by Dakota Chase
Grant nodded and quickly left, but he didn’t return to the dorm. Instead, he wandered around the side of the building, looking for a good place to hunker down and wait for Hocks to come outside. His plan was to follow Hocks and find out what he did with the drugs.
A wagon, used to haul supplies from the docks below up the steep path to the cellblock compound, was parked on the side of the building. Grant ducked behind it, crouching down. He could still see the front door by peering between the spokes of the large wooden wheels, but the wagon would shield him from the view of anyone who happened to look in his direction. Resting on his haunches, he waited for Hocks to leave.
He didn’t have too long of a wait. Shortly after he took up his hiding place, a guard walked across the recreation yard to the building and let himself in. Probably Blake, back from his break. Good. Hocks shouldn’t be long now.
Sure enough, a few moments later Hocks appeared. He never even glanced toward Grant. Instead, he started walking in the direction of the cellblock. Grant noticed his hands were empty.
Grant wondered for the first time if Hocks might’ve stashed the drugs in the shoe repair shop, but just as quickly discarded the notion. Hocks would want to keep the drugs where he had easy access to them, and where no one else could stumble across them by accident. They were probably stashed in his pocket.
He gave Hocks a healthy head start, then stepped away from the outcrop and followed behind at what he hoped was a safe distance. Luckily, Hocks never turned around, marching toward the cellblock with what appeared to be single-minded determination.
Inside the cellblock Hocks took a right into Times Square, then left toward the office. Grant hung back, not wanting to get too close and risk drawing Hocks attention. After a minute or two, he entered the office with the intention of pretending to ask about his schedule that night.
Hocks was at his locker. The door was open, and he was placing his sidearm into it. There was no sign of the small bag of opium, but Grant was willing to bet Hocks had stashed it in there somewhere. The locker was perfect—nobody went in there except for Hocks. No one did spot checks of the guards’ lockers like the school did of the kids’ lockers at Stanton’s. No one would go snooping in there, and Hocks knew it. He could stash the drugs in there safely until he needed to get them.
When Hocks glanced at him, Grant remembered why he was supposed to be in the office. He hurried to the desk and asked the secretary about his schedule. “Grant Vaughn. I’m new.”
The secretary glanced at a paper schedule taped to the wall above her desk. She took a drag off her cigarette before crushing it out in an ashtray. “Vaughn, Vaughn. Here you are. Lucky you, you’re off tonight. No work until tomorrow night. Gonna go into the city? Get a nice dinner? I know a great little place on Columbus called the Rainbow Club. They have a really good fried clam plate.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
The secretary seemed chockfull of interesting tidbits about San Francisco, and more than willing to share them all with Grant. “If you like dancing, though, I suggest heading over to Club Lido. It’s on Columbus too.” She closed her eyes and smiled and did a little shimmy in her seat. “Got a terrific jazz band there. If I wasn’t working early tomorrow, I’d join you. We’d paint the town the red.”
“Aw, that’s too bad.” He hoped it didn’t sound as sarcastic as he thought it might, considering he was gay and she was at least fifty years old, and going dancing with her was basically the last thing he wanted to do.
“Keep your stockings on, Bertha. He don’t want to go dancing with an old broad like you.” Hocks was standing behind Grant, startling him. “He’s a young man. He ain’t interested in no dried-up old prune like you.”
“Well, I like that!” Bertha sniffed and shook another cigarette out of her pack. She lit up and blew a lungful of blue smoke at Hocks’s face. “You need to keep that big schnoz you call a nose out of my business, or I’ll report you to the warden.”
Hocks laughed. “Report me for what? Being honest?”
“For talking disrespectful-like to a lady.”
“Yeah? I don’t see no ladies in here. Do you, Vaughn?” Hocks elbowed Grant and nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Um, I have to get going. Thanks for the information, um, Bertha.” He offered her a small, embarrassed smile and hurried toward the door.
“Aw, don’t run away!” Hocks called out after him. “We’re just playing. Right, Bertha?”
“Shut your trap, Hocks. Can’t you see Vaughn is a gentleman? A real nice guy. You wouldn’t know nice if it strolled up and bit you on the caboose.”
