Hard Sentences: Crime Fiction Inspired by Alcatraz

by David James Keaton

  Hastings took a deep breath and continued the inmate count.

  Capone lay in the next cell, hands clasped over his rising chest and thumbs worrying one another in his sleep. The faint light reflected off his eyeballs.

  “You’re fucking creepy when you sleep with your eyes open, Capone,” he said before moving on.

  “I ain’t sleeping,” Capone said to the air. He rubbed his fingers over the statue in his hands, that electric rush from his hands spreading past his arms, up into his shoulders and chest. “I’m waiting.”

  That Sunday, Capone was standing in line in the mess hall, his fingers tapping out the new banjo run against his thighs. It was strange, because although he had only practiced it for an hour in the last week, the progression came naturally. He barely had to think, whereas before his playing had stuttered from his intellectualizing the music, trying to plan it. The smell of pounded beefsteak and gravy made his mouth water. He swallowed and turned to the man next to him to comment when he saw O’Brien enter the hall, three men following behind. Their eyes met, and something flashed across O’Brien’s eyes before he lowered them to the ground, pausing to let the three men pass by and put more space between him and Capone.

  “That’s right,” Capone said in O’Banion’s direction. “That’s right.” His head went dizzy with the fragrance of roses and tulips mixing with the scent of fresh rain and Hymie Weiss’ blood splattered over the wet sidewalk outside Schofield’s, O’Banion’s flower shop on the North Side of Chicago. He heard the screams of passersby, the faint wail of police sirens, the ting of Tommy-Gun shells hitting concrete.

  “That’s right,” Capone said, turning back toward the meat.

  Capone’s blood still thrummed through him as he lay in bed that night, the residual effect of a well-played show. The other boys in his band, the Rock Islanders, had picked it up a notch, really giving Capone some decent backing this time to let his banjo shine, like lightning through a cloud, striking squarely on Capone’s hands, igniting them, making them move faster than they ever had before. Everything came into sharper focus during the set: the timbre of the inmates’ voices yelling get it, get it and play one more; the smell of dust and sweat and salty air; the trembling of the light on Capone’s steel strings as he attacked them. He looked up and over the crowd as they played, and he knew he was almost ready.

  Back in his cell, he knew it’d be damn near impossible to sleep, but Capone wasn’t planning on sleeping anyhow. Instead, he took the statue in his hands, felt the sensation rush through his body, past his arms, through his chest, shooting through his skull, lighting up new parts of his brain, making his body feel swollen, like a smaller, more powerful being was inflating within his.

  He looked over at the wall, felt O’Brien behind it, and blew him a kiss. “How long’s it been since you seen a Chicago sunset, pal?”

  Capone closed his eyes and focused beyond the wall.

  Hastings was still humming a melody as he made his 3:00 a.m. count. He had to give it to the man: that Al Capone could light up a damn banjo. It’d been some years since he’d seen fingers fly like that, not since his uncles’ place back in Baltimore. Hastings passed by O’Brien’s cell, still adrift on a river of music somewhere in his head, when something in the cell caught his eye. O’Brien was on his side again, in the same exact position as he’d been in the last five nights, his head obscured beneath his arms. Hastings paused at the cell, staring at the blackness where the man’s face should be, waiting for him to roll over.

  But after two minutes of waiting, the light seemed to shift, and what Hastings had thought was legs looked more like folds in the sheet, propped up with something. What he’d thought were arms, more like twisted pillows. Cold fingers spread through Hastings chest, wove through his ribs, as realization struck.

  O’Brien was gone.

  Capone rested his fingers on the statue, no longer able to rub it, as much from the imminent onset of sleep as being physically and mentally exhausted. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired before. It was as if all his life force had expanded so frenetically, then collapsed into a single point and drained out the bottoms of his feet. From far away he heard Hastings screaming, “Open the cell! Escaped convict! Escaped convict!”

  Capone felt his mouth curl up at the edges as his eyes slipped closed. That’s the thing about a Chicago sunset, he thought as the statue slipped from his hands.

  One minute it’s there. And the next?

