Alcatraz!

by Dakota Chase

  “I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass. That’s your problem. Me, I’m not one of Capone’s favorite people, see? And I don’t have anybody working in the metal shop that I can tap for a favor, but he does. For whatever lame-brained reason, Capone likes you. Now, shut up about it. Blake is coming back. So help me, I’ll slit your throat right here if you say one fucking word about this to him. Don’t think I won’t. You’re not worth the paperwork they’d have to fill out to get me sent to the mainland for trial. The worst they’ll do is throw me back in the Hole.”

  The door opened and Officer Blake walked back inside. Billy Ray pretended he’d been instructing Ash on the fine art of cobbling shoes all along. For a convict with no morals and probably little in the way of formal education, he was a terrific actor.

  “So, see how the little piece of leather fits against the slit? That’s all you need. Don’t cut it too big—that’s a waste, and we don’t like waste on the Rock.”

  “Um, sure. Yeah, I got it.” Ash was shaking like a leaf, partly from fear and partly from fury. He didn’t like being threatened, and not being able to walk away from trouble or confront it head-on made it worse. Restraint was not something that came easily to him, and he had to fight to bite his tongue and not read Billy Ray like a cheap paperback.

  The problem was he had no doubt Billy Ray could have him killed. Things like that happened all the time in prisons, didn’t they? The news always did stories on it. Inmate jumped in dining hall. Inmate found stabbed in cell. It could happen. He had no choice but to keep quiet and try to get along. But in order to keep Billy Ray happy, he needed Capone’s help. How could he get Capone to agree? Yeah, he took a blow for Capone, but that didn’t mean Capone felt obligated to Ash. And even if Capone did, Ash doubted it would be wise to waste a favor on Billy Ray, when Ash needed Capone to give him the locket. In fact, it would be pretty damned stupid. But what choice did he have?

  What he needed was to talk to Grant. They would figure it out together, but he had no idea where Grant was or when they’d be able to speak privately. It was frustrating, to say the least.

  The guard’s nightstick tapped on the worktable, startling Ash. “Hey. You sleeping, or what? Get busy.”

  Ash nodded and grabbed another pair of shoes from the pile. Both shoes needed new soles, so he watched as Billy Ray demonstrated how to measure and cut new soles, then pry the old sole off and reglue a new one down, reinforcing it with a few well-placed tacks.

  They worked in relative silence until the lunchtime whistle blew. Then Officer Blake took inventory of the shoemaking tools before marching them outside to the yard, where they shivered in the cold wind until guards did another headcount. Fifteen minutes later, Ash sat in the same place he had for breakfast, next to Capone, his tray laden with a thick sliced chicken sandwich, a generous helping of green beans, a slice of white cake, and the ever-present cup of coffee. At this point, he would’ve given his left arm for a Coke, but had to make do with a glass of water.

  Al smiled at him. “Well, kid, how’d it go in the shoe shop?”

  Ash answered around a mouthful of chicken. “Okay, I guess. I had to work with Billy Ray.”

  Al leaned forward and glanced at Billy Ray across the aisle at the next table, who gave no indication he knew he was being watched. “Yeah? How’d he treat you? Okay?”

  He gave Al a small shrug, unwilling to go into details where other inmates could overhear them. Instead he slid his coffee over to Al and whispered. “Can we talk later?”

  “Sure. We get rec time in the yard this afternoon. We’ll have us a chat.” Al glanced at Billy Ray again, a small frown creasing the skin between his eyes. Ash could tell Capone understood there’d been a problem after all, and discretion was needed.

  They ate the rest of their meal in relative silence so they wouldn’t inadvertently piss off a guard and lose their rec time. After returning their trays and utensils, they were walked out of the dining hall to the yard, where the guards did yet another headcount.

  Life at Alcatraz was definitely based on routine. Rinse and repeat. Again and again. It was enough to drive him batty, and he’d only been in for a day. How would he feel if he had to be here for years? How did a guy readjust to the outside after spending a decade having every move you made dictated by a whistle and a headcount? He began to understand why people said some convicts couldn’t make it on the outside. When your life was based completely on regimented routine, freedom could feel like chaos.

