I had to say it. “A hideout?” Then I waited, almost cringing.
* * *
—
He nodded. “Could be. Hope not, though. Last hideout, a month ago—wasn’t you here?—it took an hour to find him; we had supper an hour and a half late.” He shrugged. “Probably some dumb screw can’t count straight; it usually is.” He raised his paper again.
I was more frightened than I could bear; I had to get my mind off it, and I glanced around the cell I was trapped in. For the first time I really saw it, and I was suddenly astonished. The cell I lay in was incredibly tiny; actually smaller, I realized with astonishment, than the bathroom at home, and I sat up, unable to believe it. But the bunk I was sitting on covered more than half the floor space. One end of it was actually jammed up against the barred front of the cell; yet beyond its foot there was barely room for a man to stand. And within that space was the tiny washbasin against which Arnie’s cellmate stood leaning; a lidless, seatless toilet; and two narrow wooden shelves crammed with two men’s small possessions. And, reaching out from the bunk, I could easily touch the opposite wall. A man couldn’t walk three steps in this tiny space. He couldn’t move, even, unless his cellmate lay on a bunk out of the way. I’d seen closets larger than this; it simply wasn’t a room for a man to live in and stay human. Yet two men lived in it, and, Arnie had told me, in nearly every other identical cell in San Quentin.
* * *
—
I knew with certainty that I could not live this way; I believed I would kill myself if I had to. And I knew that if there was a short count tonight, I was within minutes of being caught here, and that then I would shortly be a prisoner at San Quentin, sentenced to live in a cell like this for I didn’t know how many years. An electric gong sounded in the block, the merest tap of sound, and I didn’t know what it meant, and shriveled inside with fear. “Chow,” the man in the cell with me said casually, “the count’s clear,” and tossed his paper onto his bunk. The tier lock rose from the upper face of the cell door, and instantly cell doors banged open and the walkway just past my head was crowded with chattering men. Arnie’s cellmate pushed open our door, stepped out, and was gone, and I made a sudden decision.
I’d meant to skip supper, but now I stood up. I simply had to get out of this tiny cell; I couldn’t possibly stay in it all night without relief from it now. And knowing how dangerous it was to take needlessly the risk of some disastrously revealing blunder, I nevertheless stepped out onto the runway, and was instantly a part of a moving mass of men flowing toward the stairway ahead.
Down on the cell block floor, the river of men flowed out through a doorway, its metal door held open by a tan-uniformed guard. For an instant, stepping through it, I wished desperately that I’d stayed, temporarily safe, in the cell, and knew I’d done an utterly foolhardy thing in leaving it. I passed through a small enclosed space, then stepped through a doorway onto red tile and into sudden brightness, and I was in the largest cafeteria I’d ever seen. I had a confused impression of hundreds of identical varnished-wood tables, incredibly large silvery coffee urns, scores of urgently busy white-coated men; then I realized that the crowd ahead of me had stopped moving. It had become a waiting line, and I stopped, became part of it, and stood looking around me in a panic.
But there were no decisions to make. Reaching the head of the steadily moving line. I took a compartmented tray from a stack, duplicating the actions of the men before me, stepped to the long serving counter, and a bundle of paper-napkin wrapped silverware was slapped onto my tray by a white-sleeved arm, and an instant later four slices of bread.
* * *
—
The men behind the counter never once glanced at me, their arms and bodies moving in endless repetition of their individual rhythms. Two slices of meat loaf appeared on my tray, and were instantly covered by a ladleful of brown gravy. Then creamed boiled potatoes, green beans, a dish of rice pudding, a mug of coffee; with each step I took the tray grew heavier. At the end of the counters, I turned away, into a wide aisle, following the blue shirt ahead of me.
There was no choice about where to sit. The vast room was filled with rows of square wooden-topped tables, each with four attached stool-like seats. The rows of tables were filled one at a time, the prisoners’ movements worldlessly supervised by guards in the main aisles.