“Aw, shut your own damn mouth, you old bag.”
Grant happily let the door swing closed behind him, shutting out the further verbal sparring of Hocks and Bertha. Truthfully, he felt sorry for Bertha. Although she seemed to be able to hold her own against Hocks, it couldn’t be easy to have somebody be mean to you like that. In Grant’s own time, Hocks would be guilty of creating a hostile work environment and could be sued by someone like Bertha, but Grant doubted that sort of protection existed for women in the 1930s.
As he made his way toward the bachelor barracks, he pushed Hocks and Bertha’s quarrel from his mind. He had more important things to think about, namely what to do with the information he’d gathered on Hocks. Should he sit on it, do nothing? As soon as he and Ash got the locket, they’d be gone from Alcatraz and what to do about Hocks would no longer be his problem. The warden could just get whoever replaced Grant to spy on Hocks.
Then again, somebody could get sick or die on the opium Hocks was selling them. The prisoners in Alcatraz were already serving time for their crimes. They were wrong for buying illegal drugs from Hocks, sure, but did they deserve to die for it? And was he any better than Hocks if he sat on the information and let it happen when he could’ve done something about it?
Ugh! He really hated having a conscience sometimes. Actually, most of the time, if he was honest with himself.
After heaving a long, drawn-out sigh, he headed toward the warden’s house. When he got there, he took a moment to collect his thoughts and then knocked on the door.
The elderly butler, Constantine, answered. He stood waiting, staring at Grant with obvious disdain.
“Um, I’m here to see Warden Johnston.”
“Well, ain’t that fine. ’Cept he’s not here.”
“He’s not…. Where is he?” It never occurred to Grant that Johnston might not be at his home. “Is he at the cellblock?”
Constantine gave him a superior, smug look. “Maybe it ain’t none of your business where the warden has got to.”
Grant got it then, understanding why Constantine was always so snide to him. It wasn’t anything Grant had said or done—it was who Grant was that irritated Constantine.
Constantine was a prisoner, one of the oldest on the island. Grant had found that much out after his last visit to see Warden Johnston by talking to his roommate, Gus. Constantine had been a guest at Leavenworth for years before being sent to Alcatraz.
Johnston chose Constantine as butler because of his age, his record of good behavior, and the fact he’d once worked as a server in a fancy restaurant back in New York City. It was Constantine’s job to see to Johnston’s needs, make tea, and answer the door for Johnston’s infrequent visitors. It was a cushy job, all things considered, and Constantine liked to believe working in the warden’s house set him above other prisoners.
But he was still a convict, and as such, like most of the other prisoners, held no special fondness for guards. By being snide and petty with Grant, Constantine was expressing his dislike of authority.
Understanding it didn’t make it any easier to swallow, though, and Grant returned Constantine’s smug look with a scowl of his own. “When is he due back?”
“Day after tomorrow at the earliest. Come back then. Maybe he’ll see you.” Constantine’s grin was mostly gum, and he started closing the door. “Maybe he won’t.”
The door
closed, practically smacking Grant on the nose.
Damn butler! Damn warden! What was he supposed to do until then? Just sit on the information and hope for the best?
Chapter Fifteen
YOU KNOW those days when it seems like nothing ever goes right, and all you want to do is stay in bed with the covers pulled up over your head? That’s the sort of feeling Ash had at the moment, like he wanted to dive back under the thin blanket on his cot and not get up until he was safely back in his dorm room at Stanton’s.
Unfortunately, the only way that was going to happen was if he got the locket, and it didn’t seem like Al was going to fork it over anytime soon. Maybe Grant could get it. Sure! Grant was a guard, wasn’t he? He had a weapon. Not a gun—he didn’t want to see Al get shot, or have to deal with Grant living with the guilt of having shot Capone—but they had blackjacks, right? Why couldn’t Grant go into Capone’s cell and threaten him? Gimme the locket and nobody gets hurt, see?