  The wind was blowing across the yard, but he and Al found a somewhat sheltered corner near the side of the cellblock building. A few men tried to join them, but Al shooed them away, for which Ash was grateful. Privacy was exactly what he needed.

  Men sat on the ground in small groups, or at the few picnic tables playing with dominoes. Others stood watching them. A few played ball, taking turns shooting an old beat-up ball into a net-less hoop.

  Ash tucked his hands into his armpits to warm them. “I can understand playing basketball, but I’d think convicts would rather be playing cards than dominoes. You know, poker or blackjack or something.”

  Capone snorted. “Yeah, you know they would. Warden won’t allow it. The only game allowed is bridge, and we can only play out here in the yard, so cards are no good. They’d blow away or get ruined in the rain, see? So we use dominoes.”

  “Bridge? Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Warden thinks it’s classy. He wouldn’t know class if it snuck up and bit him on the ass. The guys take it as seriously as any gamblers I ever knew, though. They’ll be out here no matter the weather—rain, snow, cold, heat.” He belched and then took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Shaking one out of the pack, he offered it to Ash.

  “No, thanks. Those things will kill you.”

  Al chuckled. “Who told you that, kid? Even the docs smoke. Everybody does.” He shrugged and then fished a matchbook out of the pack’s cellophane wrapping where he’d tucked it. He flicked a match against his thumbnail until the tiny red head flared up, and lit his cigarette, drawing in a lungful of smoke. He coughed and flung the used match away. “Okay, kid. What gives with Billy Ray? That mamaluke giving you trouble? I could tell you didn’t want to say nothing in front of the guys at the table.”

  Ash took a deep breath. “Yeah, about that. He sort of asked me to do him a favor.”

  Al nodded. “I’m guessing he didn’t ask nicely, huh?”

  “No, not really.” Ash’s hand moved to touch the base of his throat. “He was pretty clear that I didn’t want to turn him down.”

  “Son of a bitch. He threatened you after I said nobody should bother you?” A cold, reptilian look gleamed in Al’s eyes. “Tell me.”

  Ash swallowed hard, staring at Al. There was no trace on his face of the guy who’d been nice to Ash. Al’s face could’ve been carved from granite, and Ash was suddenly very aware of the thin white scars slicing across Al’s left cheek. He looked dangerous, as if he could cut your throat with the same knife he was using to slice bread, then go right back to carving his loaf of rye without batting an eye. This wasn’t Friendly Al—this was Al Capone, Public Enemy Number One, and Ash suddenly understood how Al came to be in Alcatraz.

  He also understood that Billy Ray was either stupid or crazy to risk getting on Al Capone’s bad side.

  “Um, he wants something he called a bar spreader. I don’t know for what. He says you have friends in the metal shop who can make him one.”

  A tiny, cold smile lifted Al’s lips. “Sure, I got friends all over. So, he wants a spreader, huh? Only one reason a man would want one, kid. To escape.”

  Ash felt his mouth fall open. “But… but this is Alcatraz! Nobody escapes from here.”

  Al hissed at him. “Keep your voice down! The guards hear you say that word and they’ll throw your ass into the Hole and forget where they put you.”

  Ash slapped a hand over his mouth and looked around, but there was no one close enough to have overheard him. “Sorry. I was just sur
prised. I mean, nobody has, right? Got out?”

  “Who told you that? It’s a fairy tale, kid, what the screws want everybody to believe. They say the ones who get off this island die, drowned before they get to shore. I don’t believe it.”

  “Wow. So, what should I do, Al? If I don’t get him what he wants, he says he’ll kill me.”

  Al blew out a long breath that reeked of onions and tobacco. “Okay, kid. Tomorrow’s Sunday. No work tomorrow. We got church service after breakfast if you want, then the yard in the afternoon. Monday you’ll probably get assigned to the cobbler’s shop with Billy Ray again. You tell him I say I’ll see what I can do. That ought to buy some time.”

  “Then what, Al?”

  His smile returned, and it sent a shiver up Ash’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind. “Then I’ll take care of the problem.”

