by Martin Clark
Not surprisingly, it took longer than usual for the guards to produce Gates in the visiting area, the delay, Mason surmised, the result of a scramble to get him wired, cue his handlers and reiterate his instructions. He was fraudulently upbeat when he appeared, smiling and pumping Mason’s hand, acting delighted to see his brother. Mason noticed he twisted his torso before he embraced their mother, gave her mostly shoulder and ribs, not risking a complete hug.
“What a super surprise,” he gushed. “My two favorite people. You didn’t have to drive down here on such a pretty Sunday.”
Sadie Grace was immediately suspicious, and it showed in her posture and how she arranged herself in her chair, quickly on guard, her purse deep in her lap, her hands defensively clutching its strap. “I’m glad you’re so chipper, Gates,” she said. “It’s nice to see you happy.”
“Oh yeah. Hey, why not, huh? I can’t believe you brought Mason, too. How long’s it been, brother?”
“Several months,” Mason replied. “I’m relieved you’re not still angry with me. I was a little afraid to come after you were so mad at me and threatened to…to…you know, do whatever it took to cause me problems because I couldn’t get your sentence reduced or help you with court.”
“I’m not sure I remember exactly what you’re talkin’ about but, heck, whatever it was, it’s behind us. We’ll always be brothers, me and you. Sometimes I probably say crap I shouldn’t to you and Mom both. It’s bad here, difficult to keep your head screwed on.” Gates was prison-pallid, underbelly white, and he was near enough for Mason to smell him; Mason well knew the scent, a dank, vinegary, rotting odor that infested the convicts’ skin and came from inside them, couldn’t be washed off by the occasional communal shower and two-bit soap.
“How’re your classes?” Sadie Grace asked. Gates was a credit or two shy of a community college degree.
“Almost there, almost done,” he told her. He’d taken a seat. An institutional metal table that ran the length of the room separated him from Sadie Grace and Mason. Other families visited nearby.
“Good for you,” she said, still wary, still awaiting the inevitable ambush.
Prison cooks down time for its inhabitants, boils it away to concentrate, so the long-termers always seem hyper and rushed, their speech and habits accelerated, jumbled, telltale. They can’t wait. Can’t wait. Hurry. Press. Squirm. Even out of the joint, they eat and talk and live like a clock’s about to expire, the curtain drop. Jumpy, scrambled, hasty, anxious. Gates couldn’t curb his convict’s instincts, couldn’t stick with the drill, had to make his pitch now no matter what, no matter how forced or clumsy. “Mom, uh, you mind if I speak to Mason in private for a sec? It’s good to see you, sure is, but man, it’s been so long since I saw my favorite little brother. I’m just so tickled he’s here, and, well, maybe, uh, we could talk about some personal stuff if we were alone. Not that I don’t appreciate you and your sacrifices. You are one more wonderful mom.”
Sadie Grace didn’t bother to quiz him or attempt to unravel his motives. She patted his hand, stood, smoothed the front of her blouse and said—without inflection—“Bye, son.” She showed Mason a chilly look and tersely informed him she’d be in the car.
Before she’d even reached the officer at the steel door to the visiting area, Gates ducked in toward his brother. “Damn, Mason, I’m glad you came.” He dropped his voice confidentially. “Listen, the, uh, the cops were here like last week and they were askin’ about that thing back in the eighties, you know, the deal on Russell Creek Road.” He bored in closer, almost touching Mason’s face.
“Huh? Say what? What’re you talking about?” Mason gestured broadly with his hands for the benefit of any video surveillance. “Russell Creek?” He leaned away from his brother’s smell.
Gates remained hunched over the table, his voice almost a hiss. “Russell Creek, in Stuart. 1984, Mason. You and me.”
“I’m lost,” Mason said calmly. “Slow down and just tell me what it is you want me to know.”
“The initials ‘W.T.’ mean anything to you?”
