There were no introductions and no conversation for the remainder of the meal. That he’d been invited to sit with Carmine Ruffino was enough. And it showed. Everyone who passed by made careful note of Adrian, then continued on without comment. He might never sit with Ruffino again, but it didn't matter. He had sat with him once and that said it all.
A short distance away, Benton Fulmer was watching. Flatline and Bobby Joe Weiss were with him. "You think he bought the sweet and sour routine?" Weiss asked.
"He wasn't supposed to," answered Fulmer, as he skewered a piece of sliced beef and put it in his mouth. "I just wanted to make sure he kept his mouth shut and did the right thing. And I wanted him to know we could get to him, even there."
"He must feel like some kind of big shot," said Flatline, "having lunch with Carmine Ruffino."
Fulmer wiped his mouth. "Guy thinks he's safe because he's a friend of Ruffino's? Well screw him, and screw Ruffino, too. I won't rest until I've branded that boy's ass. And if Ruffino wants to stick his nose where it don't belong, I might just find out what he's made of, too."
***********
He was on his bunk reading a magazine when they summoned him over the loudspeaker: "Adrian Cabraal, report to the warden’s office. Cabraal."
Adrian tossed the magazine on the bunk and looked out toward the loudspeaker. Billings, the guy who said they would be punished instead of rehabilitated. What could he want?
He got up, put on his shirt, and went to Administration. When he arrived, an inmate clerk motioned for him to go inside.
He knocked softly.
"Come in," said a voice in a curt, flat tone.
Adrian entered, closed the door, and stood in front of Billings, who was seated at his desk.
The meticulous, bespectacled little man regarded him briefly, then resumed reading the open folder spread before him. Adrian saw his name on the corner of it.
When he finished, Billings closed it and tossed it aside. His fingers formed a steeple under his chin as he studied Adrian.
Finally he said, "Sit down, Mr. Cabraal. We're going to have a little chat."
As Adrian sat he realized that the legs on Billings’ chair must have been longer than those on his own, giving the impression that Billings was bigger. Another game. "I'm big, you’re little. I’m strong, you’re a worm."
"Mr. Cabraal, you're going about your prison term all wrong. As a matter of fact, your records show you've been on the wrong side of the quotient for a long time. You dealt in a dirty business on the street, and after you were arrested you refused to cooperate with authorities. On your first day in population, you were involved in knife fight and refused to cooperate again. Result, five days in the hole. And now, to round things off, you had lunch today with Carmine Ruffino. That’s quite a resume. What have you to say about that?”
Adrian shrugged. "What’s there to say? These things happen."
Billings regarded him a moment longer, then said, "I've read your folder, and I've already decided I don't like you. I don't like criminals who made as much in a month as I do in a year. I'm going to have you watched very closely. Life's going to become difficult for you because you've crossed me and I don't like it. I have a reputation as a strict disciplinarian. I've even heard the inmates call me, 'The Cocksucker.' Have you heard that?"
"Never heard anyone accuse you of liking women."
"No, I'm sure they didn't. Let me make myself clear. Do your best to lead a charmed life, with the understanding that you can count on me for nothing. I wouldn't help you if you were lying on the ground in front of me, hemorrhaging. Got that?"
"Loud and clear.”
"Good. Dismissed."
Adrian stared at him, wondering what would happen if he slapped him. Not that it mattered; it was only a thought. Besides, it would extend his separation from Jen and Andy.
Rising, he said, “Thanks, Mr. Billings. It sure has been."
Chapter Seventeen
Adrian was furious when he got back to his cell. He had wanted to bury his foot in Billings’ ass. But this was Billings’ ballpark, not his. He'd have to play by Billings’ rules.
