That left Benton Fulmer, who was slowly climbing to his feet. Adrian, not knowing what to do, simply stared at him as he staggered away.
As guards rushed to the scene Adrian suddenly realized that he was alone. Everyone within three tables of him had moved away. Even Warren. The first two intercepted Fulmer; the second two grabbed his arms and took him into custody.
"What's your name, mister?" the fifth guard asked.
"Adrian Cabraal."
"All right, Mr. Cabraal, suppose you tell us what happened."
The dining hall had fallen ominously silent. Inmates lined the walls, silently watching the scenario unfold between Adrian, Fulmer and the guards.
"I was sitting here, eating my lunch. Suddenly, a couple of guys attacked me. We beefed for a minute, and they ran off.
"Who were they?" asked the guard, looking at Fulmer. "Was this man one of them?"
Adrian looked at Fulmer. "I don't think so. It's hard to tell because it happened so fast. Looks like maybe they attacked him, too."
Contempt flashed in the guard's eyes. "Don't give me that bullshit! You're both bleeding. You know what happened!"
Adrian got pissed. This asshole actually expected him to finger Fulmer and his pals in front of half the prison population. "I didn't see anything. What can I say?"
"You're coming with me. George, give me a hand with this man. John, you and Billy take the other one to the dispensary."
Adrian was manhandled and pushed out of the dining hall and up to the Control Center. Waiting for him was Jimmy Atkins, the same guard he had seen the day he arrived after the scuffle in the bullpen.
The guard shoved Adrian into a chair. "This man was just in an altercation, but refuses to talk about it. Thought maybe you’d like to speak with him."
Atkins, a large, sadistic-looking man, folded his beefy arms and regarded Adrian. "You got a problem, boy. You know that?"
Great, thought Adrian, another redneck. He met Atkins’ gaze evenly. "The only problem I have is needing a couple of stitches."
Atkins picked up a handful of papers and flung them in Adrian's face.
"Don't get smart with me! I'm God compared to you. Mess with me one time, and you'll see what I mean. Now tell me who stabbed you."
Adrian shook his head. "Like I said, it happened real fast, and I can't remember seeing those guys before."
Atkins sat on the edge of his desk. "What about Fulmer, the man with the split forehead?"
"Innocent bystander, I guess. I didn’t know he got cut."
After unsuccessfully trying to stare Adrian down, Atkins said, "You one of them so-called 'stand-up' guys, mister? You know, the kind that keeps his mouth shut and covers up for other people so they don't get caught?"
"Let's just say I'm the kind of guy who's smart enough to keep his mouth shut and stay alive."
Atkins rubbed his chin with his fist. "You came in with that bunch last month."
Adrian nodded.
"You're not getting off to a very good start, you know that? I mean, you have a chance to help us out and you don't. I don't like that one bit. Ever been to The Hole?"
"No."
"Maybe it's time you got introduced to solitary confinement. That's what we do with people who don’t ever see nothing."
Adrian shrugged. "It's better than being a snitch."
Atkins laughed. "That's what you think, tough guy. But hey, I'm a fair man. Soon as we clean up your wounds, I'll give you the chance to decide for yourself, first hand."
"Just like that, huh? No hearing? Nothing?"
Atkins leaned close to Adrian. "Like I said, I'm God compared to you."
Adrian was led to The Dispensary by guard Ray Fergus, who’d received him into custody his first day there, and by another guard who, to Adrian, seemed out of place. He was elderly, and had a thick Eastern European accent. His nametag said ‘Dimbrovski’.
“You have pain, Sonny Boy?” he asked.
“I got stabbed. So yes, I have pain.”
“Your wound, it will need rest.”
“I shouldn’t have a wound that needs rest. I didn’t do anything to earn it.”
“Don’t need to earn it in here. Don’t need to do anything wrong when you are surrounded by people with nothing else to do and nothing to lose.”
Fergus chimed in, “Leave him alone, Mister Dimbrovski. He’s just another hopeless convict.”
The rest of their walk was spent in silence.
