by Susan Swan
Cut me down, B, Bailey yells. Quick, quick, I gon faint.
The faucet on the first tap singes my fingers. I grab a towel and use it to shut off the tap, closing my eyes to avoid the stinging mist. Somehow, I disengage two more faucets and then, quelle surprise! The water is tepid. I’m drenched from head to toe, and no harm has been done. I turn off the fifth tap easily and leave the rest.
I pull at the strips of prison T-shirt used to bind Bailey’s ankles, blinking back the spray from the showerhead. The soaking cloth falls apart in my hands, and Bailey plunges downward. Panicking, he wraps his arms around my waist, causing me to stagger backwards on the slippery tiles.
Did Brer Fox get caught in a trap with Brer Rabbit? Aldo stands in the doorway, smirking.
Did you do this to Bailey, you skunk-faced vermin? My grip on Bailey’s waist loosens, and he slips gently to the floor.
What the fuck did you say, Dale Paul? Aldo cries.
You heard me. You yellow-bellied miscreant. Now get out of here before I …
Before you what, Mr. Big Shot? You throwing a punch at me, asswipe?
Bailey lurches to his feet, his wet t-shirt flattened against his chest. Yo, we straight, Aldo. Nobody gon snitch.
You better watch it, you chomo, Aldo says. Next time, I’ll toast Brer Rabbit good.
When I start after him, Bailey grabs my arm. You chill, B. Today was nuthin’.
He turns out his forearm, flattening it to expose the scar that runs from his palm up to his elbow. That muthafucka did this, okay? When we were muscle for a club in Jersey. They brung in Serb girls, an’ Aldo kept this lit thirteen-year-old in his room so he could, you know. I tol’ the manager. She was a happy lit thing before he started on her.
He accuses you of molesting children because you championed a thirteen-year-old? I didn’t know Aldo was so cunning.
Man o’ man, don get it twisted. Aldo so stupid he smart. And he be the eyes in Mr. Jack’s head.
I laugh disbelievingly. Why didn’t you tell me this before?
Don go stickin’ your nose in bad places, B. It be bad for you. I gotta protect you because you got a big mouth. No point you knowin’ bad things, is all. You too innocent.
Me, innocent? Nobody has accused me of that before.
5
LIKE THE COMPUTER studio, the hallway named Cat Alley faces the forest surrounding the prison. On sunny winter days it is a pleasant spot despite the hideous smell of cat urine.
Speaking softly, I call Riley’s name, and a bundle of rough-looking marmalade fur emerges from the assembly of sleeping cats. He blinks his green eyes at me as he sniffs my scraps of overcooked chicken. Riley knows me well by now, but each time we meet he still takes his time making sure I’m not dangerous, which is clever, seeing as danger is something we humans do extremely well. Satisfied I am still the same old Dale Paul who always brings him a tasty tidbit, Riley gulps it down.
He’s favouring his back leg, I call to John.
Riley got in a fight, John answers. He won’t let anybody touch him. Toms, right-right?
As John and Martino watch, I move my hand cautiously down the cat’s back and gently pry a large burr from the lumpy fur around the animal’s hindquarters. The cat holds stock-still, his scabrous frame quivering.
It’s all right, Riley. I won’t hurt you, although it’s clear some numbskull once did you appalling harm.
The cat rubs himself against my arm and scurries off.
Make them depend on you and they’ll be loyal forever, right-right? John grins good-naturedly.
Loyal forever. Who is like that? Not Caroline, who rarely writes, or Meredith, who is too busy being lovey-dovey with Nugent. John misunderstands the nature of dependent people; when you aren’t there, they find someone else to lean on.
I heard you have a beef with Aldo? he asks in his regular voice.
It is startling the way John turns his coarse gangster manner on and off, although I’m beginning to understand the scofflaws burnish their personas as regularly as Dieter once polished Pater’s brass collection. Some of the men, like my friend and ally, consciously reference the thuggish roles they see on television. Point being, the scofflaws are unabashed image queens, acting out their personal destinies inside the frightening opacity of American prison life, a rugged existence that happens far away from the eyes of the public. They perform their parts with astonishing verve, like some of the famous people I used to know.