“Uh, Wu-Tang Clan?” It was the first usable match that popped into his mind. He was taking a devilish pleasure in watching Gates grope and scheme, becoming more frenetic as each obvious snare failed to do the trick. Soon they would exchange a hard, mean glare and Gates would realize the jig was up, but he wasn’t there yet, was still trying to dupe Mason and give the police a taped admission to improve their case. “Why are you speaking in code? I have no idea who or what you’re referring to.”
Gates had grown itchy and flustered. “Wayne Thompson. 1984. You and me. Him bein’ shot.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “That clear enough for you?”
“I guess. Why would the police be interviewing you about Wayne? You didn’t have anything to do with his death. I know that better than anyone. You’re innocent. You were with me or our friends the whole day. We never saw him after he left Denise’s place. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
“Well, I am worried,” Gates screeched. “Somehow they know, Mason. They know it was me and you.” He grasped Mason’s wrist, squeezed.
“What’re you talking about, Gates?” Mason asked. “Have you lost your mind? Are you all right?”
“I didn’t admit anything, but they’re on to us.”
Mason pried away his brother’s grip. “I’m going to call the prison first thing tomorrow and have the doc take a look at you. I have no earthly idea why you’re freaking out, and you sound paranoid. Are you taking medicine? Some kind of prescription they have you on?”
“Hell no.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Gates. I have no clue why you’re so upset. Wayne Thompson died years ago, and you and I had nothing to do with it. You sure you’re not on something? You okay?”
“Damn it, yes, I’m fine. Me and you—” His mouth opened but the next words stalled and he was momentarily lockjawed and pop-eyed, dumb as a post, and then he began a slow, deflated retreat into his chair, part slink, part crumple, like the stopper had been yanked from a blowup valve in his middle and air was wheezing out. “Me and you need to decide what we’re gonna say about Wayne’s shooting. Unless you’re plannin’ on sittin’ there and pretendin’ you don’t have any idea what happened and leave me holdin’ the bag.” He kept at it, but he was losing his fire, knew he’d been discovered and had no chance. His last few words trailed off and blended into the other conversations around them.
“Gates, as best I can tell, you and I are on different planets. No one’s going to cause you or me any grief over Wayne Thompson. How could they? We didn’t do anything. You need to take a breath. Who’s been to see you? The cops, you said? Maybe you’re overreacting to something routine. I’m worried about you—this isn’t normal.”
“Right. Yeah.” The hate and stench were so strong they almost translated visibly. He was a corpse in a baggy orange jumpsuit, seething, haunted, beaten. “I can’t believe you, Mason. You’re gonna fuck me again.”
Mason feigned hurt. He worked his hands some more. “I’m not aware of ever having done anything to you. I’ve always tried to go the extra mile, no matter how much dope you sold or how many times you came to me needing a loan or a favor. No matter how many times you lied to me or our friends or our mom. No matter how many jobs you pissed away. We’ve always stood by you.” Any court or jury that listened to the recording of this conversation was going to receive Gates’s entire despicable résumé, from soup to nuts.
“Thanks so much.” Gates was buried in his seat.
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I don’t know what else to do. This is why it’s so damn difficult to visit. I really am going to have them send a doctor by.” Mason stood and peered down at Gates. For a second or two, he burned his brother with an incensed, blistering stare that belied his charity and pleasant demeanor and spoke what he’d come to speak, and there was no doubt Gates took his meaning, understood they were now enemies rather than kin, understood M
ason was aware he’d gone Judas.
“I’ll leave a twenty for your canteen account,” Mason promised, his voice honeyed and sympathetic. He offered his hand, an effort requiring considerable discipline, but Gates childishly refused it. “Good-bye, brother,” Mason said, the syllables so loaded and somber that Gates dipped his head and knew he’d been cut loose forever, cleaved and kissed on each cheek and dismissed into the desert.
As they exited the parking area, Sadie Grace kept her focus on the highway and said in a stern voice, “Trouble has a way of rubbin’ off to the people around it.”
