The Animal Factory

by Bunker, Edward

  As he stepped from the toilet the classroom door opened and Buck came out, carrying a few seconds of movie sound track with him. His searching eyes said that he had followed Ron, who felt fear but was unashamed of it. Earl said that fear was good for survival and only fools were without it. Ron stepped forward to the edge of the stairs. It was unlikely that Buck had a shiv—and his hands were exposed so he would have to reach for it. By then, Ron could leap down the stairs and into the plaza. Buck was a couple of inches over six feet and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He was built like a bear and was too big to fight.

  “You hear what I said in there?” he asked. “I wanna play from you.”

  I hope it’s a joke.”

  “Ain’ a joke. We ain’ gonna have no mess of trouble, are we?”

  “I don’t ever want trouble.”

  “Baby, you’re fine. I’ve been watchin’ you an’ watchin’ you an’ my dick stays hard as Chinese arithmetic. I don’t wanna have to beat you up, but you’re gonna cooperate one way or another.”

  Ron’s face was expressionless, but his mind sneered at the gross stupidity. “I’m not a punk. If you heard different, you heard some bad information.” He knew as he spoke that the words were hurled against a gale.

  “Bullshit! You’re too pretty. An’ Ah done seen you with that dude. I ain’ Ned in the first reader. Ah been to Huntsville and Raiford. You might even be makin’ tortillas with that teacher in there.”

  “I’m going back to court for modification. I don’t want any trouble to mess that up.” The situation sickened Ron, but a cold, detached part of his mind told him that Buck was accustomed to brawls with fists, feet, and teeth. San Quentin had a different ethos. Buck was a bear unaware that he was in the sights of a high-powered rifle.

  “You can go back to court. The only way there’ll be trouble is if your old man finds out. I’ll just kick his ass. You an’ me, we just meet somewhere.”

  Ron nodded, as if digesting the information, whereas he was really looking at Buck’s shoes, visualizing the toes jutting upward from beneath a sheet.

  The classroom door rattled. Ron and Buck both turned to face Mr. Harrell. The teacher’s eyes flitted from face to face and he obviously felt the tension. “Oh, here you are,” he said to Ron. “Would you go down to the book storeroom and pick up a box that came in?” Harrell nervously stood his ground until Ron had gone downstairs and Buck returned to the classroom.

  As Ron stepped into the sunlight, he faced the yard office, thought of Earl, and vowed that he would keep his friend out of trouble. Earl had done too much already, was too near getting out himself. Ron walked to the education building, but he had no thought of getting the box. He was certain that Buck would have to be stabbed, and Ron wanted to do it—kill a mad dog—but was uncertain of himself. How did T.J. say? Underhanded and just beneath the ribs slightly to the left.

  Fitz waved from the yard office, and Big Rand knocked on the glass and gave him the finger. Ron nodded, remembering that Earl had said it was almost impossible to be convicted for a prison murder unless a guard actually saw it, or unless there was a confession. For every informer willing to testify for the prosecution, a dozen would testify that the accused was in Timbuctoo—and a swearing contest between convicts never satisfies the burden of proof “beyond a reasonable doubt.” And there had been several killings within recent years before hundreds of witnesses without anyone telling anything even in privacy. Too many convict clerks could find out too much.

  “Yeah, we’ll see who gets fucked,” Ron said, turning into the education building. It was built on the slope that led to the lower yard, so that the office space was on the upper floor while the classrooms were downstairs. Ron went to the file section without speaking to the clerks. He ran through the drawers’ newest numbers until he found Buck’s folder. The hillbilly was “close” custody and lived on the bottom tier in the East cellhouse. That was the information Ron wanted, but he looked over the remaining data. Buck Rowan was thirty-four years of age, had a low-normal I.Q., and claimed a high school education (unverified) while scoring fourth grade on his scholastic tests. He’d served an eight-year term in Texas and three years in Florida, the first for rape-robbery, the second for burglary. He was on escape from Florida when arrested in Sacramento, California, for robbery. The picture was of a tough petty criminal, a fool asking to be killed.