Those showers cut the hot water off after a minute, guy, he says. So forget about Aldo. He doesn’t like blacks to ride in his car. That’s all. But you’re different. How come? You and Bailey close? He studies me curiously.
He’s a colleague.
A colleague. That’s a good one. Okay, I get it. Know what I say when the boys complain about you? Dale Paul has class so shut the fuck up! He beckons me closer. Look, guy, I get it about Aldo. He’s not the brightest bulb. And he’s a pussy too. Make a crack about his weight … and his eyes start to leak. Right, Marty?
Martino fixes me with his dullard’s gaze. If a C.O. don’t see Aldo do it, nobody gives a shit. You gotta let them work it out themselves.
I understand Martino to mean that we shouldn’t interfere with the purity of Aldo and Bailey’s native passions, the wild thrust and parry of their animal instincts. I am out of my depth. The world inside the BOP is light years apart from the unrelenting civility of the land I come from, that daunting muddle of lakes and mountains above the American border.
Okay, that’s enough shit about Aldo, John says. Listen, guy. We’ve got problems with our dead pool. He flicks his eyes at Martino.
You told Martino about our bet?
We can talk in front of Marty. He’s my first cousin.
The C.O. smiles sleepily. You guinea, I’m your second cousin.
See, guy? John punches my arm. Marty used to work for me. He took a job here when I got sent upriver. Now don’t freak out. We need some muscle in Admin.
My mouth falls open. Martino knows about the bet outside the prison.
Hey, Dale Paul. Relax. Marty’s one of us. He wears the Bitcoin insignia. Show him, Marty.
The C.O. extends his hand like a bride showing off her wedding ring. On one of his fingers, there’s a gold signet ring with the Bitcoin design on the face of the band.
Give it to him, Marty. John nods at Martino, who hands it over.
See the inscription inside the band? That’s the password to our Bitcoin account. Only Marty and me know it, and Marty won’t snitch. Clearing his throat, John declaims: The greatest thing in life is never snitching on your friends.
Henry Hill in Goodfellas, I reply. The two greatest things in life are keeping your mouth shut and never ratting …
Okay, already. He throws me a deprecatory look. Marty’s a miner … you know the guys I mean? The ones who record transactions on the blockchain? Every week he’s going to bring you and me a statement from our Bitcoin account, so there’s no funny business.
Glancing at Marty’s ring with its incomprehensible list of numbers and letters, I deploy the grave, look-here voice I offer to dissatisfied clients. So what’s the problem then?
The celebrities aren’t dying fast enough. He looks gloomy. Players get frustrated and drop out. There are state lotteries now. They cut into business.
Yeah, Martino says. But those guys pay income tax on their winnings. Maybe we can help one of the celebrities to croak?
John laughs and opens his meaty hands, palms out. Shut your trap, Martino. No dumb jokes.
The good health of the deathbed ten is just bad luck, good sir.
Don’t give me any shit about bad luck. You need to figure out a way to make it pay faster or I’m outta here. John is back in his gangter role, treating me to the same menacing register he uses on Aldo. I mutter something noncommittal; then, to my relief, the whistle blo
ws. As we head off to our dorms for the head count, I find myself experiencing the bewilderment I feel after an argument with Caroline. Of course, John is a meta-riddle, a real gangster playing an actor playing a film gangster. It’s much like the Shakespearean actress who played a man playing the stage role of a woman. But one way or another, I need to get him back on side.
6
LO AND BEHOLD, a few weeks later, John Giaccone, Trish Bales, the government shrink, and I are riding to the maximum-security compound in one of the prison vans. Martino sits behind the wheel. He helped me make the case to Nathan Rickard, and our warden has talked to his counterpart, and now here we are, speeding along the service road, which slopes uphill slightly, offering, with every twist and turn, an unending view of the round, snow-covered hills. From this height the forest exudes a menacing ambience; it could be a game preserve, where big game hunters track John and me down like wild animals.