  It ain’t.

  Creeping

  by Gabino Iglesias

  “See that pendejo leaning against the wall near the water tower?”

  Rafa was looking the opposite way, trying to be inconspicuous, Irving nodded. He could see the old man Rafa was referring to. His name was Alvin, but everyone called him “Creepy.” Irving worked with him in the kitchen and knew Creepy wasn’t a spring chicken, but Creepy moved around the kitchen like nothing hurt and strutted around the yard by himself with an air of confidence Irving had only previously encountered in killers and made men, not small-time thieves or kidnappers. His appearance was unassuming, as well. He had short, spiky hair that he kept combed back, which accentuated his receding hairline. His mouth was a fleshless slit beneath his red, somewhat bulbous nose, and the deep lines around his lips reminded Irving of his abuelo Antonio. His mellow eyes under droopy lids reminded Irving of a lazy dog, but he knew this man had a short temper and was always getting into fights. Irving had only been here three weeks, and he had already heard about two separate incidents. Everyone in the kitchen mostly stayed out of Creepy’s way.

  “So you want me to take him out? Is that it?”

  Irving tried to sound annoyed, tried to make it sound as if he was considering doing Rafa a favor and not the other way around. Irving knew his chances of survival were slim if he didn’t do what Rafa was asking him to do, but killing Creepy struck him as a steep price to pay for a bit of protection. Irving had killed two men outside before getting caught for kidnapping, so getting his hands bloody wasn’t the issue. The problem was there weren’t a lot of men in this joint. Just under 300 cats. It’d be hard to shank a guy and disappear into the crowd. Killing a man here sounded like a quick, dumb way to elongate his sentence and earn a stretch in the hole. Still, his options were limited: he had to roll with Rafa and his crew of boricuas or try to survive on this damn rock by himself. He had managed fine by himself during the first three weeks, but now things were changing. Rafa insisted on talking to the other Puerto Ricans in Spanish, and a lot of folks disliked that. Racial tension was in crescendo, and not having backup felt like a terrible idea.

  Rafa patted Irving on the shoulder, said “You’re originally from New York right? You know we Ricans run shit, mi hermano. In here, it’s no different.”

  “What’s your beef with the old man, Rafa?” Irving asked. He had nothing against making a man bleed for the right reasons, and now any reason would help him feel a little better about this whole deal.

  “Creepy has a short fuse, hermano. El tipo . . . he complains all the time. He gets away with a lot of things. Es famosillo y eso. He talks to Bloomquist a lot, sings like a little bird about what goes on when the guards aren’t looking. Emérito, Hiram, and I were talking about doing some flying recently. Dejar el nido. Tú sabes, en español, but I was translating some of it to keep mi amigo Bumpy on the loop. Creepy kept walking by, con esa cara de comemierda y la sonrisita pendeja esa que siempre tiene en la cara. I know he heard something. Debe estar loco por hablar con alguien si no lo ha hecho ya. Probably wants to wait till he gets something more. No podemos dejar que eso pase. You take him out, I owe you, Hiram owes you, and Emérito owes you. We got your back. Boricuas stick together hasta la muerte.”

  Those words haunted Irving the rest of the day. When you’re locked up, being alone is the closest thing to death, and he wanted to feel like he had a crew, someone he could turn to, someone who had his back. Rafa was just a political prisoner, but he was also a man of action, a man n
ot afraid of the authorities. Irving had dealt with many criminals in his life, had learned to read their eyes, and Rafa seemed like he was honest about this. Finally, he made his decision the same way he made all of them: by weighing his fears. In this case, the fear of being alone on The Rock was bigger than the fear of getting caught for shanking the strange, old dude who worked with him in the bakery. The man who swore he was born without fingerprints, though everyone knew they’d been burned off by an underworld quack back in ’34.

