Eureka Man: A Novel

by Patrick Middleton

  Early the next morning he got out his trick bag, a baby blue pillowcase, and loaded it with a tube of petroleum jelly, a roll of adhesive tape, a red rayon kimono belt, a yellow cassette boom box, and a homemade shiv. After breakfast he went over the plan with Donnie Blossom. “When they call work-lines, you follow him to work,” Fat Daddy said. “After you see him walk down Turk's Street go to the yard and hang out until he leaves work. Then follow his ass right back to his cell. You got all that?”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  “You better. Now as soon as he steps in the cell and closes the door, you drop this bolt down through the pin hole. I'll be on him by then.”

  “Well, what if somebody comes looking for him while-”

  “Tell 'em he's using the bathroom. They can't see through the curtain.”

  “How long are you going to be?”

  “As long as it takes to make him mine. Now stop asking me all these dumb ass questions.”

  Donnie was nervous and his fingernails were bleeding to the quick. “I thought I was yours.”

  “You are, bitch. I told you. I'm a polygamist.”

  “You're so bad, Fat Daddy.”

  “I know it and don't you forget it.”

  Five minutes later the work-line bell rang. Fat Daddy walked down the back stairwell to B-tier and all the way to the front of the block where he reversed directions. When he reached Oliver's cell he went in and closed the door and pulled the curtain. The cell was much darker than he recalled it being the day before. The lighting was just right. He emptied his rape kit on the bed and went to work. First, he cut a long piece of adhesive tape from the roll and tacked it to the side of Oliver's footlocker for quick access. Then he slid the red cord, pillowcase and yellow boom box under the bed. He stuck the tube of Vaseline down his sock and held on to the knife. Before he slid under the bed, he pulled the curtain open and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.

  Shifting to get comfortable under Oliver's bed, he hit play on his yellow boom box and cued up his favorite Marvin Gaye song. “Stubborn Kind of Fellow.” He didn't move for an hour and thirty minutes. When he finally heard the door open, he smiled and grew hard in the groin.

  “Fat Daddy! Fat Daddy! Come on out! Come on out!” Donnie Blossom shouted. “He's gone! Meet me upstairs!” Donnie slammed Oliver's door and walked away.

  Fat Daddy got to his feet and quickly gathered his tools. He slung the baby blue pillowcase over his shoulder and hurried out of the cell, cursing under his breath all the way to the fifth tier.

  Donnie was sitting on Fat Daddy's bed.

  “What the hell happened?” Fat Daddy asked. “Where'd that motherfucker go?”

  “What happened was he came out of school early and I followed him just like you told me to. When he got to the rotunda he stopped and told this guy he was walking with that he had a visitor. Then he showed his pass to the guard and they let him through the gate.”

  “Shit! I was ready like Freddie, man!”

  “There's always tomorrow, Fat Daddy.”

  “Yeah, but my dick's hard now,” Fat Daddy said. He closed the door and pulled the curtain. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”

  OLIVER WAS ON HIS WAY to the yard to look for Albert. Smoking a joint with Albert would be just the thing he needed. Albert was going home soon and they hadn't spent much time together since Albert had moved to the big St. Regis a couple of months ago because the cells were larger. Oliver had requested to move, too, but his turn hadn't come yet.

  It was springtime and the three concession stands were roaring with business. Oliver became excited by the smell of fresh popcorn and fried onions mingling with the fragrance of the hyacinths blooming along the fence line. As he made his way through the throng of prisoners, he stopped to gaze first at Early's flowerbeds that were bursting with color, then at the pigeons pecking at the crumbs of day-old bread Early had spread out for them on the chapel lawn. When he noticed several prisoners heading along Tom's Way for their evening classes, he realized it was a school night for Albert, too, and he was probably halfway down Turk's Street by now on his way to class.

  Oliver watched the hustlers moving across the yard, announcing their inventories as they went along.

  “Laker's jacket! Ten packs! Get your Laker's jacket!”

  “I've got new Reeboks with the tag still on them! Size 12! Five packs!”

  “Gold Timex! Brand new! Three packs!”