As we bump along in the prison van, Ms. Bales offers us her pack of Kools. John takes a cigarette. When I refuse, she smiles apologetically, exposing her unfortunate teeth. I have the warden’s permission, don’t I, Martino? she asks. The C.O. shrugs as he opens the window, and for a moment, I see the glint of the Bitcoin insignia on his ring.
You know, I can’t figure you two out, she says, flicking her ash into the old coffee cup that Martino has passed to her. I wouldn’t have pegged you for friends.
John’s eyes fly open above the half-moon pouches on his cheeks. You saying I’m a loser? he asks churlishly. She looks at him aghast.
Don’t lie to me, girl. You think I’m a loser. And maybe you think I’m funny too. But funny how? Funny like a clown?
No, no, she replies in a frightened voice. I mean, your backgrounds are different. That’s all.
Yeah, different. He wiggles his tufted eyebrows at me. Hey, do you think Trish is old enough to remember Letterman asking Joe Pesci if he’s funny?
Alarmed, I shake my head.
Sure she is, pal. You know how Pesci answers? He says Letterman has a funny face. Letterman’s the guy that’s funny ha ha, right-right? See, he breaks Letterman’s balls! Okay, I get it, little lady. He winks at her. You have a hard-on for me, don’t you, Trish?
She turns a mottled shade of pink, and for the rest of the drive we sit in an awkward silence while John puffs away, looking contented. I pull out my notepad and begin to doodle, my mind buzzing with anxious thoughts. Will the criminals in maximum security listen to my talk about financials? I have my doubts, although I haven’t said anything to John.
We pass through the same stands of birch and white pine that bracket our own prison. Some C.O.s are walking German shepherds between fences made of concertina wire. At the guardhouse, Martino tells a C.O. that I am giving a talk on money skills and he waves us through. A few minutes later, the warden marches through a tall stone archway to greet us, and it is clear from his massive shoulders and small, cruel eyes that Joel M. Cody is a far less amiable creature than Nathan Rickard. After shaking our hands, he leads us down a forbidding hallway with four sets of double doors. The cascading set of inner rooms and hallways evokes the claustrophobia of a submarine, where the hatches are designed to stop the water from flowing in, although the design works the other way around here: it keeps the population of felons from getting out.
At last we come to a cafeteria, where ten C.O.s and six scofflaws sit glumly waiting. The sight evokes the old show business proverb about stopping the performance if there are more actors on stage than audience members.
I glance at Cody for reassurance, and he nods his hideous bald head. Note to self: Drama depends on stagecraft so play your part. Your life may depend on it.
Some people think betting on the health of old or frail celebrities is in bad taste, I begin. However, death is a wasteful business, aside from the fortunes that undertakers have made for centuries. I wait for the laugh. Silence, absolute and total. I blow out my cheeks, start again: The answer to all problems is monetize, monetize, monetize.
Another leaden silence. I have miscalculated. Their leering faces suggest that for them death provides a healthy revenue source. I try again: Say you have five dollars to your name and need to buy some peaches. Three baskets are on sale at three prices: six dollars, five dollars, and four dollars and fifty cents. What happens if you buy the five-dollar basket?
In the front row, a prisoner the age of my son doubles over in a fit of bilious coughing.
The six-dollar basket of delicious peaches costs too much. But the peaches selling for four-fifty are of poor quality. However, if you buy the five-dollar basket, you don’t have money left over. So what do you do? I ask the cougher.
He glances up at me with panic-stricken eyes and then down at his battered sneakers as if the answer lies there.
You have to wait, I explain. The next day the basket of six-dollar peaches is all that’s left, so you can buy these succulent beauties for four-fifty and still have fifty cents left over. That’s how c-coin works. You trade to get the best deal. Any questions?
Nary a one. In the seat next to me, Ms. Bales sits writing in her notebook, pretending she doesn’t see the evil sidelong glances from the scofflaws. She is likely thinking the same thing I am: When can I get out of this fright-ful place?
It is all over in twenty minutes. One of the oversized C.O.s blows a whistle and the six men are hustled out of the cafeteria, shuffling their feet. I have never seen such a miserable bunch of ne’er-do-wells.