He snatched a magazine from his bunk and threw it angrily against the wall, wishing it were Billings. As he lay down, he realized he had let the man get to him. His sole purpose for paging him had been to antagonize him. Like everyone else in there, Billings ran a game. Do things his way and he'd leave you alone; go against him, he'd show you who was boss. He was certain of one thing: he wouldn't fit into their program. That would be signing his death certificate. Most jailers were men who thrived on exercising power over other men, some of whom could otherwise buy and sell them on the outside. He didn't resent them for the job they had; he resented them for enjoying it. But he'd have to accept it, or risk becoming one of the "shit heads" that Carmine Ruffino had warned him about. He'd be one of the ones with a ten-year sentence who crossed someone, and picked up ten more years. Or worse. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Even if he were dying inside, he'd never show it.
His thoughts were interrupted when Warren and a huge African American man entered the cell. Both of them were winded and soaked with sweat. Knowing Warren's detached attitude toward blacks, he wondered if they had just gone a couple of rounds out behind the dining hall.
Warren took a towel from around his neck, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it at him. "Up off your ass, boy! There's work to be done."
Adrian looked at then quizzically, and threw the towel back at Warren, hitting him in the face.
"Come on," Warren pressed. "We'll jack some iron out in the yard.”
Adrian was amused. Ever since he'd shown Warren some basic exercises, Warren had become a living infomercial for health and fitness. It was as though he had committed himself to make up for years of lost time.
"Hell, yeah," beamed Warren, proudly. Motioning toward his silent companion, he added, "Clarence used to lift all the time when he was playing ball. Now he's teaching me how to do it."
"That's nice," said Adrian, sitting up. "You going to introduce us or what?"
"Damn!" said Warren, snapping his fingers. 'That's right, you guys never met. Adrian, this is Clarence. You can call him 'Tiny'. Tiny, this here’s Adrian."
Adrian stood up and extended his hand. Tiny swallowed it in his own, smiled, but said nothing.
Adrian was momentarily lost for words. He looked down at the massive meat hook wrapped around his hand, which was all but lost from view. The man was monstrous. He stood six and a half feet tall, and checked in at around two-eighty, none of which appeared to be fat. It was like standing in front of a giant. Yet he had a gentle grip, like a man who had nothing to prove.
Adrian finally looked up at him. “No disrespect or nothing, but I’d hate to get hit by that thing.”
“Hey,” came the soft, rumbling voice that was accompanied by a broad smile, “I’m a peaceful man.”
"Tiny's an Oklahoma boy, just like me," said Warren. "That's where he played ball."
"Pleasure to meet you," Adrian said. "Just what I need, another country guy."
"Hey," said Tiny, grinning, "time we get done with you, you'll be country, too. It'll be the best thing ever happened to you. Ain't that right, Warren?"
"Hell, yeah. You'll see."
**********
The weightlifting area would have been the envy of most gymnasiums on the outside, both in equipment and the men who used it. The rows of benches, weights, barbells, and dumbbells seemed endless. Adrian had never seen so many powerfully built human beings in one place. Sweat glistened from bodies that were massive and radically defined. Hip-hop and rock music blared from several boom boxes. But it made sense. In an environment devoid of luxuries, women, and other distractions, there were few options.
The exercise area was crowded. Weights clanged, men groaned and breathed heavily in rhythm to their exercises. Shouts of encouragement gave the area the atmosphere of an Olympic training camp. It was the closest thing to the real world
Adrian had seen since coming to prison.
They looked for a vacant bench but found none. "Looks like we're out of luck," said Warren.
"That's okay," said Adrian. "Maybe there’s something else we can do."
He led them as close to the wall as he could. No one was allowed within twenty feet of it without risking his life. A thick yellow line stood between them and the obstacle separating them from the outside world. Every twenty feet along the line was a simple statement stenciled in yellow paint:
CAUTION! CROSSING THIS LINE COULD GET YOU SHOT!
"Gentlemen," he said, "allow me to introduce you to the interesting and unusual world of Martial Arts." He had them stand side by side with their legs slightly wider than shoulder width. Next he positioned them with their backs arched and their knees bent at a forty-five-degree angle.