  Behind the left field bleachers Melvin was selling hooch by the Tang jar and it was going fast. Those waiting in line knew it was good, too, because the ones who had just copped were coming back for more. “Hey, Priddy. No school tonight, Jim?”

  Oliver waved at his co-worker. “Not tonight, Mel.”

  “You all right? You need anything?”

  “I'm good, brother,” Oliver said as he passed by.

  He found Early and his crew sitting in the bleachers on the first base side of the infield. Oyster, with his headful of snow white hair and the bushy eyebrows that bore down on fatigued lids, and brown eyes that worked their way through a squint, looked down and saw Oliver before the others did. Round-shouldered and soft looking, Oyster was the one who loved to argue, Oliver recalled. Beside him was Peabo, the sensible one, even though he had the face of a man who looked as if he had chosen argument for a career: Battered like a prizefighter, complete with scar tissue over both eyes and leather pockets that sagged under them, he had thick stubby hands and oversized feet. His best feature was a smile that you couldn't help but return. And then there was Bell sitting beside Early. Bell, too, had battle scars. One was a six-inch queue that slanted across his forehead and through his eyebrow and looked like a piece of fishing line. Another was in his aqua-blue eyes that were perpetually sad and distant. Although Oliver had only been around Early's friends a few times, he was left with the impression that Bell was always preoccupied.

  As he hopped up on the bleacher and Early saw him, Oliver shouted, “Hey Early! Peabo! Oyster! Mr. Bell!”

  Oliver tried to focus on the crisscrossed conversation but he was distracted by a Bobby Womack song playing on a passing radio. Early was reading the paper, and he slapped the pages on his knee when he found the story he was looking for. “You all remember Maurice Wiley, don't you?”

  “Yeah,” said Peabo. “The guy from Homewood. Killed his wife after he caught her doing the nasty with his dog. What about him?”

  “Well, he got off on third degree. They gave him ten to twenty. Looks like I lost that bet. You too, Oyster.”

  Early peeked over the top of the newspaper at Oyster who was mumbling under his breath. Early grinned and elbowed Oliver in the ribs, then pointed to Oyster. Oliver grinned too.

  “You lost too, Oyster,” Early said again.

  “Like hell. I didn't bet on that man's outcome.”

  “You sure?”

  “I'm damn sure. One thing I'm not is senile. You say he got ten to twenty?”

  “That's what the paper says. He got off on account of it being a crime of passion.” Before Early could utter another syllable, Bell went off.

  “Ever heard the sound of an M-79 rocket launcher! Do I have to draw a picture for you? We are all like lambs in a field, disporting ourselves in the eye of the butcher who chooses one, then another, for his prey.”

  Oliver kept his nose in the sports section of the newspaper; his concentration countered the uneasiness he felt while Bell was reliving his past.

  “Ain't it the truth, Bell?” Peabo said, as insouciant as a wink.

  “I'm not saying I shouldn't have come to jail for doing what I did,” said Oyster. “That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying a crime of passion's not first degree murder and mine was a crime of passion. Mr. Priddy.”

  “Oliver.”

  “Okay. Oliver. How do you define first degree murder?”

  “I don't know much about the law,” Oliver said, “but I know that first degree murder has to do with premeditation.”

  “Exa
ctly! And I didn't plan a damn thing! I came home from work and found what I found and then I snapped. It was a crime of passion. You tell me how that's first degree murder, Mr. Oliver, and I'll never say another word about my case as long as I live:

  “I remember it was a Friday 'cause we got paid that morning and the boss sent us home early that afternoon on account of there wasn't any work in the shop. When I got home there was a note taped to the back door from my wife Shirley. See, Shirley wasn't counting on me being home until around 5:30. That's when I usually came in from work. She was planning on stepping out early that night and didn't plan on being home when I got there. 'Oyster,' the note said. 'Your good-for-nothing monkey shit on my sofa for the last time. His brains are in the kitchen sink. You may want to eat them so you can have some of your own. Love, Shirley Bey.' Boy, I swear she was the most sarcastic woman I ever knew.