Grant’s voice in his head sounded like a cartoon gangster and made him chuckle. Besides, that plan would involve Grant lying and acting tough because he knew Grant would never actually hurt anyone without good reason, and quite frankly, as much as he liked Grant—and he did, a lot—he didn’t think Grant could pull it off. Grant just didn’t project a tough guy image. Al would chew him up and spit him out like an old piece of bubble gum.
It was still up to him to get the locket, and although another three days had gone by, he still had no idea how he was going to manage it. The best plan he could come up with was to steal it, but he couldn’t nail together the specifics on how he was going to manage it.
Al never took the damn thing off except to shower, and then he left it locked up in his cell. There was no way for Ash to get in there to get it. Each convict was responsible for cleaning their own cell, including swabbing the floors and emptying trash, so there was no reason for another prisoner to be in a cell not their own.
It seemed an impossible problem.
“Hey, move it, will ya? Some of us are hungry.”
The angry voice from the convict behind him brought Ash out of his thoughts. He mumbled an apology and moved down the line, filling his plate with eggs, bacon, toast, and a small glass of orange juice. The obligatory cup of coffee rounded out his breakfast, and he carried it all back to his table.
“Thank God for Saturdays, huh?” Al helped himself to Ash’s coffee. “I’ll be glad when Tuesday rolls around again, though. I don’t think I can stand another day of these fellas stinking up the joint. Everybody smells like they took a roll in a manure heap.”
Ash grinned a half smile and nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty ripe too. How come they only let us shower once a week?”
“Aw, too much water will make you sick.” Galveston scooped up a mouthful of egg with a piece of toast and shoveled it in. “Everybody knows that.”
Ash didn’t think a lecture on the benefits of good hygiene would go over big with this particular crowd, so he didn’t bother. Instead, he just shrugged and tucked into his breakfast. His mind returned to the problem of obtaining Al’s locket. Maybe Al would forget it in the cell today and Ash could find a way to sneak in to take it. Doubtful since Al never did, but he could always hope for a miracle, right?
He wished he could talk to Grant about it. He’d only seen Grant a few times in the week since they’d arrived at Alcatraz, and none of those times had been for more than a few minutes. Usually, they didn’t even have the opportunity to talk, like when Grant found him at the shoe repair shop.
It was good to see Grant—at least then Ash knew Grant was okay and still on the right side of the grass—but it would’ve been better if they could’ve worked together on a plan to get the locket.
Plus, there was Ash’s problem of Billy Ray. Supposedly, Billy Ray had some sort of escape plan in the works, and he was including Ash in it.
Not that Ash wanted to participate, but Billy Ray hadn’t given him a choice, and since he had no idea what Billy Ray had in mind, he had no idea how to wiggle out of it.
They’d finished breakfast, cleaned up, stood for head count, and walked down to the showers and he was still no closer to a solution to either of his problems.
He kept his eyes firmly on his feet, his towel tucked securely around his waist as he waited in line for his turn in the showers. Al was ahead of him in line, as usual, and the last thing Ash figured he needed was an eyeful of Capone’s flabby bare butt. He liked Al, but definitely not in that way.
“Aw, hurry it up in there!” Al grumbled. “By the time we get in there, there ain’t gonna be no hot water left.”
One of the guards snarled at Al. “Shut it, Capone. If there’s no hot water, then tough luck. You take a cold shower. You’re lucky you get a shower at all.”
Al didn’t reply, but Ash could see the tense set of his jaw. If there was one thing he realized Al hated, it was not being able to reply when a guard got on his case. Al Capone was definitely used to having the last word, and not being able to have it pissed him off.
Luckily, there was still hot water left when Ash stepped under the spray. He sighed contentedly and started scrubbing off a week’s worth of prison stink. The soap wasn’t scented, and he had to use the same bar to wash his body and his hair, but it still felt good after a week of trying to wash up at the tiny sink in his cell.
Al was under the nozzle next to his, singing some old song in a loud, surprisingly decent voice. Ash had never heard it before, and it wasn’t something he’d want to download to his phone, but it sounded okay for what it was. Roses are shining in Picardy, in the hush of the silver dew, roses are flowering in Picardy, but there’s never a rose like you.