Chapter Sixteen
The Hole. Less than twelve hours into it, Adrian had already begun to hate. His holdover time in transit had been spent in solitude, but this was total isolation, cut off entirely from the outside world. Anyone with even mild claustrophobia could quickly become suicidal here. The cell, six feet by eight feet, had no windows, no bars, not even a peephole in the door. With no way of telling whether it was day or night, time lost all meaning. The only light came from a dismal, screened-in bulb on the ceiling, which bathed the chamber in a depressing half-light. A single bunk, a seatless toilet, and a stained sink that leaked methane gas were the only furnishings. At mealtime, he never saw who gave him his food. A slot in the bottom of the door was opened, the tray was pushed inside, and the slot was closed again, leaving him alone. And the food was a little different from what he was used to. Things that were supposed to be warm were cold, and things that were supposed to be cold were warm. Strangely enough, he still looked forward to his meals, not because of the food, but because of the sounds made by the utensils scraping on the dishes. Though only a slight noise, it was better than the unremitting silence that strained his sanity the rest of the time. Sometimes he had to get up and walk around just to prove that he hadn't been buried alive. Never had he experienced this kind of mental pressure. It was emotional vertigo, the sort of place where someone could find out what they were made of.
On what he assumed was the second day of his five-day "punishment," he got a message. When his tray was passed to him, it was covered with a white towel. This was new. Frowning, he laid the tray on his bunk and removed the towel. Its contents were divided into two distinct groups. On the left was a cup of hot coffee, sugar, cream, an orange, a plate of hot eggs and sausage, and a candy bar, all of which rested on top of a couple of men's magazines. On the other side of the tray were only two items: a dime and a homemade knife with burgundy stains on the blade. In between the two halves of the tray was a simple note that read:
TAKE YOUR CHOICE
It didn't take much to put two and two together. If he kept his mouth shut, Benton Fulmer would arrange for his confinement to be tolerable. On the other hand, if he "dropped a dime" and identified Fulmer and his friends, a homemade knife would find its way between his ribs. He smiled at the irony of the situation. Convicted criminals weren't noted for higher education, but they could make a point and drive it home better than the highest paid doctors and lawyers in America. At the same time, Adrian didn’t interpret Fulmer's willingness to make life in the hole bearable as a sign that all was forgiven, and they'd start over again with a clean slate. What was it that convict had told him? Fulmer was one of those crazy white boys who wouldn't forget. Adrian believed the brother was right.
He ate his meal before it got cold. Then, after keeping the fruit, the candy bar, and the magazines, he put the dirty dishes back on the left side of the tray, leaving the dime and the knife on the right. He then covered the tray with the towel and pushed it out through the slot in the door. He had been offered a choice and had given his answer. With the help of Benton Fulmer's anonymous benefactors, he'd survive his trip to the hole without losing his mind.
************
As he walked into his cell, Warren greeted him. "Hey, man! Welcome back! You all right?"
Adrian winked, and sank down onto a chair. "Yeah, with a little help from some friends. I don't know if I'd have made it without them. I don't know if I'd have made it without you, either. Thanks for helping out in the dining hall."
"Wasn't nothin’. As
for the hole, yeah, the hole can be a bitch. I only been there once, and that was enough. But what's nice about the hole is, once you whip it, there's nothing else they can do to you. Not only that, it’s the safest place in the joint. Can’t no one sneak up on you and stick a shank in you while you’re sleeping. After they send you there, they usually leave you alone unless you really step in some shit."
"Where's the old man?"
"Nazareth? He's at work."
"What do you mean 'work,'"
"Hey, you're doing time with the Feds. Everyone works, even if you're seventy something like Nazareth. They'll give you a job, too. Shit, even I work. This is my day off. Tomorrow I'll be back at the piggery."
"The piggery? You kidding me?"
"Hell, no. I'm a country boy, remember? I love that shit. It's you Yankee guys who get all weak in the knees about it."
"Yeah, well, they can put this Yankee guy in a nice clean office somewhere, and I’ll be a model inmate. Especially in here. I've never seen so many angry people in my life.”
