Forty Lashes Less One

by Elmore Leonard

  They're quiet in there, uh?

  The tailor said nothing.

  You expect them to make sounds like animals, those two. That old turnkey makes sounds. God, like he's dying. Like somebody stuck a knife Tacha stopped.

  I don't know what you're talking about, the tailor said.

  I'm talking about Mr. Fisher, the turnkey, the sounds he makes when he's in her cell.

  And I don't want to know. The tailor kept his head low over his sewing machine.

  He sneaks in at night I said I don't want to hear about it.

  He hasn't been coming very long. Just the past few weeks. Not every night either. He makes some excuse to go in there, like to fix the lantern or search the place for I don't know what. One time she say, 'Oh, I think there is a tarantula in here,' and the turnkey hurries in there to kill it. I want to say to him, knowing he's taking off his pants then, 'Hey, mister, that's a funny thing to kill a tarantula with.'

  I'm not listening to you, the tailor said. Not a word.

  In the closeness of the stock room Shelby stepped back to rest his arm on one of the shelves. Watching Norma, he loosened his hat, setting it lightly on his forehead. Goodness, he said, I didn't even take off my hat, did I?

  Norma let her skirt fall. She smoothed it over her hips and began buttoning her blouse. I feel like a mare, standing like that.

  Honey, you don't look like a mare. I believe you are about the trickiest thing I ever met.

  I know a few more ways.

  I bet you do, for a fact.

  That old man, he breathes through his nose right in your ear. Real loud, like he's having heart failure.

  Shelby grinned. That would be something. He has a stroke while he's in there with you.

  I'll tell you, he isn't any fun at all.

  You ain't loving him for the pleasure, sweetheart. You're supposed to be finding out things.

  He doesn't know yet when we're going.

  You asked him?

  I said to him, 'I will sure be glad to get out of this place.' He said it wouldn't be much longer and I said, 'Oh, when are we leaving here?' He said he didn't know for sure, probably in a couple of months.

  We got to know the day, Shelby said.

  Well, if he don't know it he can't hardly tell me, can he?

  Maybe he can find it out.

  From who?

  I don't know. The superintendent, somebody. That little fella, he walks around, he looks like he's lost, can't find his mama.

  Well, mama, maybe you should talk to him. Get him to come to my cell.

  Jesus, you'd eat him up.

  Norma giggled. You say terrible things.

  I mean by the time you're through there wouldn't be nothing left of him.

  If you're through, you better get out of here.

  I talked to Virgil. He doesn't know anything either. Don't worry, Norma said. One of us'll find out. I just want to be sure you take me along when the time comes.

  Shelby gave her a nice little sad smile and shook his head slowly. Sweetheart, he said, how could I go anywhere without you?

  Good timing, Norma Davis believed, was one of the most important things in life. You had to think of the other person. You had to know his moods and reactions and know the right moment to spring little surprises.

  You didn't want the person getting too excited and ruining everything before it was time.

  That's why she brought Bob Fisher along for almost two months before she told him her secret.

  It was strange; like instinct. One night, as she heard the key turning in the iron door of the cellblock, she knew it was Bob and, for some reason, she also knew she was going to tell him tonight. Though not right away.

  First he had to go through his act. He had to look in at Tacha and ask her what was she doing, reading? Then he had to come over and see Norma in the bunk and look around the cell for a minute and ask if everything was all right. Norma was ready. She told him she had a terrible sore ankle and would he look at it and see if it was sprained or anything. She got him in there and then had to slow down and be patient while he actually, honest to God, looked at her ankle and said in a loud voice it looked all right to him. He whispered after that, getting out of his coat and into the bunk with her, but raising up every once in a while to look at the cell door.

  Norma said, What's the matter?

  Tacha, she can hear everything.

  If she bothers you, why don't you put her some place else?

  This is the women's block. There isn't any place else.

  Norma got her hand inside his shirt and started fooling with the hair on his chest. How does Tacha look to you?

  Cut it out, it tickles, Fisher said. What do you mean, how does she look?

  I don't know, I don' think she looks so good. I hear her coughing at night.

  Listen, I only got a few minutes.

  Norma handled the next part of it, making him believe he was driving her wild, and as he lay on the edge of the bunk breathing out of his nose, she told him her secret.

  She said, Guess what? I know somebody who's planning to escape.

  That got him up and leaning over her again.

  Who?

  I heard once, Norma said, if you help the authorities here they'll help you.

  Who is it?

  I heard of convicts who helped stop men trying to escape and got pardoned. Is that right?

  It's happened.

  They were freed?

  That's right.

  You think it might happen again?

  It could. Who's going out?

  Not out of here. From the train. You think if I found out all about it and told you I'd get a pardon?

  I think you might, Fisher said. I can't promise, but you'd have a good chance.

  It's Frank Shelby.

  That's what I thought.

  His brother Virgil's going to help him.

  Where do they jump the train?

  Frank doesn't know yet, but soon as I find out I'll tell you.

  You promise?

  Cross my heart.

  You're a sweet girl, Norma. You know that?

  She smiled at him in the dim glow of the lantern and said, I try to be.