Ash rolled his eyes and snorted under the sputtering showerhead. Can we say corny? It’s not something Gaga will be recording anytime soon.
He was just finishing rinsing the soap out of his hair when he happened to glance in Al’s direction and saw a second figure walk under the spray with Al. It was an odd enough sight for Ash to do a double take.
The second inmate raised his hand, and Ash was shocked to see the glint of a slender metal blade in it. The man brought his hand down in an arc toward Al’s back. Al’s yelp of pain was barely heard over the splashing water.
Ash reacted, throwing himself at Al. He tackled Al around the waist and dragged Al down to the floor of the shower. The convict with the blade—Ash could see it was half of a pair of scissors—swore and tried to back up, but Ash’s dive and tackle had caught the guards’ attention. Three of them converged on the shower area, each grabbing one of the participants, Ash included.
“Goddamn it! He’s cut!” The guard holding Al pointed to the bright red splashes of blood covering Al’s back and the shower floor.
“Al! Al, are you okay? Al?” Ash yelled. He was pinned to the floor by a guard, water splashing into his face.
The second guard must’ve disarmed the convict who’d attacked Al. “This is the one who did it, Hocks. Inmate 224. His name is James Lucas. Troublemaker from day one. Transfer from Leavenworth.”
Hocks was the guard who had Ash pinned, and it was obvious he was in charge. He gave orders to the other two. “Get Capone up to the Treatment Unit before he bleeds out right here. These two are going into the Hole.”
“What? Me too? I saved him!” Ash struggled against the hold the guard had on his arm, but it was no use. The guard’s grip was like a vise as he hauled Ash to up to a standing position.
Hocks scoffed. “Yeah? So you say. How do I know you weren’t in on it with Lucas?”
“But I wasn’t! Ask Al!”
“I ain’t asking nobody nothing, and I wouldn’t believe anything any of you said, least of all Al-fucking-Capone. Come on, move!” He wrenched Ash’s other arm behind Ash’s back and slapped a pair of handcuffs on them. “You can either walk there on your own two feet, or I can knock you out and drag your ass in there. Your choice.”
Ash had no doubt Hocks would do exactly as threatened, so he obeyed w
ithout hesitation. He still had the bruises from his last go-round with Hocks and didn’t want any more.
The guards marched Ash and Lucas out of the shower and all the way to D Block, both stark naked and dripping wet.
Ash knew what being sent to the Hole meant—solitary confinement. How was he supposed to get the locket if he was locked up in a windowless room? The guards wouldn’t listen to him explain that he’d been trying to help Capone. They just didn’t care. All they saw were three men, one of whom had a weapon, and blood. It didn’t matter to them who was trying to hurt or help. All three of them were guilty, as far as the guards were concerned, even Al, who got cut.
“Why did you go after Al? What’d he do to you?” If Ash was going into solitary, he wanted to know the reason why.
“Shut up!” Hocks yanked painfully on Ash’s manacled arms, but he didn’t care.
“He threatened to kill me.” That was all Lucas had to say before he was shoved into one of the solitary cells.
“You stabbed him in the back, you coward!” Ash yelled and suffered another painful yank on his shackled wrists, courtesy of Hocks. Then Ash found himself facing a gray, solid metal door.
Hocks unlocked the door and then shoved Ash inside the cell. Ash stumbled forward, barely managing to stay on his feet. After removing Ash’s cuffs, Hocks stepped back out and slammed the door shut in Ash’s face.
Ash found himself in near darkness. There was no light bulb in the room, no bed, no sink, and no toilet. The only object in the cell was a bucket near the rear wall. The purpose of the bucket was clear in the absence of a toilet.
The door was solid metal except for a small slot a little more than halfway down its length. It looked like a mail slot to Ash, although he doubted prisoners in solitary could receive any letters.
It was dark and damp and cold, and totally sucky in the cell, and he hoped to God he wasn’t going to be in there for long. Being in a normal cell was bad enough—this was going to be much, much worse. He leaned against a wall and slowly slid down to sit on the bare concrete floor. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his calves and rested his chin on his knees. There was nothing he could do but wait.