* * *
—
When the man ahead of me turned and sat down at a table already occupied by one man, I followed, and an instant later, the fourth seat was taken by the man behind me. Did you say Hello, or Good evening? What was dinner etiquette at San Quentin Prison? The man opposite me, unrolling his silverware, lifted his chin in a brief gesture of greeting as his eye caught mine, and I responded in the same way. The other two simply stared at nothing, chewing.
I was eating, and enjoying it. The food smelled good, it was simple, clean, and well-prepared, and like the others around me, I ate methodically and rapidly, enjoying it ravenously, and I finished everything on my tray including the four slices of bread. Then I began sipping my coffee, feeling suddenly good, knowing I was in a temporary basis of safety, and wondering when the time would come—years from now, probably—when I could tell people of the incredible thing I had done. This was actually a pleasant room—there were murals on the walls, I noticed now in burnt umber against a green background, and the place was immaculately clean. I took another sip of coffee, and out of the habit of years my thumb and forefinger dipped into my shirt pocket, found the end of a cigarette in the open package there, and withdrew it, I sat staring at the murals—I saw Albert Einstein’s sad, intelligent face—and my hands opened a match pack, struck a match, and lighted the cigarette in my mouth. Luxuriously, and almost contentedly, I exhaled a jet of smoke, and a hand smacked down on my shoulder, and I swung around to stare up at the angry face of a man.
“What the hell’s the matter with you!” said the guard, glaring, impatient for an answer before I could possibly give it, and I was frantic, astounded; then suddenly I understood. The air above the heads of these hundreds of men would have been heavy with smoke if smoking had been allowed: instead it was clear. I was the only man in this whole vast room with a lighted cigarette in his hand, and I hastily ducked it in my coffee, and heard the hiss as it was extinguished. “Boo!” I heard from the other side of the room, “Boo!” and saw the guard’s jaw muscles tighten, “Sorry.” I managed to say, feeling my neck and ears redden, and the guard cut me off. “What’s your name?”
“Jarvis.”
“Boo!” the scattered yells came from every part of the great room, and the guard said, “Let’s see your ID card,” and I pulled it from my shirt pocket, and handed it to him. That was Arnie’s picture, not mine, on the little plastic-sealed card, but there was a brotherly resemblance, and the guard only glanced at it, then handed it back. “You’re not a fish,” he said, and I understood that the date of Arnie’s admission to the prison must be on the card. “What’s wrong with you?”
* * *
—
“Boo! BOO!” the inmates shouted, and from a corner of my eye now. I saw another guard standing near this one, just beside and behind me. “Just dreaming,” I mumbled. “I forgot.”
For a moment longer the man stared down at me; then he turned away. “Quiet down,” he called out, keeping his voice relaxed, but I detected his tenseness and understood that a handful of guards among hundreds of prisoners were men in a powder keg, and that I had struck a spark. Not able even to look up at the other three men at my table, I sat wondering when and where I’d be called up for punishment. The moment I was—the moment I was taken out of the blue-clothed anonymous mass around me—my bluff would collapse. I sat staring at the soggy length of cigarette in my coffee cup; it wasn’t easy to understand that a single puff on a cigarette might send me to prison for years, but I knew it was true.
The men were standing at some signal
I hadn’t seen or heard, each picking up his silverware, and I gathered up mine, and stood, too. The guard I’d noticed from the corner of my eye, standing just beside and behind me, was still there, and when I turned to look at him, it was Nova, the San Quentin guard who lived next door to me in Mill Valley.
* * *
—
“Hello, Jarvis,” he said softly, and smiled, the same, nasty, mean smile, slowly nodding his head in a pleased malicious satisfaction. I didn’t even bother trying to answer: I just stood waiting, lost in apathy. Nova jerked his head toward the main aisle. “Get moving,” he said, and I walked toward it, Nova right behind me. At the door I had come in stood a big metal bucket, and as the inmates ahead of me passed it, they dropped their silverware into it, and automatically I did the same.