  “Anyway, I opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen and sure enough there was my marmoset, Duke, laying in the sink with the top of his head cut off. His brains were floating in a Tupperware bowl. Shirley's electric carving knife was still plugged in and sitting on the counter. Blood and bones were splattered all over the walls, the cabinets, the ceiling. I had to clear my head so I sat down at the table. I wasn't crying or nothing, I was just shocked out of my mind. It wasn't like losing a dog that was loyal and loving for a lot of years and then up and dies. It wasn't like that at all. I'd won the damn thing in a card game and was looking to get rid of it anyway, only I was counting on turning a profit. So, I was sitting there thinking about what could have made her lose her mind and that's when I heard what sounded like a blues record playing in the back bedroom. I didn't know if it was Shirley or a burglar, so I took out my little .38 and tip-toed down the hall. My bedroom door was ajar when I got there and it only took one look to see it wasn't no burglar or blues record I was hearing. It was Shirley Bey singing and moaning under the high-yellow Blue Sheen Cosmetics lady. I stood there for a minute as frozen as a lawn jockey watching the two of them writhing and moaning all over my king-sized bed. The police said I fired all six rounds; I don't remember firing one. All I remember is standing there blinking and squinting, you know the way you do when you're coming out of a bad dream? Only this wasn't no dream. One of the bullets passed right through Shirley's left eye. That yellow bitch was hit twice, but she lived to tell about it.”

  Oyster paused and just when Oliver thought he was through he started up again.

  “They gave me life. She killed my monkey and shared my bed with a woman, and they gave me life. Now you tell me, Mr. Oliver Priddy, you tell me that was first degree murder and I'll never say another word about my case.”

  Oliver didn't know if he could open his mouth without bursting into tears. It was one of the most pitiful stories he had ever heard. “There's no way that was premeditated, Oyster. No way. You must have had one sorry-ass lawyer, that's all I can say.”

  Oyster didn't answer and this time the silence washed over them like warm rain. Oliver had heard other prisoners' stories before, but this one had to be the sorriest one he had ever heard. As he sat there thinking about Oyster and the way he had told his story, it occurred to him just how theatrical prison life really was. They told stories to one another in order to have something to feel and what they did to others they did in order to make them feel. One day the sun was rising over yellow irises dripping with the blood of someone who needed to know what it felt like to be crossed, and the next day its golden rays were announcing the arrival of some young buck who didn't know which way was up and had to let somebody know it.

  Early broke the silence. “Oyster, ain't it your turn to treat?”

  “As I recall you just lost a bet,” Oyster said. “Besides, I bought all last week. You must be getting senile, Early.”

  “Okay. Who wants ice cream?”

  “Get me a Nutty Buddy,” said Oyster.

  “I'll have one too,” said Peabo. Bell wanted an ice cream sandwich.

  “What about you, Oliver?”

  “'Preciate it, but I've got to go take care of something. I enjoyed hanging out with you cats. Nothing beats good company.”

  “You're welcome back any time,” said Peabo.

  “A friend of Early's is a friend of ours,” said Oyster.

  Bell waved goodbye. As he walked beside Early down the third base line, Oliver listened to the crickets chirping in the ivy that crawled over the walls of the Home Block and the pastoral sound reminded him of spring evenings long ago on his grandfather's farm. He recalled the game he and his brother Skip had made out of seeing who could silence the last cricket in the patch of ivy that grew along the main pasture's fence line. The boys' methods couldn't have been more different. Oliver would run along a path that was parallel to the fence while clapping his hands and shouting, “Shut it up! Shut it up!” Skip's tactic had been to step inside the pasture and run beside the fence while sharply rapping a tobacco stick against the wooden fence posts. How Oliver missed those days now.

  He looked over his shoulder as the pitcher released the ball and was braced to protect Early and himself from any foul balls coming their way. A tall, stocky prisoner in a green cap pushed Early in an effort to get past him and Oliver grabbed his arm. “Hey, what's the big hurry?” Oliver asked.

  “Get the fuck off my arm,” the prisoner snapped, moving on through the crowd.