"Hey, once you've been here a while, you'll get to be just like everyone else."
"I hope not. I don't ever want life to get that cheap."
Warren shrugged. "Hey, that's the way it is."
As though struck by an afterthought, Adrian asked, "Tell me something. That guy in the dining hall, Carmine Ruffino? The name mean anything to you?"
Warren Tyler nodded. "Yeah, I asked about him while you were in the hole. He's from Miami, they call him 'The Black Tie.'"
"What else did they say?"
"Guy practically runs this place, at least as far as the convicts are concerned. Why you interested in him?"
"A friend of mine from Miami asked me to look him up. Told me to say hello and give his regards."
Warren looked at Adrian with new respect. If Adrian had access to Carmine Ruffino, then he came with strong credentials. "Damn boy, that's some serious juice."
"That's why I'm here," Adrian said, ruefully.
"Guess if you have to be here, it's good to have friends. Ain't but a handful of people got access to Carmine Ruffino. Turns out that was his private table we were at, and that's why it was empty. No one sits there without being invited."
"I just want to pass along my friend's regards. I don't want to become part of the elite. I like to pick my own friends."
"Having The Black Tie in your corner won't hurt, brother. Just don't get caught up in anything, that's all."
"I have a pretty strong survival instinct. I don't get involved in anything unless I want to."
"Might’ve been that way on the street, but it's different in here. Here you got nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Every day you see the same faces all under the same roof. You either get along or you have problems."
"I'll be careful. Where can I find Carmine Ruffino?"
"He's over in C cell house."
Adrian nodded. Even in prison, there was a pecking order. And based on what Warren had told him, he had access to someone at its pinnacle. Aware that freedom of movement was restricted only during head counts, emergency lockdowns and after curfew, he thought he should have no trouble approaching 'The Black Tie.'
**********
It wasn't hard for Adrian to figure out which cell was Carmine Ruffino's. It was the only cell that had guards posted outside the door. Convict guards.
One of them was the short, stocky, rugged-looking man of about forty that had spoken to him in the dining hall, who he'd come to know as Joey Massaglia. Posted outside Ruffino's cell, Massaglia looked sharply at him and blocked his way when he stopped at Ruffino's ‘porch’.
"What can I do for you this time, pal?" Massaglia's tone was barely tolerant. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Ruffino," Adrian said, holding his ground.
"So would a lot of people. He don't take visitors, so get lost." The man tensed, and Adrian knew he was ready to rock.
"Tell him a friend of Angelo Bultaco's came by to pay his respects. Maybe he'll see me, then."
"Angelo Bultaco?" asked a gruff voice from inside the cell. "Frisk him, then bring him in."
After being frisked, Adrian entered the cell. Compared to the usual drab, sparsely furnished cells he’d seen, with their government-issue tables and chairs, Carmine Ruffino's looked like it could have been featured in the centerfold from GQ magazine. A thick shag rug ran from wall to wall. The tables and chairs were modern and handsome, the desk lamp made of brass. A hot plate and coffee urn sat on a glass table, and expensive paintings and two small tapestries hung on the wall. A television set rested on a richly painted footlocker at the end of the bed. The overhead light had been rigged for soft lighting.
Adrian brushed past one of several hanging plants near the entrance to the cell, and looked at Carmine Ruffino, who was seated on the edge of his bunk holding the latest issue of SI. In this setting, he was a silver-haired, distinguished-looking man of about sixty, wearing a T-shirt and finely creased khaki slacks. A pair of dark-rimmed reading glasses hung around his neck on a thick gold chain. He looked like a corporate executive lounging in his den on a quiet weekend.
Adrian extended his hand and said, "Good morning, Mr. Ruffino. I’m Adrian Cabraal. Hope I'm not disturbing you.”
Carmine waved the apology off, and shook Adrian's hand.
"Forget about it. Have a seat."
After Adrian sat down, Ruffino put on his glasses and took a closer look.
