by James Blake
Wanly, he raised manicured eyebrows and fluttered eyelids that were blue from fatigue. The long holder was a baton, the long slender hands gilding and swooping through the air were pale white bats.
"Well, my child -- this is maybe a teeny bit sordid -- but it's like this. Artie works for Polack. They got a wailing Shylock operation going. You know, cutthroat lending, with a twenty-five-percent clout. Compounded whenever Polack gets the urge to compound."
"What does Artie do?"
"Torpedo. He corrects the cons who don't make their payments. It's tricky work. Artie is very useful to Polack."
"You're trying to tell me something."
"Of course. If Polack thinks you might louse up his main man in a romance, that's not good. So it's up to you, love."
"You got a rusty razor blade? I think I'll slash my wrists."
"Don't be an ass. I'm just giving you the picture." He rose and went to a cupboard. "Come to think of it, the hell with it. I'll make some coffee and we'll turn on some cotton. From the cotton fields of ol' Massa Rexall. Then we can figure better. We might even forget what the problem is."
Shortly after the four-thirty whistle blew, Polack and Artie came in together. Their heads swung from Ronnie to Bill and back.
Brisk and strident, Billy shrieked, "Surprise, surprise! The Easter Bunny was here, Artie baby. He left you a basket. Or do I mean a bag?"
Artie looked down at Ronnie sitting nervously on the edge of the bed. The manic blue eyes danced in their switched-on way, faintly mocking. "Hey baby. Wow." He sat next to Ronnie. "You movin' in, pussycat?"
He nodded. "It would appear."
The blue eyes studied Ronnie. Gradually they turned frosty as Artie's face assumed his borrowed Bogart expression of menace. It was not convincing, the jet lashes that fringed his eyes were incongruous and distracting.
"Larrabee give you a bad night?"
He shrugged. "You know how that goes, Artie. Bud doesn't know what he's doing."
"A bad night," he insisted, watching Ronnie steadily.
"What can I say? Mother told me there would be bad nights. That's the breaks."
He could hear himself sounding stilted, conscious of Polack silhouetted against the barred windows, looking out and listening.
Polack turned to Billy. "What's happening around here?"
"Happening?" He tilted a languid eyebrow. "Ronnie moved in to be with Artie. Everyone should have a hobby, don't you think?"
Polack swung to Artie. "Is that what you want, partner?"
Artie didn't look at Polack. He smiled a pale uncertain smile at Ronnie. "Well, yeah man. Like this is my chick. I told you about it. Northrop's old lady."
"Northrop. That musician dude. Went out on parole."
Ronnie watched the clean brown face. The blue eyes that met his were suddenly opaque.
Artie, Artie, oh you weak mother, what happened to Humphrey Bogart?
Polack left the window to stand at the foot of Ronnie's bed. The face grotesque, hypnotic, a megalocephalic head too big even for the big body. Massive mashed nose that seemed to stem from the forehead just under the low hairline, bleak sunken eyes crowding the flattened bridge of the nose. Skin spectral white, cratered with past acne, stretched taut over Slavic cheekbones tapering down to a wide wet sensual mouth.
In a voice between rasp and croak, "Whaddya say, bitch, you figure to take good care of my boy?"
Ronnie tried to look at him and had to give it up. He looked at the floor, knowing his mistake. "I figured the boy for taking care of me, Polack."
Polack stared down at Ronnie's lowered bead, and a brief dim smile touched the moist lips. He turned away and said to Billy, "Okay, you brought her in here, remember that. Artie? It's up to you to see that your broad keeps her jaw shut about what goes on in here. You got that?"
"No sweat, partner. She's hip."
"Awright, I'm holding you responsible for your old lady." He regarded Ronnie with a look minutely thawed. "Okay, babe. Use your head. You're not out in the open anymore, you're with Artie. Anybody gives you any shit, tell him. Or tell me, and we'll handle it."
He turned a quizzical glare on Billy. "Awright, don't stand there, bitch. We'll drink to the fortunate couple."
Billy produced glasses and surgical alcohol in orange juice. It was the first lush Ronnie had touched in two years. Maybe I can get blocked, he thought desperately. With Artie's speculating gaze on him, he took a long slug.
Polack, and Billy stood at the window, talking in low tones. Ronnie gulped down the rest of the drink feeling it begin to move in him.
"I think I'll catch a shower. Been a hectic day." Stripping to shorts and shower slides, he hung a towel around his neck.
Artie said, "There's a shower robe at the foot of my bed. Take that."
"What for, Artie? I don't need it"
Artie's voice stopped him at the door. "I said put it on, bitch."
The other two turned from their conversation to look impassively at Artie flexing his machismo. Ronnie blinked in dismay, smothering the retort that rose, and put on the white terry-cloth robe.
"That's better. I don't want you showing your ass up and down the hall."
In his head Ronnie heard, "Oh balls, you muscle-bound ox." It came out, "Whatever you think best." He made another try for the door.
"Come over here and sit down."
Artie's voice a murmur with an edge in it. "What's your beef?"
"Nothing, Artie. Nothing at all. Just, I've had a rough week."
