Alcatraz!

by Dakota Chase

  Hocks snickered and purposely looked at the knife, turning it over in his hands. “You got a problem with this, newbie?”

  Grant shrugged a shoulder. “I thought weapons weren’t allowed on the floor.”

  “They’re not—for you. What I do is none of your damn business.”

  Grant remained silent, sensing this wasn’t the time for a flip remark, not while Hocks held a sharp blade. He waited for Hocks to speak again, trying not to squirm under his challenging glare.

  Hocks grunted and folded the knife, then stuffed it into his pocket. “Just to let you know, I hate snitches. If I even think somebody went to Merloch or the warden and told tales about me, they’re gonna be choking on their own teeth. Understand?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Grant wasn’t lying—he understood perfectly. For a minute he worried Hocks might’ve heard about him spying for the warden, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He figured he was being concerned for no reason. If anyone knew how quickly rumors traveled at Alcatraz, it would be the warden. Johnston wouldn’t tell another soul about what Grant was doing if it was even remotely possible word would get back to Hocks and jeopardize the plan. Hocks was warning him not to talk about seeing Hocks’s knife.

  “Oh, sure. I get it. I would never talk about you behind your back.” A lie, of course, but a necessary one. He disliked lying and knew he was rotten at it. He quickly steered their conversation in another direction before Hocks suspected. “So, I’m on the cellblock floor tonight. That’s pretty cool.”

  “Cool?” Hocks’s brow furrowed and he shrugged. “Feels okay in here to me.”

  Ugh. Damn twenty-first century slang was going to make Hocks think he was crazy, and that was the last thing he needed. “Um, no, I meant I’m happy I got pulled to fill in on the cellblock floor. Because you said new guards always get put up in the Gun Gallery.”

  Hocks grunted. “Oh, yeah. Believe me, you’re only here because we didn’t have nobody else to spare. So listen up, and try not to get dead before morning, okay? Makes for a lot of paperwork I don’t wanna have to do.”

  Grant nodded and muttered under his breath. “Good tip.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just said I was lucky.”

  “Yeah. Well, come on. This way. Mostly, your job is to make sure nobody is doing anything they shouldn’t. Lights out is at nine thirty. Nobody is allowed to talk after lights out, and nobody is allowed to use matches or candles to read or nothing. You catch somebody doing anything they shouldn’t be doing, and you report it to me. Understand? You do not go into the cell. Do. Not. I catch you in a cell, and I’ll have you on the first boat out of here.”

  “Sure, sure. I understand. Stay out of the cells.”

  “Right. If it was up to me you wouldn’t even have the cell keys, but the warden thinks you need ’em in case of a fire. Me? I say let ’em burn, but I’m not in charge. Yet.”

  Grant wasn’t sure what to say to someone who advocated letting prisoners burn alive in their cells, so he stayed quiet.

  “We do head counts at midnight, 3:00 a.m., and again at five o’clock. You mark each one off on the roster. If the number is ever wrong, you count again. If it’s still wrong, you come get me, and God help you if you wake me up for no reason.”

  “Oh, I won’t. I promise.” That much wasn’t a lie. He’d rather gnaw his own arm off first than go to Hocks for help with anything.

  Hocks handed him a large circular keychain from which dangled a half dozen keys. “This one is for the outer doors. This one is for the cells. Then you got the dining hall key, and the one to the office. Remember, you unlock a door, you go in or out, and you lock it again. Never forget to lock a door behind you.”

  “Lock the doors. Got it.”

  “Then all you got to do is walk up and down the cellblock and keep your eyes peeled for trouble. Think you can handle it?”

  Grant was pretty sure a trained monkey could do it, but he refrained from saying so. Instead, he forced himself to stand taller and tried to look proud. “Yes, sir. I can do it.”

  “Keep your nightstick out of the loop. You want it at the ready. Sometimes a prisoner will try to a reach for you from inside the cell, and you need to be able to crack their fingers if they do.” He snickered. “Got to say, the sound their fingers make when breaking reminds me of that cereal they get down in the dining hall. Rice crisp-something-or-other.”