"Say, aren't you the guy they sent to the hole last week after that beef in the dining hall? Guy tried to shank you if I remember right. Gave a pretty good account of yourself for a guy who’s brand new and was minding his own business."
"That was me. First day in population, and I get sent to the hole. Guess I'm not getting off to such a good start."
"You kiddin'? Everyone there knows you kept your mouth shut. Got yourself noticed by all the right people, maybe a few of the wrong ones, too. But don't worry about it. You're off to a great start. How much time you doing?"
"Ten years. I guess that's not much compared to someone who’s doing life."
"Hey, I took a bigger shot, that's all. This your first bid?"
"Yes." The respect in Adrian's voice was obvious, and Ruffino seemed to appreciate it.
"Hey, just do your time like a man, and be grateful you're gettin' out someday. Don't fuck up like some of these dickheads. They come in doing a dime, and pick up twenty more while they're here. Or they get in a beef, kill a guy, and never go home."
Changing the subject, "So you're a friend of Angie's, huh?"
"Yeah, we made some money together on the street."
"Heard he had problems."
Adrian shook his head. "He did. One of his people went bad on him.”
"Last I heard he was waiting to go to trial," Ruffino said, enjoying the reprieve from the day-to-day jailhouse rhetoric. Talking about an old friend was a welcome departure.
"Not any more. They dropped the charges when something bad happened to the guy who was supposed to testify against him."
"That's too bad," said Ruffino, sarcastically. "That's the whole problem these days. People go bad all the time, and you don't know who to trust any more. In the old days, everyone was standup. They knew how to keep their mouth shut. Now everyone's opening up, looking to cut deals. It ain't the same any more."
"That’s how I got ten years."
"Don't complain about it," Ruffino warned. "This is the penitentiary. You ain't gonna find nothin' in here but steel, concrete, and misery. Get labeled you as a sniveler, you'll lose respect and they'll cut your balls off."
"I'm not complaining, not after the sentences I see these guys pulling. One guy I came in with is doing over two-thousand years."
"So you were doing things with Angie?" asked Carmine, changing the subject again.
"Yeah, for a couple of years. It was nice while it lasted."
Carmine turned philosophical: "You know, that's the only gripe I ever had about stepping outside the law. There's no longevity in it.
If I'd have been smart, I'd have got in, made my score, and got out. Too late now."
"I wish there was something I could say."
"You don't have to say nothin'. It's all history now."
Adrian sensed that the conversation was over. It had gone well, and he wanted to leave before it started to drag.
He stood up and said, "I'd better go. I just wanted to stop by to pass along Angie's regards. And I'm glad I did."
"Yeah, thanks. That was nice. And listen, if anyone jams you up, you come see me. As a matter of fact, have lunch with me today. That way the assholes’ll know you're a friend of mine, and they'll leave you alone."
Adrian nodded respectfully and smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Ruffino. I'll be there."
After Adrian left, Ruffino noted, "Nice kid. I didn't have the heart to tell him about the guys who come in doing ten, and leave in a box halfway through it."
***********
The dining hall was crowded. And like everywhere else in the institution, it was noisy. The clatter of silverware, shuffling tables and chairs, the murmur of voices, and the rattle of dinner trays ricocheted through the barren chamber. But no one seemed to notice. To them, it was like traffic on a busy street and it came with the territory. Adrian could stand it, but just barely. The who place sounded like Yankee Stadium during the seventh game of the World Series. There was a lot for him to get used to.
After collecting his meal, he looked for Carmine Ruffino's table. When he spotted it, he wondered how he could have missed it. It was the one with a floral centerpiece. Carmine was already sitting there.
He walked over and stood at the end of the table. "Excuse me, Mr. Ruffino, but you invited me to lunch."
Ruffino wiped his mouth with a napkin, pulled back the chair next to him and said, "You're right, I did. Sit down and take a load off."
Waving his arm toward the other four men seated with him, he said, "Fellas, this is Adrian. He's a friend of mine. Remember his face."
Rules of the Game Page 12