"Northrop. You miss Doug, huh?"
He skirted it. "Two years is a long time. It was a habit."
"Look at me when you talk to me."
He laid a heavy arm across Ronnie's shoulder and his hand turned Ronnie's head. The blue eyes locked on his, leisurely perusing, probing. They were darker now, deepened by something Ronnie had never seen before. The robe pushed aside, a hand on his thigh. Pinned by the watchful eyes he felt the hard calloused surface of the moist warm palm against his leg.
The hand curved and grew heavier. "It'll be groovy, pussycat. I thought I lost you when that slick trumpet player moved that goddamn crazy Larrabee in on you. Thought we'd never make it. But you found your old man, didn't you?"
Ronnie heard somebody else with his voice say, "I had to, Artie. But I wanted to."
"That's a smart pussycat. Go take your shower. Oh, wait a minute." He went to a footlocker at the end of his bed. "Here, take this. I want you smellin' sweet." Aphrodisia. "And this goes on your sheets." Talcum powder.
At the early hour, with most of the cons at dinner, Ronnie had the shower room to himself, and stayed for a long time under the water, wishing he would never have to come out.
In the room, Billy rapidly produced a meal from supplies purloined from the Officers' Dining Room. Ronnie, feeling the buzz from the one drink, decided to continue. He poured from the bottle Billy had left out, and when he turned around with the drink, Artie was watching him. He stared a little longer, as if debating whether to say something, then turned his head to continue talking to Billy.
They had just finished eating when the door burst open and the burly Doc Prescott whirled in. Convict secretary to the head doctor at the prison hospital. He pirouetted to rest beside Polack, on his bed.
"Your frenzied pharmacist is here. How about a drink?"
Polack in one gesture told Billy to serve a drink and indicated to Doc Ronnie's presence.
Doc said, "Oh. Hey, that's Bracken, isn't it? Northrop's old lady. Ex old lady. I bet you're missing your daddy? You move in here?"
Ronnie nodded.
"You know her?" Polack asked.
"Hell, yes. Northrop bought fury pills from me all the time. Those two cats were always stoned out of their skulls."
"Is that right?" A thin gleam of interest in the words. "Okay, friendly pharmacist, what's happening?"
There was a loaded pause. Polack said, "She's okay. I told Artie to keep her trap shut or I'll mash his chops."
"Well
then -- Your old family quack made a little score today. Dig." He held out a vial for Polack's inspection. In his other hand he flashed a hypo and syringe. Billy stood beside Polack looking down at the display.
"Now that's what I call attractive."
Artie got up and went over. "What kind of shit is it, Doc?"
"The granny of them all, sweetheart. Pentathol." With brisk efficiency, he drew the colorless liquid from the bottle, and after briefly feeling for a good vein, inserted the needle in Polack'a arm and pushed the plunger.
Polack froze for an instant, said softly, "Aaaah," and lay back on the bed. Billy offered his thin white arm. As the spike went in he said tensely, "Jack it a little, Doc." The blood rose in the tube, receded, rose again and fell.
"Mmmmh." Billy lay down beside Polack. Artie rolled up his sleeve and held out his big hairy forearm. Then walked like a somnambulist to his bunk and stretched out with a sigh.
The light from the lamp flashed on the works as Doc extended them. Ronnie shook his head. "Thanks, Doc, I'll pass. Hardware spooks me."
"Oh, yeah, I understand," Doc said distantly, as if he had confessed to terminal syphilis. Gazing at Ronnie, he made a studied deliberate routine of saturating gauze with alcohol and wiping the spike. And only then turned back to Polack, laid out on the bed and breathing loudly. He hovered over the recumbent Polack, his gaze brooding, watchful, tender.
"You want to go again, my darlings?" And when they did not move, hit them again, and came over to do the same to Artie. While Ronnie lay in bed trying to read and not to hear anything, the three of them would get the flash, go abruptly on the nod, and soon revive groggily to hold out their arms for another hit.
Eventually, Doc briskly dismantled his equipment, wrapped it in a cloth and put it in his pocket. "Anybody want to come down to our joint for bridge? No. Okay, good night all. Happy embolism." He went out surveying Ronnie.
In a few minutes, they began to stir. Polack sat up and said, "Artie, tell your broad where to go for hot water. I want some coffee."
Ronnie took the pitcher Artie gave him and went into the hallway. It was dark out there. Just outside the door, in the television area, other Trusties who lived on the floor sat on benches before a blasting TV.
Ronnie walked down the long hall to the shower room. He pushed the heavy iron door open into a fog of steam. At one side, naked cons were showering, and at the long sink, several others stood before the mirror, shaving.
The din dwindled to silence as they saw Ronnie. He ran one of the taps, letting the water run over his hand. Ed Jones, a member of the chapel choir that Ronnie directed, was one of those shaving.
"Hey, Ed, what's happening? You still going to do that solo on Sunday?"
Jones surveyed him leisurely before answering. "I don't know, Bracken. I'll have to think about it."