  Chapter Ten

  GRANT HURRIED from the warden’s house, keeping his head ducked down, hoping no one would spot him. He was going to have a tough time explaining what he’d been doing up there—brand-new guards didn’t get called to private meetings with the warden without reason—and wanted some time to think up a good lie.

  Maybe there was something wrong with his paperwork? No, that wouldn’t work. He’d be called to the office, not the warden’s house at the crack of dawn.

  What else would the warden want to see him about?

  Bad news from home. Yeah, that might work. The warden got word that something had happened to somebody in Grant’s family, somebody got sick, or an aunt or uncle had died, and the warden called Grant up to the Hoe House to break the bad news.

  Would anybody believe it? He didn’t know, but it sounded reasonable enough to him. It would have to do. With any luck, nobody would challenge him about it anyway. As far as he knew, the only one who knew he’d been called up to Hoe House was the guard named Roberts who woke Grant up. If he could avoid Roberts, he might not have to lie to anyone. The thought relaxed him a bit, and he breathed a little easier.

  The whole day stretched ahead of him, though, and he had no idea what he could do to fill the hours before his first shift in the Gun Gallery. There was no way he could go back to sleep—he was wide-awake, and if he tried, he’d only lie on his bunk and stare at the ceiling. There was no reason for him to be on the cellblock, and since Hocks warned him last night, if he was caught, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know any better again, so trying to talk to Ash right now was out of the question.

  He was honestly beginning to wonder why Merlin had sent him back on this trip at all. Was it just because he always went with Ash? It seemed a waste of time to him. There didn’t seem to be anything he could do, no difference he could make. Getting the locket was totally up to Ash. All Grant was doing was spinning his wheels.

  “Hey, Vaughn! Wait up!”

  He turned around, surprised to hear his name being called. A guard was hurrying up the path toward him. The guard was young, slightly overweight, with a round baby face. He didn’t know the man’s name and wondered how the guard knew his. Then Grant recognized the guard as one of the men who shared his dorm room.

  “You’re Vaughn, right? We’re dorm buddies. I’m Silverton. Gus to my friends.” Gus panted, out of breath. He stuck out a hand for Grant to shake.

  Grant took it and gave it a solid shake. “Yeah, sure. I’m Grant. Good to meet you. You were all sleeping when I got in last night.”

  “I know. Listen, Officer Roberts sent me to get you. He said you’d be up this way. There’s two guards called in sick today, and you and me got pulled to fill in. We got to report to Lieutenant Merloch.”

  Grant almost moaned out loud. Merloch held no fondness for him, he was sure, not after their trip to the medical unit yesterday. Still, he had no choice in the matter. He couldn’t afford to make any more waves. “Okay, sure. Any idea what we’ll be doing?”

  “Not a clue. Something on the cellblock, though, I hope. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, and you’re brand-new. They usually don’t pick newbies to fill shifts unless they’re desperate. Guess there wasn’t anyone else. Anyway, we better hurry. Lieutenant Merloch doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Nobody on Alcatraz seemed overly fond of waiting, he thought as they started up the path to the cellblock. Not the warden, not Merloch, not Roberts, not anybody. Why the hell was everybody in such a big hurry? They were on a freaking island, for God’s sake. It’s not like anyone was going anywhere.

  “I sure hope they don’t pair us up with Hocks. Between you and me, I don’t believe a word he says. The man is windier than a bagful of farts.” Gus gave Grant a sheepish smile. “Trust you’ll keep that between you and me.”

  “Oh, sure.” Grant nodded. Gus seemed like a nice enough guy, and he could sure use a friend considering his only other one was locked up in a cell. “Where are you from?”

  “Georgia. Little town outside of Atlanta that nobody ever heard of, and nobody in their right mind would ever want to go to. You?”

  “New York.”

  “City? Wow-ee. Always wanted to go there. Is it really like they say it is in the picture shows?”

  Grant smiled. “Yeah, pretty much, I guess. Lots of lights, lots of noise, lots of people.”

  “Son, if I was from New York City, I’d never want to leave. Heard the girls up there are prettier than a spotted pup, and”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“loose. You know what I’m talking about.” He gave Grant a slanted smile.