  For a moment Ron thought of the imminent court appearance. He could avoid trouble by having himself locked up. The thought went as quickly as it came. He could also submit, and that idea went even more quickly. If anyone fucked him, it would be Earl. The thought was sardonic, and he grinned at how he could now handle it with humor. Ron knew about southern prisons, the grinding labor in the cotton and sugarcane fields and on the roads, with stool pigeons as con bosses and convicts with rifles guarding other convicts. They did it and lived. Buck Rowan was obviously blind to how quickly men killed in San Quentin; it had more murders in one year than all the prisons in the country put together.

  It was nearly 3:00 p.m. when Ron crossed the yard and entered the North cellhouse, hurrying up the stairs toward the service alley on the fifth tier. He knew where the cache of long knives was hidden.

  Earl was high on heroin and in the shower when Ron entered the building. The shower area was in view of the stairs, and Earl saw his friend hurry by. He momentarily wondered why Ron was out of work so early, but he felt no concern. Instead, he thought that his friend would soon be gone, and though there would be a sense of loss, it was a happy thought. I’ve done him some good, Earl thought, but he’s done me good, too. I’m thinking about the streets … and I’m gonna get there one more time.

  A minute later, Buzzard, the elderly Mexican, hurried down the stairs toward Earl. “Your friend just got a piece out of the clavo,” he said.

  Without fully rinsing off the soap or drying himself. Earl threw on a pair of pants and shower thongs and hurried up the stairs, carrying the rest of his clothes and toiletries in his hand. He was shirtless and beads of water dripped from his shoulders. Ron’s cell was the only one with its gate open, and Earl was twenty yards away when Ron came out and started to close it. The younger man wore a heavy black coat zipped up and had a knit cap on his head, the standard disguise for trouble. Ron looked up and his face was drawn tight, his eyes glassy, and he seemed unhappy at Earl’s presence.

  “What’s to it?” Earl said, stomach churning.

  Ron shook his head. Earl reached out and patted the coat, feeling the hardness of the weapon under it. “Shit … something’s sure as fuck wrong.”

  “Let me handle it.”

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Man, you’re going to the streets in a hot minute. What’re you doin’ with a shiv? That’s a new sentence.”

  “That’s a secret?” Ron said, smiling sarcastically.

  Earl held back his anger. This was serious, for Ron wasn’t like many young cons who taped on shivs and talked murder so nobody would mess with them. Earl was afraid, not of violence but of the aftermath. A stabbing would keep the young man inside; a killing would mean at least five or six more years even without a trial. And he himself was involved. That was unquestioned, and if something happened, it would snuff out his own candle of hope. If it was unavoidable, then it had to be—but he wanted to make sure it couldn’t be handled some other way. He pressed for the story and Ron told it, at first haltingly, finally without reservation. And into Earl’s worry came fury. The gross stupidity of Buck Rowan, whom he didn’t know, made him want to kill the man. He was mildly relieved that it was a white man; at least it wouldn’t ignite a race war. And Earl knew that any white would be without backing against the Brotherhood. The man was not merely a brute; he was also an absolute fool.

  “Maybe we can get around snuffing him,” Earl said. “Show him what he’s up against. The best he can get is killed.”

  “He’s too dumb. Jesus, I hate stupid—”

  “If we gotta, we gotta, but let’s make
sure it’s necessary. It isn’t as if he was an immediate threat to your life this afternoon.”

  “He’s not trying to fuck you. Let me handle it.”

  “What! If you make a move, you’d better get ready to down me first, and then T.J. and Bad Eye will—”

  “Oh, man, I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “Fuck all that.”

  “Yeah, okay. I don’t want to kill him … or rather I don’t want the penalties for it.”

  “Let’s check him out. Let me see if I recognize him. Then we’ll plan. We’ll go to the library and you point him out through the window when school lets out.”

  As they crossed the yard and went out the gate, Ron grabbed Earl’s elbow. “Look, motherfucker, promise me … if it comes to trouble, don’t take over for me. Don’t go get T.J. and do something without me. I’d hate you if you did that. I’ve learned how to hold up my end. Promise …?”