  The kitchen was an open space. The presence of knives meant that the guards kept a close eye on everything the inmates did while prepping the food. Irving knew that getting Creepy in the kitchen was not an option. After they got up, however, and prepared breakfast, the food preppers, cooks, and bakers had a chance to go back and rest for a bit before coming back, or even take a nap if they wanted to eat by themselves instead of joining the rest of the population in the Mess Hall later. That’s what Creepy did most mornings, something Creepy had earned after years of service. Creepy’s cell was in Block C, closest to The Gas Chamber, as they called the dining hall. Irving’s was farther away, in Block A, and fresh meat never got that special treatment. But despite being in different cellblocks, they took the same way out of the kitchen: through the dining hall and then down Broadway before taking different routes.

  If Irving timed it right, he could get Creepy in the hallway, right before he turned to return to his cell. That was the only place where he didn’t run the chance to being spotted by the guards who stood by the stairs to the Dungeon Cells in front of the library, and at the end of the east corner of the small hallway opposite the Mess Hall, a corridor which ran the length of blocks A, B, and C. Irving knew he could push the man into the first cut-off, which was open and used regularly by guards to access the utility corridor that ran between the two rows of cells. He could stick Creepy and be back in his cell before anyone noticed. He’d have to leave the shiv in Creepy’s ribs when he was done sticking and also try to not get any blood on himself, but he hoped the thick layers of clothing and some quick, short stabs would take care of that. There were members of the cleaning crew always up and about, and maybe someone from the laundry room, so even if they saw him following Creepy out of the kitchen, they’d have no evidence to pin the attack on him. If they tried to, he’d just say the old man had jumped him. They would believe it because of Creepy’s reputation. As for other inmates, Rafa said he’d make sure everyone kept their mouth shut if they saw anything. Plus, so early in the morning, everyone was still asleep and light was scarce.

  The day it went down, the kitchen workers were woken up at 4:30 a.m. like always, two hours before the morning whistle. They went to the kitchen and prepared the usual: three large batches of oatmeal, fried bologna sausage, toast, and cottage fried potatoes. Their fellow inmates would wolf it all down exactly two hours and twenty-five minutes later with coffee, milk, and a dab of margarine on their toast, which was made from the bread Creepy baked with his own hands. During Irving’s first shift, a guard had told him this breakfast menu had remained the same for two decades, since 1939.

  Irving worked quietly, keeping his head down and only occasionally looking around to make sure Creepy wasn’t deviating from his morning routine. He skipped the margarine and ate his sausage on top of his toast before lingering over his coffee to wait. Once he finished breakfast, he spent a couple of minutes talking to a guard about the book he was reading and then started making his way out of the kitchen.

  By the entrance, a large guard with the unlikely name of Kreaton was scratching a sideburn and looking down at his shoes. He glanced up and opened the gate to let Creepy through. Then while pulling it shut, he saw Irving approaching and swung it wide again.

  Irving nodded to the guard and kept walking. Creepy didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so catching up to him before the cut-off without having to sprint would not be a problem. He was going to have to make quick work of it though, and try to keep the old man’s mouth covered. Suddenly, the echoing of their footsteps was deafening, and he feared everyone was going to wake up and notice the two men walking down the hallway.

  The cut-off came much sooner than Irving expected. He shoved his hand in his pocket and grabbed the shiv Rafa had given him, a piece of sharpened metal imbedded into a chunk of plastic, wrapped in ribbons torn from an old undershirt for a makeshift grip.

  Committed, Irving took two long steps up to Creepy, turned toward him, then brought his left hand up to the old man’s mouth and pushed him into the gloominess on the cut-off. But before Irving could stick Creepy, a man appeared next to them, and Irving stopped cold. The figure was taller and thinner than any man he had ever known. Then he noticed it was not a man at all, but more like a shadow. This dark thing raised an arm toward Irving’s face, the impossibly long fingers like daggers made from ink. Irving stepped back, and he felt Creepy grab his wrist and twist it hard. He lost his grip on the shiv as Creepy grabbed him by the throat and placed the shiv under his right eye. Irving looked for the black thing, but the number of shadows painting the stone walls were back to normal.

  “That was a bad idea, youngster,” Creepy said, his breath a foul mix of morning breath, bad hygiene, and coffee. “Baubas always walks with me.”