  Another week passed before Bob Fisher thought of something else Norma had said.

  He was in the tailor shop that day, just checking, not for any special reason. Tacha looked up at him and said, Norma's not here.

  I can see that.

  She's at the toilet if you're looking for her. I'm not looking for her, Fisher said.

  He wasn't sure if Tacha was smiling then or not like telling him she knew all about him. Little Mexican bitch, she had better not try to get smart with him.

  It was then he thought of what Norma had said. About Tacha not looking so good. Coughing at night.

  Hell, yes, Bob Fisher said to himself and wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. There was only one place around here to put anybody who was coughing sick. Over in the TB cellblock.

  Chapter 9

  The guard, R. E. Baylis, was instructed to move the Mexican girl to the TB area after work, right before supper. It sounded easy enough.

  But when he told Tacha she held back and didn't want to go. What for? Look at her. Did she look like she had TB? She wasn't even sick. R. E. Baylis told her to get her things, she was going over there and that's all there was to it. She asked him if Mr. Fisher had given the order, and when he said sure, Tacha said she thought so; she should have known he would do something like this. Goddamn-it, R. E. Baylis thought, he didn't have to explain anything to her. He did though. He said it must be they were sending her over there to help out bring the lungers their food, get them their medicine. He said there were two boys in there supposed to be looking after the lungers, but nobody had seen much of them the past couple of months or so, what with all the running they were doing. They would go out early in the morning, just about the time it was getting light, and generally not get back until the afternoon. He said some of the gua
rds were talking about them, how they had changed; but he hadn't seen them in a while. Tacha only half listened to him. She wasn't interested in the two convicts, she was thinking about the TB cellblock and wondering what it would be like to live there. She remembered the two he was talking about; she knew them by sight. Though when she walked into the TB yard and saw them again, she did not recognize them immediately as the same two men.

  R. E. Baylis got a close look at them and went to find Bob Fisher.

  She give you any trouble? Fisher asked.

  He sat at a table in the empty mess hall with a cup of coffee in front of him. The cooks were bringing in the serving pans and setting up for supper.

  No trouble once I got her there, R. E. Baylis said. What I want to know is what the Indin and the nigger are doing?

  I don't know anything about them and don't want to know. They're Mr. Manly's private convicts. Fisher held his cup close to his face and would lean in to sip at it.

  Haven't you seen them lately?

  I see them go by once in a while, going out the gate. But you haven't been over there? You haven't seen them close?

  Whatever he's got them doing isn't any of my business. I told him I don't want no part of it.

  You don't care what they're doing?

  I got an inventory of equipment and stores have to be tallied before we ship out of here and that ain't very long away.

  You don't care if they made spears, R. E. Baylis said, and they're throwing them at a board stuck in the ground?

  Bob Fisher started coughing and spilled some of his coffee down the front of his uniform.

  Mr. Manly said, Yes, I know they got spears. Made of bamboo fishing poles and brick-laying trowels stuck into one end for the point. If a man can use a trowel to work with all day, why can't he use one for exercise?

  Because a spear is a weapon, Fisher said. You can kill a man with it.

  Bob, you got some kind of stain there on your uniform.

  What I mean is you don't let convicts make spears. Why not, if they're for a good purpose?

  No, Bob Fisher said to himself with R. E. Baylis standing next to him, listening to it all this time, goddamn-it, don't let him mix you up. He said, Mr. Manly, for some reason I seem to have trouble understanding you.

  What is it you don't understand, Bob?

  Every time I come up here, it's like you and me are talking about two different things. I come in, I know what the rules are here and I know what I want to say. Then you begin talking and it's like we get onto something else.

  We look at a question from different points of view, Mr. Manly said. That's all it is.

  All right, R. E. Baylis here says they got spears. I haven't been over to see for myself. We was downstairs I don't know, something told me I should see you about it first.

  I'm glad you did.

  How long have they had 'em?

  About two weeks. Bob, they run fourteen miles yesterday. Only stopped three times to rest.

  I don't see what that's got to do with the spears.

  Well, you said you wanted it to show in the record you're not having anything to do with this business. Isn't that right?

  I want it to show I'm against their being taken outside.

  I haven't told you anything what's going on, have I? I haven't asked neither.

  That's right. This is the first time you've mentioned those boys in over two months. You don't know what I'm teaching them, but you come in here and tell me they can't have spears.

  It's in the rules.

  It says in the rules they can't have spears for any purpose whatsoever?

  It say a man found with a weapon is to be put under maximum security for no less than ten days.

  You mean put in the snake den.

  I sure do.

  You believe those two boys have been found with weapons?

  When you make a spear out of a trowel, it becomes a weapon.

  But what if I was the one told them to make the spears?

  I was afraid you might say that.

  As a matter of fact, I got them the fishing poles myself. Bought them in town.

  Bought them in town, Bob Fisher said. His head seemed to nod a little as he stared at Mr. Manly. This here is what I meant before about not understanding some things. I would sure like to know why you want them to have spears?

  Bob, Mr. Manly said, that's the only way to learn, isn't it? Ask questions. He looked up past Fisher then, at the wall clock. Say, it's about supper time already.