  He tried not to wince at the mental image. “Krispies. Right.” He was never going to be able to eat them again after this, and that pissed him off. He liked Rice Krispies. Thanks, Merlin.

  “You got B Block, and that holds the most prisoners, so keep sharp. Go on. I got to get some shut-eye.”

  “Okay. Um, Officer Hocks? I just want to say thanks, you know, for the opportunity. You’ve got the reputation for being the best guard on the island. I really want to learn from you.” Gah. He imagined sucking up to Hocks was a lot like eating chocolate-covered turds. No matter what you did to it, it still tasted like shit.

  That actually brought a tiny smile to Hocks’s face. “Yeah? Swell, kid. See you in the morning.”

  “Have a good night, Officer Hocks.” May you choke on your feather pillow.

  Grant unlocked the outside door for Hocks, then locked it again as soon as Hocks walked through it, practically slamming Hocks in the rear end with the door. He instantly felt better knowing Hocks was locked out—he didn’t trust him.

  Although Grant was as far from being a psychologist as he was from being a rock star, he knew a psychopath when he saw one, and Hocks was practically the poster child for Psychopaths R Us.

  First of all, Hocks enjoyed giving pain and watching people suffer; that much was obvious. Being a guard seemed to give him free rein to torture prisoners psychologically and physically, practically with impunity. All he needed was the flimsiest of excuses, and Grant was pretty confident none of the other guards would challenge him. Maybe Merloch would, although Grant wasn’t convinced Merloch was much better than Hocks in that regard.

  He sighed as he attached his key ring to his belt and, holding his nightstick—which he had no intention of using—lightly in his right hand, began his patrol on B Block.

  Chapter Eleven

  ASH LAY awake, unable to sleep. His arm ached like a rotten tooth, and his thoughts refused to stop racing. He stared at the gray concrete ceiling, seen only dimly through the near dark of lights out.

  The question of how he was supposed to get Capone’s locket kept swirling through his mind on an endless loop. He’d thought—briefly—when he’d taken the blow of the nightstick meant for Capone, that Capone might’ve been so overwhelmed with gratitude he’d make a present of it to Ash. Which, of course, hadn’t happened. All he’d gotten for his trouble was a badly bruised arm, something he really could’ve done without, and the honor of being put on Hocks’s shit list, something else he really didn’t need.

  Meanwhile, Grant was off somewhere living the high life. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t sipping champagne and eating oysters off gold plates or whatever rich people did, but he sure as hell wasn’t sleeping on a cot that felt like bare springs in a cold, damp cell no bigger than the closet they shared in their dorm room at Stanton’s.

  He could hear the noises of sleeping convicts and tried to concentrate on them for a while to give his mind a break from the stress he was under. The convicts actually made more noise asleep than they did awake, since talking was forbidden on the cellblock. Snores, mumblings, coughs, sneezes, and farts came together in a sort of music that Ash actually found almost comforting. It was like being at sleep-away camp—if the camp master was Freddy Krueger, that is. Still, they were normal sounds, and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was somewhere, anywhere, other than inside a maximum-security prison.

  “Ash? Ash, are you asleep? Wake up. It’s me.”

  He blinked, having dozed off without realizing it. Was somebody calling his name? He was about to roll over and try to go back to sleep when he he
ard it again.

  “Ash?”

  He lifted his head up and peered at the dim shape of a man standing outside his cell. “Grant? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” A brilliant beam of light flicked off and on as Grant used his flashlight to briefly illuminate his face. “Are you awake?”

  “I’m talking, right?”

  “That means nothing. I’ve heard you talk in your sleep.”

  “Believe me, I’m up. What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  “I got pulled in to cover a shift. Any luck getting the locket?”

  Ash grunted and sat up. He shook his head. “Will you keep your voice down? He’s right next door, you know.”

  Grant grimaced and peeked into the next cell. “He’s sleeping, I think.”

  “You mean you hope. Anyway, no. Aside from yanking it off his neck and running like hell, I don’t see how I’m going to get it. Also, I’m being strong-armed by a con to get Al to have friends make a piece of contraband. A bar spreader. Al says prisoners use them to try to escape. The last thing I need is to get caught in the middle of an escape plot!”