  “I promise. I can dig it.”

  Inside the library they waited near a front window until the school bell rang and a horde of convicts burst from the education building, many carrying schoolbooks. A minute later the literacy training class came from the annex. Buck Rowan stood out and he was alone, carrying his books. He had a clodhopper stride, arms hanging straight down, feet stepping high—as if he were pulling them from ploughed dirt.

  “I’ve seen that fool around,” Earl said. “He catches the eye. But I haven’t seen him with anybody who’s trouble.”

  “He cells on the bottom tier in the East block, close custody.”

  Earl’s eyes narrowed to slits and the muscles twitched—but the thinking about what to do took less than a minute. “Okay, don’t go back to the cellblock after chow. Hang back on the yard with the clean-up crew. Paul and Vito will be there. When T.J. comes by, tell him to wait, but don’t tell him what’s happening or he’s liable to go take care of it himself. I’ll meet you, and we’ll catch him when he goes back to the block. He won’t expect us then, and we’ll have all the edge.” Earl neglected to add his feeling that the problem could be handled without murder. He’d go with his allies, and if Buck’s response was unsatisfactory, they would kick him within an inch of his life—but Earl was confident Buck would back down when he saw what he was up against. No man alone, no matter how tough, could win against fifteen killers.

  A minute behind the convicts leaving school came the evening watch guards carrying lunchpails, hurrying toward the cellhouses to help with the main count.

  “Wait a couple minutes before you go to the yard,” Earl said. “When you hear the lineup whistle, go straight into the block. The mooch might be waiting. I’ve got to go to the yard office.”

  Ron nodded without enthusiasm. “Damn, I’m tired of this crap. Just … fuck it.”

  “Oh no, we can handle this. It’s routine shit.” Earl cuffed him on the arm.

  “You have to act like an animal to get respect in here.”

  “Cool it. It’s gonna be okay. Quit snivelin’. You’ve had the red carpet. I was six years younger than you and didn’t smile for two years. It took me a decade to make the North block and go to night movies. And you’ve got as much time left as a mosquito has prick, unless you fuck it up. I need you out there to look after me.”

  Ron headed toward the yard and Earl went to the office. The colonel was on duty, trimly military at his desk, and Big Rand was disappearing toward the front gate. As Earl stepped in, he saw the black lieutenant known as Captain Midnight was on duty. Seeman, Earl recalled, had taken the night off to drive his daughter to the airport. Captain Midnight had a reputation for being a black racist, and whether it was deserved or not, the man was a hateful sonofabitch—and he thoroughly disliked Earl Copen. Earl believed that the man resented any intelligent convict and despised all ignorant ones. Earl knew he would have to watch himself with both Captain Midnight and the colonel.

  He thought about how to handle the situation with Buck Rowan in the East cellhouse. T.J. and Baby Boy lived on the fifth tier and ate first. He would have to get to the yard quickly and catch them before they locked up. They were necessary in case Buck Rowan needed to be stomped through the cement. Paul and Vito would be sweeping and hosing the yard. He wanted them there, too, for a show of strength. And if any of the Brotherhood were available, they could also stand on the sidelines looking mean. If he’d been planning a killing. Earl would have asked one man to come along to help and a second for lookout, but a killing was what he wanted to avoid.

  The shadows of twilight deepened—and the count was very late in clearing. The colonel called control. Nobody was missing; the total was right but some bodies were in the wrong places. One tier had an extra prisoner while another had one too few, a fairly common error, but one that held back the supper unlock until corrected.

  When the bell finally rang, and Earl swung his feet off the typewriter stand, Captain Midnight came from the rear office with two pieces of yellow legal tablet in hand. “Here, Copen, make an original and two copies.”

  “Can I go eat first?”

  “Do it before you eat. Have it ready when I get back.”

  Earl glanced at the crabbed, nearly illegible handwriting.

  “Don’t make any changes,” Captain Midnight said. “I’m hip to you.”

  “Whatever you say, boss man. I’ll even leave the misspelled words if you want.”

  The black lieutenant froze for a second. “Just do your job, convict. And be careful. I’m after your ass.”