  Mr. Manly, I'll wait on supper if you'll explain them spears to me.

  I'll do better than that, Mr. Manly said, I'll show you. First though we got to get us a pitcher of ice water.

  I'll even pass on that, Fisher said. I'm not thirsty or hungry.

  Mr. Manly gave him a patient, understanding grin. The ice water isn't for us, Bob.

  No sir, Fisher said. He was nodding again, very slowly, solemnly. I should've known better, shouldn't I?

  Tacha remembered them from months before wearing leg-irons and pushing the wheelbarrows. She remembered the Negro working without a shirt on and remembered thinking the other one tall for an Indian. She had never spoken to them or watched them for a definite reason. She had probably not been closer than fifty feet to either of them. But she was aware now of the striking change in their appearance and at first it gave her a strange, tense feeling. She was afraid of them.

  The guard had looked as if he was afraid of them too, and maybe that was part of the strange feeling. He didn't tell her which cell was to be hers. He stared at the Indian and the Negro, who were across the sixty-foot yard by the wall, and then hurried away, leaving her here.

  As soon as he was gone the tubercular convicts began talking to her. One of them asked if she had come to live with them. When she nodded he said she could bunk with him if she wanted. They laughed and another one said no, come on in his cell, he would show her a fine old time. She didn't like the way they stared at her. They sat in front of their cells on stools and a wooden bunk frame and looked as if they had been there a long time and seldom shaved or washed themselves.

  She wasn't sure if the Indian and the Negro were watching her. The Indian was holding something that looked like a fishing pole. The Negro was standing by an upright board that was as tall as he was and seemed to be nailed to a post. Another of the poles was sticking out of the board. Neither of them was wearing a shirt; that was the first thing she noticed about them from across the yard.

  They came over when she turned to look at the cells and one of the tubercular convicts told her again to come on, put her blanket and stuff in with his. Now, when she looked around, not knowing what to do, she saw them approaching.

  She saw the Indian's hair, how long it was, covering his ears, and the striped red and black cloth he wore as a headband. She saw the Negro's mustache that curved around his mouth into a short beard and the cuts on his face, like knife scars, that slanted down from both of his cheekbones. This was when she was afraid of them, as they walked up to her.

  The cell on the end, Raymond said. Why don't you take that one?

  She made herself hold his gaze. Who else is in there, you?

  Nobody else.

  Harold said, You got the TB?

  I don't have it yet.

  You do something to Frank Shelby?

  Maybe I did, she said, I don't know.

  If you don't have the TB, Harold said, you did something to somebody.

  She began to feel less afraid already, talking to them, and yet she knew there was something different about their faces and the way they looked at her. I think the turnkey, Mr. Fisher, did it, Tacha said, so I wouldn't see him going in with Norma.

  I guess there are all kinds of things going on, Harold said. They put you in here, it's not so bad. It was cold at night when we first come, colder than the big cellblock, but now it's all right. He glanced toward the tubercular convicts. Don't worry about the scarecrows. They won't hurt you.

  They lock
everybody in at night, Raymond said. During the day one of them tries something, you can run.

  That was a strange thing too: being afraid of them at first because of the way they looked, then hearing them say not to worry and feeling at ease with them, believing them.

  Raymond said, We fixed up that cell for you. It's like a new one.

  She was inside unrolling her bedding when the guard returned with the superintendent and the turnkey, Mr. Fisher. She heard one of them say, Harold, come out here, and she looked up to see them through the open doorway: the little man in the dark suit and two in guard uniforms, one of them, R. E. Baylis, holding a dented tin pitcher. The Indian was still in the yard, not far from them, but she didn't see the Negro. The superintendent was looking toward her cell now, squinting into the dim interior.

  Mr. Manly wanted to keep an eye on Bob Fisher and watch his reactions, but seeing the woman distracted him.

  Who's that in there, Norma Davis?

  The other one, Fisher said, the Mexican. I didn't see any report on her being sick.

  She's working here. Your two boys run off, there's nobody to fetch things for the lungers.

  Mr. Manly didn't like to look at the tubercular convicts; they gave him a creepy feeling, the way they sat there all day like lizzards and never seemed to move. He gave them a glance and called again, Harold, come on out here.

  The Negro was buttoning a prison shirt as he appeared in the doorway. You want me, captain? Come over here, will you?

  Mr. Manly was watching Fisher now. The man's flat open-eyed expression tickled him: old Bob Fisher staring at Harold, then looking over at Raymond, then back at Harold again, trying to figure out the change that had come over them. The change was something more than just their appearance. It was something Mr. Manly felt, and he was pretty sure now Bob Fisher was feeling it too.

  What's the matter, Bob, ain't you ever seen an Apache or a Zulu before?

  I seen Apaches.

  Then what're you staring at?

  Fisher looked over at Harold again. What're them cuts on his face?

  Tell him, Harold.

  They tribal marks, captain.

  Fisher said, What the hell tribe's a field nigger belong to?

  Harold touched his face, feeling the welts of scar tissue that were not yet completely healed. He said, My tribe, captain.