In the silence, the flat hostile tone bounced off the tile floor and walls. Accustomed to hearing only unctuous servility from Jones, Ronnie stood looking down into the sink at the running water, cursing the rising tide of color he could feel in his face. When he had filled the jar, he walked through silence to the door. And when he had closed it behind him, he heard the noise break out redoubled.
Ah so, he said to himself, retracing his steps down the long hall and being careful to look at no one. Ostracism goes with this gig. Not to mention obloquy. I got to ask Billy what gives.
Billy made coffee. Polack grabbed his cup and said to Artie, "Let's dig the TV. Will you take the Pope's chair?"
From against the wall, Artie hoisted a large, ornately carved wing chair upholstered in tapestry cloth. He nodded at Ronnie. "Gimme a hand." They carried the chair into the hall, past the rows of benches where the other cons sat, past those who had brought stools to sit on, and folding chairs.
And placed the big chair before the TV in front of the assembly. There was some muttering and shifting about as Artie and Ronnie, and the high back of the chair blocked the view. Polack, sauntering behind, waited. Then sat down in the big chair, hidden from sight by the wings, lighted a cigarette and crossed his legs. He blew out a fog of smoke that clouded the TV screen.
Artie split down the hall, leaving Ronnie to go back into the room alone. Billy was fiddling with the FM. An orchestra came on, a Prokofiev concerto. He adjusted the volume and lay back on his bed. He winked at Ronnie.
"At last we get some relief from the buffaloes. I hope they got a good long shitty movie to look at."
Ronnie sat on the edge of the bed. "I need some answers, Billy."
"All right, love. Ask a stupid question."
"When I went down to the shower room, I got frost a foot deep."
Billy smiled a feline smile. "Yeah. I used to get it. Still do. You'll get accustomed."
"I will? What is it?"
"Simple. They're all scared shitless of Polack and Artie, so they hate their guts. They know Polack is running the joint, and there ain't a swingin' dick can do a motherin' thing about it."
"So?"
"Oh, come on. Call it hetero-backlash. You won't see them dummying up on Polack or Artie. Once they dig you're definitely Artie's old lady, they'll warm up some. They'll have to."
At lights-out call, Artie came back carrying the chair, followed by Polack. Billy turned on a dim lamp and turned the FM down to a murmur.
Stripping to his shorts, Ronnie crawled under the covers. Stretching, flat on his back, he felt some of the tension abate. Then, remembering, he crawled out and, rolling back the top sheet, he sprinkled talcum powder on the bed, feeling ludicrous.
The dim shape of Artie stood by the bed, wearing the white shower robe.
"Be right back, babe." He returned on a wave of cologne. Sniffing, Ronnie recognized Aphrodisia.
Lo the bridegroom cometh, an eagle on scented wings. He stared at the shadowed ceiling, listening to Artie's movements and the murmur of the FM. A piano was playing "Come Rain Or Come Shine." The music reached out to tell him that Doug was gone. A new ball game . . .
Artie stood at the bedside, with slow deliberation removing his white robe. "You asleep, babe?"
"Coitinly I'm asleep. Something you require -- ?"
"I got your require swinging. Brylcreem okay with you?"
"Bryl -- whatever you think is right, Mister."
"Crazy. Here you go."
After the initial flurry, Ronnie began to feel that the fervor was contrived, seeming to be somehow linked with the action in the other bed. It was distracting, he listened in spite of himself to the sound at the other end of the room. And thought of the coupling of buzzards. There was a sinister macabre authority in the sounds.
Absently performing, automatically responding, disoriented, he could not keep his mind from wandering.
Could it be second billing that's bugging me, for godsake? Or all these goddamn cross-vibrations hanging me up?
There was a sudden furtive tapping at the iron door of the room. Billy had rigged it shut. Now somebody was making tentative efforts to force it open.
Artie slid swiftly out of bed and into his own. A creaking of springs and muffled curses from the other end of the room. Billy said, low and tight, "You gonna answer that?"
Polack, with calm contempt, "You want him to wake the whole joint?"
Wrapping a towel around his middle, Polack gingerly opened the door. Captain Miller, head of Security, "Dickless Tracy" to the cons, slipped in, his face flushed from emotion or juice or both, his sparse brown hair disheveled.
Polack led him to the windows, where they murmured. The one insistent, agitated, the other with the cadence of command. Once Polack rose to full voice: "I haven't got that much here, good buddy. I'll give you what I got, and more tomorrow, awright?"
A shadow loomed, and Artie slid back into bed with Ronnie. They whispered:
"Are you out of your mind?"
"That lame? He don't bother me."
"Whaddya mean, isn't that -- "
"Dummy up and take care of biz, will you?"
Event
ually, the caller was maneuvered out the door. Polack returned to bed muttering, "Schmuck, what a schmuck." Low urgent voices from Billy's corner, and finally Polack wearily, "Will you get out of my face, bitch, or do I clout you? I know what I'm doing, he's in my pocket. Lemme sleep, for Chrissake."
In the morning Ronnie was still in bed when Artie went out with Polack. Wearing his hard construction helmet, Artie leaned over the bed to give Ronnie's cheek a perfunctory pat and say brusquely, "Take this and get yourself something today, babe."
