroline. He waited till he heard the chamber turn in the cell door and advanced as the guard swung it open. Kitts tried to ignore the laughter behind him and turned left down the first hallway. He still couldn’t read the sign, but he knew where the infirmary was and let memory guide him. One final chuckling bellow from the guard rankled him as he closed the door behind him, shutting it all out.
The doctor looked up from his paperwork, frowned at him, and took off his glasses. “Well, what happened to you?” he asked, getting up from the desk.
If it’s the last thing I fucking do . . .
“I fell,” Kitts managed. “Playing basketball.”
The doctor took a bottle of alcohol and a handful of cotton balls off his shelf. “Uh-humm,” he said, shaking his head. “Sit down.”
Kitts lay in his bunk, his mouth screaming at him. The doctor had had to pull two more teeth, one in the front up top and one on the upper-left side. They’d be able to make him a bridge, the doctor said, but not till the dentist made his monthly rounds. For now, it would be painkillers and a mouthful of gauze to soak up the bloody seepage that was still coming now and then. The bruises on his back and the backs of his knees were purpling up, but the drugs for his mouth were keeping the pain at bay for now. He’d floated away for an unknown amount of time on a lake of painkillers. They’d brought him dinner in his cell, had slipped it through the slot, and the shit on a shingle still sat there, cold on the concrete floor. He looked at it. Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, a half-ear of corn, and a hard roll. Cold comfort for the Cooler King, he joked in his head. All of it but the beans and potatoes would be impossible for him to eat.
Ramirez probably knows that too, Kitts thought. Probably had it specially prepared for me so I could lie here and look at it and know I can’t eat it. God, I hate that sonofabitch.
“Kitts!” came the urgent whisper. It was after midnight, after lockdown, and the man in the cell next to him knew the penalty for talking after hours. “Kitts, you ’wake?” the voice came again. “You der?”
Kitts pulled the cotton out of his mouth, wiping away the rope of spittle it dragged out of him. “I’m here,” he whispered back. It was hard to talk at all. And he was tempted to be silent, for fear of another round with a guard. But he and his fellows had so little privacy that any stolen moment to speak without worrying a guard was listening was usually worth the risk. “Whatayou want, Stu?” he slobber-mumbled. “Been beat once ’day.”
“Yeah,” said Stu Metzger, more quietly this time. “We saw. What happened, man? Refuse to give old Ramirez a blowjob?”
Kitts semi-smiled at that and winced at the pain it caused. Yeah, he thought. That’s what happened. And it’s how I lost my teeth too. I finally got fed up with blowing the bastard and chomped down hard. Then he beat me off. Get it? He beat me off. Funny, huh?
“I one-upped him,” he said simply. �
��Never one-up a guard, Stu. Number One Rule.” He thought on that a minute, then amended, “Make that Rule Number Two. Number One Rule is, find the daddy of the family you want to join, then spread your cheeks wide the first week. Less painful that way in the long run.”
“Yeah,” said Stu again in that long, drawn-out whine of acquiescence of his. “You know a lot, just bein here a few months.” Then Stu’s tone changed, as if he’d just scratched off the final winning lottery number. “I can’t believe nobody knows de udder reason you here, man—”
“Shut up,” Kitts hissed. It came out less menacing because of his missing teeth, something like Shuth uph. “I told you I had your number with Daddy Wallace. Best keep your mouth shut, Stu.” Kitts raised himself up off the cot, though it was painful to do so and Stu couldn’t see him anyway. “Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Sorreh, man, I don’t wanna git you in no trouble. I just—”
“You just shut up is all. It’s enough they know I killed somebody. The other don’t matter anyhow,” he lied. Stu knew he was lying and Kitts knew he knew, but he had Stu cowed enough that it didn’t matter. Ramirez hadn’t told anyone either, which Kitts couldn’t quite believe. Maybe that would change after today. But for now he was graced with the space most will give a confessed murderer. Maybe Ramirez hadn’t told anyone because he knew, like everyone else in here, that one word about it and Kitts would be butt-fucked with a broom handle and his head stove in with crowbars. And Ramirez wanted Kitts to enjoy his time in here, oh yeah. No easy outs for Kitts. That must be it, he thought. Nothing else makes any sense.
“Now drop it, y’hear? Never bring it up again. Y’hear?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Sorreh, man.”
There was a long silence in which Kitts closed his eyes and wondered at his luck for having to place confidence in a mole like Stu. First free BJ or pack of cigarettes, and he’d spill his guts. Honor among thieves, my ass. He breathed through the holes in his teeth. The warm air soothed the sockets. He made sure to inhale through his nose. But at least somebody has to ask the right question. At least Stu don’t have the presence of mind to volunteer it unasked. At least—
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