  Oliver left Early standing in the ice cream line and headed for the auditorium. He stood inside the doorway and checked his watch. It was almost time. Through the glass in the door he watched the door to the little St. Regis and at eight o'clock sharp Fat Daddy came strutting down the ramp dressed in his apple green hospital uniform and shiny brogans, just as he had for the last three nights Oliver had been watching him. When he passed by the auditorium doors, Oliver followed him from a distance. Prisoners were returning from the evening medication line and Tom's Way was crowded with Thorazine shufflers and other drug-induced prisoners walking in Oliver's direction. At the intersection of Turk's Street and Tom's Way he stopped and watched Fat Daddy cross Main Street and head up the hospital driveway. When he saw Fat Daddy enter the lobby, Oliver fell in with the crowd that was moving back toward the cellblocks.

  Inside the little St. Regis, he took the front stairwell all the way to the fifth tier and started down E-tier, walking slowly and reading each name tag as he went along. When he reached the divide, he stopped and draped his arms over the railing to watch a speedboat racing down the river. Behind him, two prisoners were emptying their trash into fifty-five gallon barrels; another was washing clothes in the deep sink. There was only one other prisoner on the tier at the far end, but there were several men moving up and down the four stairwells at the divide, so he waited. After a while he realized no one was paying any attention to him and headed down the back half of the tier.

  He only had four cells to go when he noticed that the prisoner who was hanging out on the tier was now watching him curiously. Oliver read him fast. He was dressed in tight white shorts and a tank top and he had shoulder length hair that looked as if it had just been brushed a thousand times. His eyebrows were plucked and shaped in a high arch, his legs were tan and hairless. Except for the protruding knot in his throat, he could have passed for a girl. His cell door was open and Oliver read his name on the door card. Blossom, Donald, E-63.

  “Hello,” Donnie Blossom said, leaning against the black iron railing with his slender arms spread out.

  Oliver nodded as he passed by.

  At the next cell Oliver found what he was looking for. Petaway, Winfield, E-64. He turned the corner and hurried down the back steps all the way to the flats. An excellent arrival and escape route, he thought. And right there was the shower room. He could go right in, strip down, wash the blood off his body and out of his clothes, wipe his prints off the nail and drop it down the drain. He would chuck the wooden handle in one of the trash barrels at the divide. He returned to his cell and started to put on his water stinger for a cu
p of coffee but stopped short and squeezed his balls with his right hand in anticipation of the relief he would feel once he annihilated Fat Daddy. When Early had first told him about Fat Daddy's success rate in turning out white boys, Oliver had taken little heed to the warning. After all he had dealt with this kind of threat before and he was confident his reputation would work to his advantage now. It wasn't until his new neighbor told him he'd seen a “skinny yellow coon” coming out of his cell two mornings in a row last week that fear had run through him like an Indy car race. He knew then that only a preemptive strike would quell his fear.

  Excited and restless now, he walked out on the tier and watched more speedboats go by while he tried to imagine how it would feel when the ten-penny nail entered the side of Fat Daddy's neck for the first time. The second time. He pictured the purple-red blood gushing out of the holes and wondered if the nail punctures would distort Fat Daddy's voice when he called out for help or to say you white motherfucker. His imagination was suddenly interrupted by the flip-flop of sandals on the stone floor down on the flats. He looked down and saw Donnie Blossom walking at a fast pace to the front of the cellblock. Oliver leaned over the railing and watched as Donnie pulled up at the end of the phone line and folded his arms. Oliver quickly closed his cell door and hustled to the back of the tier and up the three flights of stairs. He eased around the corner of E-tier, pulled open Fat Daddy's door and stepped into his cell.

  The first thing he noticed was the squadron of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling by various lengths of thread. Each one was beautifully painted with a decal tag affixed above it that identified the kind of plane it was. A B-17, a P-51 Mustang, an F-86 Sabre, an F-4 Phantom II. The only one Oliver recognized was the F-4 Phantom II that had been so superior against the Soviet Mig-17s in the Vietnam War. There were stars and a half moon covered in glitter hanging strategically between and around the planes. The overall look was aesthetically pleasing. A freak with a seventh grade hobby, Oliver thought.