The sun had warmed the car’s interior, and Mason switched on the air-conditioning, the first use since last year. “I know. Better than most people, I know.”
“I don’t have any idea what you two have goin’ or why we came today, and I don’t care to find out. But Gates is trouble. It pains me to say it, but he is. You need to steer clear. You’ve made a life for yourself. You’ve got a daughter to raise. Gates has too much of his daddy in him.” She touched her eye, though there was no tear apparent. “I take my share of the blame, too. I could’ve made different choices.”
Mason looked at her, but she kept to herself. “We were lucky to have had you,” he said to comfort her. “You did everything anyone could have. More, in fact. No telling what would have happened if you weren’t around. You are a saint and a godsend.” He patted her knee. “I can handle Gates.”
“You remember the story of Joseph?” she asked.
“I seem to recall he had a fine coat. And a good run on Broadway.” Mason smiled.
She finally faced him and recited from memory: “‘So when the Midianite merchants came by, his brothers pulled Joseph up out of the cistern and sold him for twenty shekels of silver.’ I’ve read that verse a thousand times. Brothers who would sell a brother ’cause they’re jealous and petty. Selfish. Tradin’ their own flesh and blood. It can happen, Mason. It happened in the Bible.”
“I doubt we could get the full twenty shekels for Gates,” he joked.
“Oh, no. It’d be the other way around, believe me.”
“I understand—I was only kidding.”
“Watch yourself,” she said. “You’ve been good to Gates. You should have a clear conscience. You don’t owe him. Don’t risk your good name on him.”
“I wish it were that simple.” He decreased the car’s fan. “Along those lines, let me say I was glad to drive you to see him after you asked.”
“Huh? I asked? You called me. I’d rather been at Sunday service.”
“Maybe I’m mistaken, but I think you wanted to go, and I volunteered to take you.”
Their roles briefly reverted, and his mother eyed him as if he were sixteen and seeking a white lie about his homework or where he’d been when a girl called the house asking for him. “You’re a good son,” she said. “Always there if I need something. It was nice of you to take me. As best as I can remember, I asked you to.” It came out almost primly, and she seemed curiously gratified, eager to be maternal and help her boy, even if she didn’t know the specifics and even if it required her to discount the truth, her church teachings and the Ten Commandments crowded to the rear where her son was concerned.
The world seemed to swap ends the next morning. Early rather than late, the sky looked like a sketch pad full up with doodles, scribbles, crosshatches and blots of bold lavender and flaming orange, as if evening had arrived hours and hours prematurely. Clouds imprinted the hills and swales with slow-moving shadows. The light lacked power. The day seemed to have ripened at birth. Mason drank from a cup of coffee on the porch and figured the strange doings augured poorly for him, assumed he was receiving some sort of supernatural tip-off that his woes would only increase as time went by. He scanned the farm, half expecting to catch a glimpse of a mad owl beating its wings or an apocalyptic horse rearing in the pasture.
Grace trudged down the drive to await the “crappy old bus” her father made her ride. She continued to dwell in a province that excluded Mason, but at least after the peace-offering mall trip, the malice seemed to have vanished from the gulf between them—now he was simply out of her loop, irrelevant rather than loathed. Soon the bus lumbered to a stop with a swinging red sign and blinking lights, the doors folded in on themselves, and Grace mounted two big steps and was swallowed up, the doors’ black rubber strips reuniting and sealing shut. Betty Smith, the driver, waved at Mason and pulled away, taking the bus through its gears. Mason’s coffee had gone cold, and he left the cup sitting on a railing, walked through the dew-damp grass to his car.
Sure enough, Custis was in a tizzy, pacing around his office when Mason located him at work. He had neglected to brew their coffee, and there were no donuts or bakery sweets or honey buns to eat while they talked about the coming week’s cases. His attention snapped to Mason the instant he entered the room. “I can’t fuckin’ believe this,” Custis brayed.
“I had a feeling,” Mason said, resigned, ready for the bad news.