In the cell block I turned to look at Nova, and again with a jerk of his head he indicated that I was to walk on, and I turned onto the first stairway, Nova right behind me. I didn’t know what he meant to do, but it didn’t matter: I knew it wasn’t good, and climbing those stairs, I realized what I would do. A part of my brain was able to stand off and consider in absolute horror and astonishment what the rest of my mind had decided to do, but I knew I would do it. I was simply not going to be confined for years in San Quentin Prison; I couldn’t take it, and whatever the consequences I was going to do what I had to do to prevent it. Maybe any man can kill if circumstances demand it; certainly millions come to it in every war. But to know you’re going to—to cross the line you’ve never crossed before, and know you are capable of killing a man—must always be an unbelievable moment.
There was no alternative; Nova dead was the only possible hope for me now, and with a terrible clarity of mind I saw how I was going to do it. There were very few men in the cell block now. After supper, I knew, most of them were off to classes, the athletic fields, movies, band practice; the guards were lounging around their hut on the cell block floor. Climbing the stairs to the third tier now, and leaning over the stair railway looking up, I saw only three or four men on it, walking toward their cells.
When I reached the third tier, I’d walk along toward my cell, and once the walkway was clear, the cells directly behind me empty, I’d stop, lean on the railing on my forearms, hands clasped, staring down at the cell block floor three stories below. It was the kind of posture that invites duplication; whatever Nova had in mind, he could hardly talk to me without leaning on the railing beside me. I’d listen, watching the runway from the corners of my eyes, making certain it remained clear of witnesses. Then I’d pull out my handkerchief, drop it, stoop to pick it up, and instead, crouched there on the walkway, I’d grab Nova tight around the legs like a tackling football player, and lift him right over the railing. He’d be leaning half over the rail to begin with, I’d lift him over, and he couldn’t hang on—not upside down—and a fall of three stories onto the concrete floor far below would kill him. The instant he dropped, I’d simply turn into the empty cell behind me, and when he hit, I’d come rushing out with the others on the tier to see what had happened. Then I’d return to my own cell. In the two or three seconds it took me to heave Nova over the railing, I could be seen by anyone rounding a corner of this walkway, or stepping out of a cell anywhere down the line, but…I was simply not going to be an inmate here. I would rather be dead.
* * *
—
On the third tier, two men far ahead strolled along the walkway as I did, Nova just behind me. Then they turned into a cell, and I stopped, leaned on the railing, and when Nova stopped beside me, I looked up and said, “Well? What’s it’s all about?”
He answered something or other and I pulled out my handkerchief, my heart throbbing full strength. I let it slip from my fingers, slooped to pick it up, and in that instant my mind repeated the word Nova had spoken just a moment before.
“I know your brother,” he had said, while I nodded unhearingly, but now suddenly, my fingers reaching for the handkerchief, they took on meaning. What did he mean? He didn’t know Arnie; he’d said so last night. Has he looked Arnie up since, or…And then in the split second before my arms could move to lock around Nova’s legs, I understood, and squatting there on the runway, I simply stared up at his face instead. Then I snatched my handkerchief as Nova stared down at me, and stood up.
* * *
—
Nova thought I was Arnie! He thought he was talking to my brother! I couldn’t believe it. He had seen my face last night; how could he fail to recognize…? But then I understood. Sitting there in the San Quentin mess hall, in the standard dress of the prison I couldn’t be anyone but Arnold Jarvis, the man he already knew was an inmate here. Naturally Arnold Jarvis would resemble his brother! But still, I thought doubtfully, resemble him exactly. Then I remembered that Nova had seen me, after all, only momentarily, and in semi-darkness. Here in the prison, in prison clothes. I could only be the brother he knew was confined here.
“—snooty sort of bastard,” Nova was saying, smiling at me nastily, “thinks he’s above people. Wouldn’t ask me in; kept me standin’ there at his door. So I just thought I’d see if I was good enough to talk to his San Quentin brother.”
I managed a smile, and stood erect, too, facing him. “Any time,” I said.
“Well, that’s just fine,” he answered sarcastically. “Glad to know I made the grade with one branch of the family. Even if it’s only the San Quentin branch.”
I shrugged, as though I couldn’t explain it either.