“That's called a horse stance," he told them. "It's one of the basic home positions for practicing the techniques that I'll show you. It's also a means of strengthening your legs. You'll see what I mean after you've been at it a while. Now, hold out your hands, open and palms up. I'll show you the correct way of making a fist and how to use it, so you can get the most power from the least effort without breaking your knuckles or your wrist."
He positioned them, and showed them how to deliver a basic martial arts punch. After having them practice it a few times he stood face to face with them. Together, they repeated the technique, slowly, then faster.
They had been at it for less than five minutes when a bullhorn blared from the gun tower closest to them. "You men near the wall, report to the Control Center! On the double!"
Adrian stopped and looked up at the guard.
"That's right, mister. I'm talking to you. You and the men with you, report to Control. Now!"
Adrian looked at Tiny and Warren, in disgust. "What the hell does he want?" Tiny stood erect. "Only one way to find out."
They walked to the Control Center. A guard studying the closed circuit television monitors silently motioned them to a nearby office with his thumb. The name on the door read, James J. Atkins, Chief of Internal Security. Great, thought Adrian, the same asshole that wants everyone to be his ‘bud’.
Inside, they found Atkins leaning back in his chair behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his head. The arrogant smirk on his puffy, bloodshot face angered Adrian as soon as he saw it. It was a face begging to be punched.
Determined not to show any resentment towards Atkins, Adrian greeted him in a level tone. "The guard in the tower told us to come down here."
Atkins smiled and shook his head. "You again, Cabraal? Should’ve known. You can't do anything right, can you boy? I mean, you just ain't for shit, are you?"
Adrian met his gaze evenly. 'Boy' Atkins had called him. Other times, it was 'Mister'. Atkins could call him whatever he wanted, but he refused to show that it bothered him. Do your dying in your cell, but smile in their face...no matter what.
"Is there a problem?"
"Officer Bellows up in the tower said you were teaching these men that karate shit. Is that true?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Got policies about teaching that shit. We don't like it. The men in here are crazy enough already without some jack-off showing 'em how to get crazier. You're still new here, so I'll give you a break just to show you what a nice guy I can be. But I'm only going to tell you once. You get caught doing that again, and you'll get a year tacked on to your sentence. Get caught teaching it, it'll be five years. Got that?"
Adrian had been there long enough to know he couldn't win on their court. This was the second time that day he'd had that pointed out to him.
"Loud and clear, Mr. Atkins. We done now?"
"Yeah, until the next time. And let's face it, Cabraal, with you there will be a next time. Dismissed."
Chapter Eighteen
Adrian walked into the cell with Warren and Tiny, trying hard not to let his meeting with Atkins get the best of him. He had already been hauled to the Control Center once, had been summoned there a second time, had a mental fencing match with the warden – something he doubted many other inmates did - and had spent five days in the hole. Ten years of this would make him old before his time.
Nazareth, stretched out on his bunk reading a magazine, looked up when he and the others entered. "Son, you got a face as long as a hound. What happened this time?" There was mirth in the old man's voice, and Adrian wasn't very appreciative of it.
"One of the hacks just got in his shit," said Tiny. "Didn't like the idea of him teachin' us The Art."
Nazareth chuckled, and shook his head.
"Of course not. They act like a bunch of tough guys, but deep down inside they scared to death. Someone starts showing the cons how to use their hands and feet as weapons, they get all uptight. They already know most guys in here carry shanks. Them kind of weapons they can take away. But when a man's hands and feet become weapons, they can't take them away. You pose a threat, even when you're butt-naked. Slow down, man. Even a short, ten-year sentence like yours can be a long time if they decide you're one of the dangerous ones. Gonna have to maintain a low profile in here if you want to get by."
"What do they expect? There’s nothing else to do in here."
"Son, this here's a penitentiary. You don’t get to write the rules; your job’s to live by ‘em. And if you do find something good, keep it a secret. They find out you got it, they'll take it away quick."