  Creepy pocketed the weapon, removed his hand from Irving’s throat, and was back out on Broadway with two quick steps. He didn’t look back. Irving felt his heart hammering in his throat under Creepy’s handprint. He needed to get back to his cell, to sit down and process what had happened. What was he going to tell Rafa? They wouldn’t believe a word of it. A tall shadow with impossibly thin hands had kept him from killing Creepy? Those were not facts he was willing to share with anyone. He sucked in air into his lungs and shakily walked out into the hallway. No one was awake. No faces were pressed against bars. He walked back to his cell replaying the incident in his head, trying hard to convince himself that nerves must have played a trick on him.

  Irving knew it almost 10:00 p.m. because the “lights out” count had already happened and the usual whispers and cries were starting to die down. Cell Block A was settling in for the night. He was thinking about his mom, who still lived in Spanish Harlem. One of the worst things about being locked up was not having the opportunity to spend time with her, to give her some money once in a while. Thinking about his mother helped him not to think about what had transpired that morning. He had even claimed he had stomach issues in order to remain in his cell during recess and not have to confront Rafa. He’d have to come up with something else, however, because they wouldn’t let him stay inside two days in a row.

  Irving sat up on his cot and considered splashing water on his face for focus. He knew sleep was not going to come. The thin, shadow creature was burned into his memory, haunting him. He was rubbing his face when he heard something.

  The sound came from the direction of the toilet, a long, loud exhalation. Irving jerked back as he felt icy fingers running down the sides of his torso. He squinted, trying to peel away the darkness and identify the intruder, but to no avail. The sound came again, closer. It reminded him of the last, shaky breath of a dying man. He leaned forward to stand, and something moved in the corner. His heart jumped, and he scooted back on his cot until he ran out of space.

  Something darker than the shadows was growing behind the toilet, climbing the walls and emerging slowly from the gloom. It was the tall, thin shape that had saved Creepy in the cut-off. Mind reeling, Irving jumped off his cot and pressed his back against the bars of his cell. The thing moved toward him, gliding through the air with ease and emitting the same exhaling sound once more.

  In the next second, Irving finally understood why a man like Alvin was still living despite picking so many fights. He also realized why he’d been the only of his crew captured alive. Lastly, he recognized that this old man they called Creepy would exist for years to come, but that his own expiration date had been rolled forward by something he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

&nb
sp; At the end, Irving did the one thing he had promised himself he’d never do while in prison: he screamed. And the sound started as an agonizing, primal plea, but soon flattened into something between a wet cough and a whimper as the shadow’s long fingers disappeared into fluttering muscles of Irving’s throat.

  Two cell blocks down, Alvin “Creepy” Karpis looked up at the ceiling, the smile that had earned him his peculiar nickname plastered on his face. As the last echoes of the scream died, the man with no fingerprints closed his eyes and sent out the only prayer his mom had taught him that he still remembered: “Thank you, Baubas. Thank you now and always.”

  Stash

  by Dino Parenti

  San Francisco, CA, 5/28/70

  The bus squealed to a halt at Townsend and the Embarcadero, and two boys in olive canvas jackets and bloated backpacks doddered out. A forever dapple of gull guano cued them into checking the bottoms of their Keds, their efforts languid as legs had turned Gumby on them around Gilroy.

  “Damn, it’s chilly,” said Sean, with his wide-eyed gawk and ledged lower lip, hugging elbows in a vein effort to stopper gales lancing every stitch of clothes. At fourteen, he’d yet to venture past Bakersfield to the north and Disneyland to the south, rubber-stamping in advance his tourist rank in the eyes of locals.

  No sooner had he lit a cigarette, Corey lip-farted at the remark, despite the chill plundering his virgin bones, too. Though also fourteen, he’d doubled his friend’s scope, having sampled the soil from San Jose to Ensenada, respectfully. But Bay Area cold ran hostile over soft hides, a warning Corey dismissed with dramatic eye rolls and smirks that could cut stone. He declared that no trespass was worth undertaking without some element of risk and discomfort, especially if it discomforted the local fuzz.