Custis shook his head. His dreads flipped and flopped. “Seventeen pounds. I’ve gained seventeen pounds since San Juan, Mace. I’m the damn affirmative-action Michelin Man.” He parted his suit coat and turned sideways. “Why didn’t you tell me how fat I’ve become?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Well, part of the problem is this damn confab we have every Monday. We sit here and eat trash—no telling how many calories I’m crammin’ in because of this little ritual. But no more.” He faced Mason and jerked open his belt with a frustrated tug to the right. “Look. Can you believe this? I can’t even hook my damn britches.” With the belt loosened, a gap was apparent at the top of the zipper where the pants should have fastened. “Man, I gotta take steps.”
“So that’s why you’re so wound up? You think you’ve put on weight?”
“Ain’t no think to it,” Custis replied, refitting his belt.
“Sorry. I honestly hadn’t seen a difference. You carry it well, big as you are.”
“Damn. No more bread, I can promise you that. No more desserts.”
Despite his own difficulties, Mason laughed out loud. “Well, why don’t you try the LA Weight Loss program?” he said sincerely, after the amusement passed. “I’ve heard several people say it’s effective. They opened, what, a month ago? In the building next to Hudson’s Drug. We walk past there five times a day. Art Anthony claims he’s already dropped nine or ten pounds.”
“It’s like every other small-town business. It isn’t anything but Frieda Compton in a flashy smock surrounded by a bunch of dumpy posters and silk plants, just tryin’ to scrounge a buck. She bought the starter kit and went to three training sessions in Greensboro and that’s the high-water mark of her expertise. I’ll bet you she’s smokin’ cigarettes in the back and feasting on Little Debbie, and we both know her husband’s fat as hell and basically a slob. She doesn’t know nutrition from a hole in the ground.”
“My, my. No need to be so cynical.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true.” He adjusted his pants. Centered his belt buckle.
“You’re welcome to go with me to the gym. I exercise three or four times a week, and it’s the best cure there is. I’ll show you the ropes. You’d enjoy it, and it’d be a treat to have someone to talk with. Break the monotony.”
“I might. Thanks. Maybe I’ll sign up. I know I really should.”
“Heck, I’ll buy you a three-month membership.”
“I’ll give it serious thought. Kind of you to offer.” Custis turned and walked behind his desk. His chair was of the standard office variety, four legs with rollers and a lever on the side that adjusted the height. He settled in and reached for a file. Mason stayed where he was. “I’ll at least make the coffee,” he told Custis.
“Okay,” Custis said. And then, boom, a pin gave way and his seat collapsed and slid down its metal support and lost all its altitude and hit bottom so that Custis’s chin was about level with his desk drawer, his startled eyes alligatoring
over a Michie’s Jurisprudence volume.
Mason couldn’t help himself and tore out of the room laughing. “I’ll find the workers’ comp forms,” he shouted over his shoulder. “It’s slapstick hour at the commonwealth’s attorney’s office,” he quipped to Sheila as he approached her desk, still in stitches over his friend’s misfortune.
Chapter Thirteen
“A Mr. Carson from Richmond is on your line,” Sheila announced to Mason. It was Tuesday, two days after Mason’s visit to the penitentiary.
“What’s he want?” Mason asked, not recognizing the name.
“Said it was personal.” Sheila was coming through over the phone’s speaker, but she was close enough to his wall that Mason could also hear her in the room next to his. Each of her words sounded doubled, the muted voice on the other side of the wall piggybacking the clear version on the phone.
Mason felt a hitch in his stomach. He wet his lips and picked up the receiver. “Mason Hunt,” he said.
“Mr. Hunt, good morning to you and thanks for taking my call. My name is Carter Carson.”
The man was too courteous and too affable to be a cop. Mason swelled his cheeks and quickly sighed out a breath, relieved. “No problem. What can I do for you?”
“I’m the executive director of the Tobacco Commission, and for starters let me welcome you aboard and thank you for your service.”
“Oh. Right. I’m looking forward to it.”