  “So, don’t do it.”

  “Oh my God! That’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, right! Because if I don’t, Billy Ray is going to kill me.”

  “Jeez, Ash! You need to tell somebody!”

  “I am. I’m telling you. Telling anybody else won’t do me any good, and if it gets back to Billy Ray that I snitched, I’m as good as dead.”

  Grant chuffed. “You know, it’s almost funny. I got forced into spying on another guard by the warden, of all people. You know the one who hit you?”

  Ash groaned softly. “Oh no. Not Hocks!”

  “Yup. The very same. The warden thinks he’s corrupt, taking bribes I guess. I’m supposed to get in tight with him and find out.”

  “Oh man. You’re screwed too.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Grant shrugged. “Keep on doing what we’re doing, I guess. I don’t see any other choice. It’s not like we can just pick up our toys and go home.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not on this side of the bars.”

  “Hey, I didn’t pick our roles here. Blame Merlin.”

  “Oh, believe me, I do.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  They fell into an uneasy silence. Ash’s hands fisted in the thin blanket covering his cot, and he had to remind himself that Grant wasn’t the enemy. In fact, Grant was really his only ally, the only one he could truly depend on. “Hey, dude, I’m sorry.”

  “Nah. I get it. You got the raw end of the deal here. At least I can pretty much come and go as I please. You’re stuck in here.”

  “Yeah. Trapped in a cell all night and forced to play shoemaker with a psycho con during the day. Lucky me. Listen, you better go before we wake people up.”

  Grant nodded. “Okay. I’ll try to think of something. In the meantime, stay safe, and try not to get your head bashed in.”

  “Good advice.” He snorted a bit. “Really, you ought to be a life coach.”

  “Shut up.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, listening to Grant move on down the row, softly calling out numbers as he continued the head count. There had to be a way to get his hands on Capone’s locket. He just needed to figure it out.

  Eventually, he lay down again, and even though he would’ve sworn he’d never get back to sleep, he did.

  ASH AND Billy Ray were alone in the cobbler’s shop. Luckily—not for the inmate who’d been sick and had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was now in the Treatment Unit—Ash was assigned to shoe repair duty again. Ash wasn’t thrilled, but at least he could give Billy Ray Al’s message.

  Billy Ray waited until the guard stepped outside for a smoke after warning the two of them to behave and of the dire consequences they’d suffer if they didn’t. “So? What’d Capone say?”

  “Oh, you mean about the bar spreader?”

  “Shut up! Are you nuts? You want to get us both thrown in the Hole?” Billy Ray hissed at him while staring at the closed door as if he expected the guard to miraculously appear inside it. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

  Ash nodded. “Sorry. He said he’d see what he could do.”

  Although he and Al both thought the answer would appease Billy Ray, at least for a while, Billy Ray seemed to be of a different opinion. His face grew red, and his brow furrowed, his teeth bared as he took a step toward Ash. “What? See what he can do? What the fuck sort of answer is that? He’s got men in the machine shop. He can do it easy. What’s he want? Cigarettes? A blow job? What?”

  Ash took a step backward, frightened by the fury contorting Billy Ray’s features. “Listen, I’m just the messenger, okay? I asked him, and that’s what he told me. At least he didn’t say no, right?”

  “He better do it. He don’t, and I’m going to take it out of your hide.” He grabbed a long, sharp awl from the rack of tools. “Maybe I’ll use this on you. Poke you full of holes, pop out your eyes, spear your kidneys, and then, while you’re bleeding out on the floor, I’ll blame Capone for it. Think I can’t? You tell Capone I’ve got friends too. Friends who are guards.”

  Billy Ray’s claim made Ash wonder if the guard who’d left them alone to have a smoke was one of Billy Ray’s “friends.” It would explain why the guard hadn’t thought twice about leaving the two of them alone in a room full of items that could easily be used as weapons.

  Ash bit his lip, fear bolting him to the floor. He felt like he was living a scene from any one of a dozen prison movies he’d watched on TV, where the seasoned convict threatens the new guy. They never ended well for the new guy, as he recalled. “Uh, he’ll get it. I swear!”