  “Oh, I know that … and I’m so careful when you’re around.”

  “If I catch you down wrong, they’ll have to pipe air into you. I know about you and your gang.” He started to add something more, but clicked his teeth together and thought better of it. “Have that memo done when I get back.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Typing the memo took longer than usual because the handwriting was hard to decipher. In addition, he pressed because he was in a hurry, and therefore made more errors than usual. When he finished, the automatic lights of the prison had gone on. He put the memo on the lieutenant’s desk and rushed out. “Gonna get some chow, boss,” he said.

  “Best hurry, lad. It’s nearly time for the mess hall to close.”

  The last tier—Buck Rowan’s tier—had long since entered the mess hall, and men were straggling back across the yard to the East cellhouse from the exit door. The North cellhouse doors were locked, though they would open after the meal for night school and other activities. He circled in that direction, looking for Ron—but Ron wasn’t there. At the far end of the yard, in the overhang of the canteen roof, stood several figures silhouetted against the canteen lights. The night yard crew, among them Paul and Vito. Earl moved quickly in that direction, unable to run because it was against the rules and the rifleman would blast his whistle. Paul and Vito were both leaning on broom handles.

  “Where’s Superhonky?” Earl asked.

  “Him and Baby Boy went in. They’re both drunk,” Paul said.

  “I was gonna try and fuck him while he was out,” Vito said, “but the big motherfucker might wake up.”

  “Shit!” Earl said. “I needed him to stand around and look mean. I gotta drive on some fool.”

  “Who is it?” Vito asked.

  “Some lop fuckin’ with Ron.”

  “Ron just went in the East block,” Paul said.

  “I told him—” Earl began; then wheeled and nearly ran toward the square of yellow light filling the open door. Vito and Paul threw down their brooms and hurried after.

  The vast cellhouse hummed with the accumulated voices of trapped men. The tiers were packed with inmates waiting for lockup, and around the door were men jammed waiting for night unlocks to begin. Earl pushed through, turned around the corner and put an arm up beside his face as he passed the sergeant’s office. The rifleman was on the other side of the cellhouse. The crowd was much thinner on the bottom because the space was much larger, going all the way to the cellhouse wall.

&n
bsp; Earl immediately saw Ron and Buck facing each other halfway down the tier. He increased his pace. Paul and Vito were twenty feet behind him, moving more slowly and trying to appear unconcerned. Earl was both proud of Ron’s courage and angry at his foolishness. I’ll let him handle it as long as he can, Earl thought when he was ten feet away, but that thought was instantly erased when Buck saw him over Ron’s shoulder and said. “Here’s your daddy,” he sneered. “Or maybe he’s a sissy, too. Or a rat.”

  Nobody had ever been so disrespectful. Earl’s mind reeled with the burst of fury. He leaped past Ron and swung—but his rage made him start the punch from too far away, with too much warning. Buck evaded the blow and Earl’s momentum sent him crashing into the big man. He instantly saw that Buck was too big and too strong, clumsy but quick, his hands swinging like a bear swatting bees. Earl was slammed back as they went around. Buck drove him back under the tier, into the cell bars with such force that Earl’s wind was knocked out. He couldn’t get leverage to punch. Buck’s hands went around him, grabbed the cell bars and tried to crush him. The big man’s cheek was next to Earl’s face. He grabbed the head, sunk his teeth into the top of Buck’s right ear and bit it off, the blood running instantly.

  Surprised, Paul and Vito were seconds late—for Ron had pulled the knife from his waistband and come forward with the quick steps of a matador. Without hesitation, he struck with all his strength, burying fourteen inches of steel in the wide back. “Die, you motherfucker!”

  The big man collapsed instantly, falling straight down like a dynamited building. The spinal cord was severed. He nearly pulled Earl down on top of him until Vito’s brogan thudded into his face. Then he screamed, a terrible, bellowing sound that cut through the cellhouse hum and brought a sudden hush as hundreds of eyes looked for signs of another murder.

  “Cut his throat,” Vito said, “so he can’t snitch.” And he reached for the knife when Ron hesitated.