I expected more players, I hiss.
It is what it is, John growls.
It is what it is. A useless phrase. Provincials deploy it when they’re trying to sound wise, but it can mean anything. That you need to be careful of over-thinking. Or that you need to accept your circumstances, as in, “It will be what it is.” Never mind. I put on a good face, but neither John nor I are surprised when my workshop at maximum-security is cancelled for lack of interest.
7
WE HAVE NO chance now of expanding our dead pool to a second prison. Worse, we are in the midst of a celebrity drought and there is nothing to be done except wait it out. In a phone conversation with Nugent, I explain the problem.
Let me get this straight, Nugent says. You have a bet with real money going on outside the prison. That’s in addition to the bet for coffee in your workshop?
That is correct, and our bet outside the prison is going well. The prisoners tell their families who to bet on, and John’s runners collect five dollars every two weeks from his customers.
Does the gangster have other customers, Nugent asks.
He has over nine hundred clients, maybe more, and their money goes into our Bitcoin account. It’s a genius stroke.
Ah. So there are really three bets. You are betting that Bitcoin will increase in value?
Precisely. But John says the celebrities are taking too long to die. He is accustomed to the numbers racket, where his customers bet on a random group of numbers, like the published daily balance of the United States Treasury.
You need to get out of your dead pool, Dale Paul, Nugent exclaims. You’re doing business with a gangster. What if something goes wrong?
Nugent, I’ve been dealing with gangsters all my life — they happen to run the financial markets.
They aren’t the same!
They are to me, I reply, but by then he is no longer listening. Never mind. Nugent was always a scaredy-cat. John may be frustrated with the healthy celebrities in our dead pool, but by and large I am pleased at how things are unfolding. I admire the gangster’s set-up — his runners collecting the fees from his customers and bringing the money to the bookies at John’s policy banks in New Jersey; customers dropping in on the bookies to collect our latest bulletins about the well being of our celebrities or requesting updates by email.
All businesses operate on faith or the stock market would collapse; my partnership with John is no d
ifferent. What’s more, I know he isn’t cheating me out of my share because every week Martino shows me a printout of a document that resembles an online banking statement. The statement never fails to pitch us about buying more Bitcoin, and well it should because Bitcoin’s value has been rising steadily since I’ve been in prison. One coin used to be worth twelve dollars and fifty cents. Now it’s one hundred dollars a coin. The jump in its value has made John impatient, and he never misses the chance to grouse about the length of time our bet is taking to cash out.
Maybe you’re losing your nerve? How do guys like you put it? You get risk averse, like scared girls. We’ve got to make the bet go faster, Dale Paul.
I nod and smile as if I agree, and he gives up and changes the subject. You get the gist.
8
OPEN YOUR MOUTHS, you fuck-heads, Derek says as we lie prone. Stick out your tongues and roar like a lion.
John and I compete to see who can make the loudest bellow.
I win.
Before our exuberant roaring, there is cross-legged sitting with several long minutes of intentional breathing, exhaling and inhaling through nostrils that are repeatedly covered and uncovered, and all the while my eyes remain firmly closed in case I see the lights flickering near the other men. Once or twice I glimpsed a dull glow around Derek’s head, although I haven’t mentioned it to him. Nor shall I. I admit to a superstitious feeling that speaking about the experience will open a portal into a disagreeable dimension. So I say nothing, and Derek, good man, never asks if I’ve seen the lights again.
This morning, Derek and John and I set off to the sauna for a redemptive blast of steam. Aldo must be in the washroom, or possibly the lout is gorging on stolen Doritos back in his dorm.
We are sitting together, chatting amiably, a trio of glistening wet Buddhas on the wooden benches; then John throws too much water on the rocks, and he and Derek rush out laughing, leaving me alone. Billowing grey clouds roll my way, obscuring the tiled walls. Is my imagination playing a trick, or does a door open? I hold my breath and listen, but all I hear is the hissing steam. Is anyone here? I call. If someone were there, they would laugh uproariously.