“Good enough.”
“Hey, let’s go to the weight room and jack a little iron,” Warren suggested. “They can’t do nothin’ ‘bout that.”
“Not sure if I still want to lift today. Wouldn’t mind laying down for awhile.”
“Come on,” Warren pressed. “You’re not going to stay in shape taking a nap.”
Adrian deliberated, and then nodded his acquiescence.
************
The equipment in the weight room was what some people might have called ‘old school’. Dated by modern standards, it nonetheless had all the required ingredients to build strong and chiseled physiques. There was no shortage of metal plates, bars, dumb bells, racks, mirrors and universal machines. Several other convicts were already there, each lost in his own regimen.
Adrian shook his head as he looked around. “Got no idea why I let you talk me into this. Last thing I feel like doing right now is working out.”
Warren patted him on the back. “That's when you get the most out of it. Hang with me a couple hours and we'll be out of here.”
Two hours later Adrian had had enough. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he let Warren talk him into coming there. Drenched with perspiration, he was spent.
“That's it, I'm done,” he said. “You want to stick around for more you’ll have to go it alone.”
“Come on, man. One more set, and we'll leave.”
Adrian gave him an exasperated look as he sat down on the incline bench they’d been using. “You're a pain in the ass.”
“Oh yeah? Just for that I'm gonna put two more dimes on the bar.” He added the weights, and Adrian plunged in.
After several repetitions he began to strain, but Warren wasn’t about handing out free passes. “Come on, that's only six reps, I know you got ten in you.”
Adrian struggled, straining, straining... In the midst of the next repetition he suddenly screamed, appearing terror stricken. With a surge of adrenalin he heaved the bar off of him, letting it crash to the floor several feet away. He staggered to his feet, and doubled over in extreme pain, holding his groin.
“What's wrong? What'd you do?” asked Warren.
He slowly sank to his knees. “I don't know, I think I tore something.” He straightened, and removed his hands from over his groin, revealing a bulge the size of a grapefruit.
“Damn man, what’d you do? You got to get help.”
By now the incident had drawn the attention of the dozen other men who were there, and a crowd had gathered. Still on his knees, Adri
an unbuckled his pants, and lowered his briefs for a closer look. His privates were lost behind a huge protruding lump. Seeing this, one of the other men stepped forward.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but that's an inguinal hernia.”
“A what? How do you know?”
“I used to be a doctor before I ended up in here.”
“So what does it mean?”
“Your inguinal ring burst under the strain of your efforts, allowing your intestines shoot down into your testicles. You need to push them back up before they begin to choke off.”
The urgency in the man’s voice wasn’t comforting.
“Go ahead, he continued. “Push them up out of your testicles and back into your abdomen.”
Adrian winced. Sweating and pained, he pressed against the bulge and gently tried pushing his intestines up out of his sack. Moaning, he stayed after it until they were there. And it was then that he saw something even more distressing than the initial injury: a two-inch lump midway up his abdomen. Determined not to let the possibilities paralyze him emotionally, he pushed at it, and it moved. That confirmed his suspicions.
Even Warren was repulsed by the floating lump. “Oh man, that can't be...?”
“What else could it be? It had to go somewhere!”
“You telling me that's one of your nuts?”
Shaking his head, “Sure as hell isn't a hemorrhoid. Only pain in the ass around here is you! Give me a hand.”
Struggling to his feet, he used Warren and the wall for support until he was upright. Slowly, delicately, he then pushed his testicle back through his torn inguinal ring and back down where it belonged. He then pulled up his pants, bunched them, and limped from the room, holding his groin.
The trip to the Dispensary was almost as unnerving as the injury that sent him there. Before they'd perform the operation they required that he sign a release form. "If we find it necessary to remove one or both of your testicles during surgery, you hereby authorize us to...”
Rules of the Game Page 13