“Well”—he paused, stared at me thoughtfully for a moment, then continued—“see you around, Jarvis. And keep your nose clean. Wouldn’t want to bring back any bad news to your brother, would I? Or that hot-lookin’ sister-in-law of yours.”
I shrugged again, smiling. “Hope not.”
“You better hope.” He turned abruptly, and walked back toward the stairway.
I made it to the cell, dropped on the bunk, and closed my eyes; Arnie’s cellmate wasn’t there. Then, face on the pillow, arms around my head, I let it flood over me. I had nearly murdered a man; had nearly lost my freedom, and probably my life, out of panic—all started by a puff on a cigarette. I was walking a tightrope through the most dangerous moments of my life.
I got through the time that followed just lying on my bunk, like a child finding some kind of false security in his bed. I found earphones on the bunk, and put them on, and heard Frank Sinatra singing “Birth of the Blues.” Dozed, was awakened by a gong, and a moment later, from the tier above, heard a guitar being tuned, then from somewhere in the block, a trumpeter warming up. Another stringed instrument began to plink, and I heard a mouth organ. It was the music hour, I remembered—Arnie had described it in a letter once.
* * *
—
A string of men passed my cell door, some naked except for shoes, some wearing shorts, each with a towel. This was bath night for a section of the block; once a week, Arnie had said, each man in the block had five minutes under one of the open showers down on the main floor, and clean clothes.
I got undressed presently, and crawled under the blankets before Arnie’s cellmate arrived; I wasn’t up to talking to him. Hours later I was awakened by a sound, and the cell was dark, the only light a weak illumination from the ceiling lights of the block far overhead. I heard the sound again, and recognized it, astounded; a cat had meowed. I turned to the cell door, and there, incredibly it was; a big tortoise-shell cat, in the dim light of the walkway, sitting on its haunches staring in at the cell.
“Psst!” The sound came from the bunk just above me. Then I saw bare legs swing into view. Arnie’s cellmate sliding down from his bunk. Dropping to the floor, and squatting at the door, he extended a hand, and the cat’s neck stretched forward, nose working. Then its hind legs rose, and it jumped neatly through the bars into the cell, teeth opening daintily to accept the fragment of food in the man’s hand. Watching, I saw Arnie’s cellm
ate smile—his wooden face breaking into a gentle smile of pleasure—and he reached up to his bunk for another scrap of whatever he had carried in from the mess hall. Again he fed the cat, squatting before it, scratching its skull behind the ears. For a moment or so the cat accepted this, moving its head pleasurably; then it stepped forward out from under the man’s caressing, and its pink mouth opened in a meow for more food. Again the man stroked the cat, but the animal, knowing that there was no more to eat here, turned and hopped out between the bars, and trotted down the walkway. I heard it again, several cells away, meowing at another barred door, and Arnie’s cellmate put his palms on the upper bunk, heaved with his arms, and drew himself up out of sight. Then I heard him sigh, as he settled down above me. Presently I was asleep.
* * *
—
Standing inside the pile of stacked crates next to the furniture factory, a cigarette cupped in my palm, I stood in the darkness waiting, wondering how Ben was getting along. It was just before midnight, and I could picture San Quentin right now; the great Yard lighted by electric bulbs, silent and empty; the classrooms, offices, most of the other buildings, and the athletic fields all deserted: the four main blocks and the old Spanish block, dimly lit, and quiet. Inside the lighted Yard office, just before the Yard gates, two or three screws would be sitting around doing nothing—the best thing they do. The control room, always awake, would be lighted, an inmate clerk at his typewriter: maybe the lieutenant of this watch would be shooting the bull with his sergeant. The third watch was nearly over, and they’d be hoping, as always, that nothing out of the ordinary would happen during the rest of the watch to prevent their going home; I hoped so, too. The next few hours were the quiet time at Quentin, all activities ended, the men all in, locked up, or accounted for, the next count more than two hours off. Up in the towers, the wall bulls would be staring out over the prison, or smoking, or occasionally walking outside, rifles under their arms, to patrol the walls.
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 32