  “He’d better. I need it no later than Wednesday. Understand?”

  Ash tried to think on his feet and stall. He had no idea if Al was actually going to get Billy Ray the bar spreader. “Wow, Wednesday? That’s pretty quick, Billy Ray.”

  “That’s plenty of time to make what I need.”

  If anything, Billy Ray seemed to grow angrier by the minute, and since Ash really didn’t want to end the day as a piece of swiss cheese, he changed tactics and tried to appease Billy Ray instead. “Oh, sure! Sure it is, plenty of time. What was I thinking? The guys in the machine shop know what they’re doing, right? Al can get it by then, no sweat.”

  Billy Ray stared hard at Ash for a minute and looked as if he was really struggling with his temper. Before he could act on it, the door opened and the guard walked back inside. He turned away and reached for a pair of shoes from the pile.

  The guard didn’t question why neither of them was working when he returned. Instead, he made himself comfortable in a corner of the room, picked up a newspaper, and began to read. Ash was convinced the guard’s smoke break had been at Billy Ray’s instigation, and silently vowed to be more careful about what he said and did in the shoe repair shop. He got the feeling that if Billy Ray decided Ash needed to be taught a lesson, the guard would be less than eager to intervene.

  Time passed incredibly slowly, as if each second tick of the clock took a minute, and each minute took an hour. Ash tried to concentrate on his task—gluing new soles on old shoes and then hammering in a few tacks to secure the sole as the glue dried. It was monotonous, repetitive work, taking shoe after shoe, pair after pair from the never-ending stack behind him, but at least the monotony gave him the freedom to think about his problems and try to formulate a plan.

  Problem one: get the locket from Capone. This one was proving tricky, and he couldn’t come up with an easy solution other than try to rip it off Capone’s neck and hope for the best. Since that didn’t seem a viable or even slightly intelligent way to go, he discarded it. Best leave this problem for later.

  Problem two: Billy Ray. This was a problem Ash felt he could deal with more readily. All he had to do was
convince Al to have the bar spreader made and deliver it to Billy Ray before Wednesday. True, Al hadn’t seemed exactly willing to get it done, but he was pretty confident Al wouldn’t leave Ash’s ass bared to the wind, either. If he could convince Al his life was in danger from Billy if he didn’t deliver the bar spreader—which Ash was fairly confident would be true if he didn’t do as Billy ordered—he was sure Al would get the spreader. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as his mother used to like to say.

  The thought of his mom brought a sudden, completely unexpected ache to his chest and the burn of tears to his eyes. He hadn’t thought much about her lately, not since arriving at Stanton’s. He’d been mad at her ever since his last court appearance. His dad refused to stand up for him, and she’d gone along with the decision. Ash could understand it coming from his dad—the senior Mr. Walsh was a hardass who rarely gave an inch when he thought he was in the right—which was always. But his mom? She’d always been the one he could turn to when he needed a hug or a little encouragement, or to help him out of a jam. Not the last time, though. She’d sat next to his father in court and refused to say a word in his defense, her face as stoic and cold as if it’d been carved from rock.

  He’d pushed her too hard. He realized that now, not that he was in any hurry to admit it. When it came down to brass tacks, it was his own damned fault. Three strikes and you’re out. He knew it, yet he still pressed his luck and when he got caught, he was surprised when his parents didn’t bail him out again. Stupid, he knew. He surreptitiously swiped his eyes with his sleeve and smirked to himself. Doing stupid stuff is probably how a lot of these guys ended up in prison. How mature of you to think of that! Mom would be so proud.

  “Okay, put your shit away. It’s almost time for the dinner bell.” The guard stood and hitched up his pants. “Come on, ladies. I don’t have all day.”

  No sooner had Ash replaced the glue and tack hammer back where they belonged than the harsh bell rang, signaling the dinner break time. The guard marched them out of the shoe repair shop, where they joined the long line of other prisoners coming from the other industry shops. They paused in the recreation yard for the predinner head count, then proceeded to make their way silently into the cellblock to the dining hall.