  Grant understood exactly what Gus meant. “I guess they’re no different than girls anywhere else, but I’m no expert.”

  Gus cocked his head. “Good-looking man like you? I’d a thunk women would be all over you like skinny ticks on a fat hound.”

  Grant coughed. He wasn’t about to get into a conversation with Gus about why he had no experience with women, nor wanted any. Not after learning about Alan Hood and Joseph Harrison, who were both serving time for nothing worse than being caught loving other men. “We better get a move on before Merloch changes his mind about putting us to work.”

  “Yup, you’re right. We can jaw some more at lunch.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” About anything other than women, he added silently and hoped Gus didn’t notice him roll his eyes.

  They made it to the entrance to the cellblock without further conversation, and once inside, went directly to the office. Inside, they stood quietly waiting for the secretary to acknowledge them. She was a stout woman with iron gray hair, a wide bosom, and an even wider rear. Her name was Margaret Mae Smith, and her no-nonsense attitude was immediately apparent from the first moment you met her. Her lips were pressed into a tight, white line, and she seemed the type of woman who rarely—if ever—smiled. “What do you two want?”

  “Um, we were told Lieutenant Merloch wanted us to report here.” Grant added “Ma’am” as an afterthought.

  “Hmph.” Margaret sniffed at them, then grabbed a sheet of paper from the desk and checked it. “Guess the pickings must be pretty slim for him to send for the two of you. Newbies, patrolling the block! It’s unheard of. And stupid.” She continued talking, mumbling really, although Grant could still hear her. “Putting babies out there with criminals, no experience, barely a brain between them. Ought to have more sense.”

  Gus whispered in his ear. “Nice to know she has so much confidence in us, huh?”

  He covered his mouth with his hand, hoping to hide a sudden, unexpected stab of homesickness. It was something Ash might’ve said. He was really beginning to hate this trip back in time, not just because of the conditions or the seemingly prevalent mindset regarding homosexuality, but because he and Ash were separated. Asked before this trip whether being kept away from Ash would make him feel so alone, he would’ve vehemently disagreed, and he still would if anyone thought to ask now. But privately, he knew differently. He missed Ash with a vengeance.

  “Here we go. Two men are out sick with stomach ailments. Dr. Kearney in the Treatment Unit sent down a
note.” Margaret waved the note at them as if they were to blame for the two guards getting sick. “One of you is to patrol Broadway, and the other needs to take Seedy Street.”

  Grant perked up. “I’ll take Broadway.” He glanced at Gus, suddenly worried he’d seemed too anxious. “I mean, unless you want it.”

  Gus didn’t seem to have noticed. He shrugged. “I don’t care as long as I get to patrol.”

  “Mind me, now, you boys better keep your wits about you out there. Don’t be foolish, and maybe you’ll walk out at the end of your shift in one piece.” She frowned at them. “Are either of you armed?”

  They looked at each other, then back at her, shaking their heads. Grant answered for both of them. “No, ma’am. Just our nightsticks. We knew we were coming on the cellblock floor, so we left our pistols in our room.”

  “Well, that was smart.”

  Grant got the feeling she could barely believe they’d thought enough to leave the weapons behind, but then she shooed them toward the door without clarifying. She gestured toward Gus. “Hurry now. Lieutenant Merloch will meet you on Seedy Street.” Then she turned to Grant. “Officer Hocks will be waiting for you in Times Square. Get a move on.”

  Grant gulped. Hocks? Oh God, no. Anybody but him! The look on Margaret’s face was positively stony, and she looked like she’d happily whack him upside the head with a clipboard if he dared question her. Besides, she was really just the messenger anyway. Merloch was the one who’d set the assignments, and he was probably the only one who could change them.

  Feeling as though his legs were made of lead and twice as heavy, he dragged himself out of the office and headed toward Times Square.

  Hocks was already there, leaning against the wall, cleaning his nails with a small pocketknife. Grant frowned. I thought weapons weren’t allowed on the cellblock floor? That looks like a weapon to me. Is it just guns that aren’t allowed, or is this just Hocks being an asshat again? He didn’t say anything as he approached Hocks, but he glanced again at the knife in Hocks’s hand.