by Chris LeGrow
The prospect of being a part of it excited Abrahim. Clubba didn’t share all his plans, but if Abrahim was important to Clubba, his future was set. He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. If it took a few hours of helping these fools to bring it about, Abrahim was more than happy to oblige.
HAVING FINISHED HIS ROUNDS TO EACH GANG LEADER, Clubba sank down on his bunk and checked the list for the retirees’ visit. His name was on it; one name stood out. One of the older trustees always seemed to sign up for most of Clubba’s details. “Earnest Yates?” Clubba asked under his breath.
Who was he? Better yet, why was he tailing him? He’d seen him during various details, but they’d only spoken once and that had been during the incident with that stupid cracker, Big Whitey.
Yates, an older trustee, had actually helped Clubba manipulate Big Whitey into trusting him and using his services. At the time Clubba thought it a stroke of sheer luck, but on second thought, it might’ve been more. The ruckus made Big Whitey look at Clubba in a different light. Had the old man been onto his ruse the entire time? Had he spoken up to help him accomplish his goal? Either way, the awareness of being followed didn’t please Clubba. He’d missed the tail. White-hot anger shot through him. It shouldn’t have taken so long to recognize he had a trailer. He needed to find out more.
Boss Nurse Betsy led the procession of old men with walkers and canes as well as those few capable of walking unassisted from the bus to reception. Single file they went through the metal detector; the walking devices were carried in and handed back once each man emerged on the other side. The correctional guards unwittingly provided an entire arsenal of weaponry. Each Blue took his walking aid, thanked the guard, and winked at his companions.
Nothing would be used unless absolutely necessary, but as former cops they weren’t going anywhere unprotected. Brittany stared at the canes she recognized as Tasers, walkers that shot pepper spray, and then there was the Blue with the crutches—the one she’d asked if they were bazookas. Impossible, wasn’t it? A bead of sweat gathered at her temple. She caught him retrieving his prop and watched him exchange a mischievous look with Tiny. Dear heaven, it couldn’t be!
The tricky old men reminded her of the mission. The glasses! Retrieving them from her pocket, she looked around and spotted Tiny hanging toward the back of the group. Pushing her thumb under the right lens started the recording. A tiny red dot that only she could see indicated the glasses were working. Glancing around the room, she caught Tiny’s gaze and winked at him. “Oh great. Now they’ve got me doing it.”
Tiny returned her message in kind.
“Abrahim,” she said to the young probationer. “Why don’t you go to the second table over there.” She indicated two Blues who appeared low functioning. They moved extremely slowly and spoke with a lot of pauses. Brittany arranged the chairs so there was an empty one available by Abrahim and his Blues. She placed herself, Tiny, and two other Blues at an adjacent table that provided her a good line of sight to Abrahim and hopefully this guy, Clubba.
Coloring books, basket-making materials, and small sticks for making flags littered the tabletops. Every Blue acted excited about all the trinkets and activities scheduled for the day, but Brittany knew better. The trustees dressed in their whites entered the room with an assistant warden who gave simple instructions to sit and be nice. They all nodded and headed to different tables.
One headed to Abrahim’s. Clubba, about to miss his opportunity, tried to discreetly beat the inmate there. A Hispanic trustee plopped into the only empty chair available. Visibly upset, Abrahim looked between him and Clubba. Clubba lifted a hand in a reassuring way and tapped the inmate on the shoulder. He bent down, whispered something to the other trustee, and pointed toward two Hispanic Blues.
He quickly left and Clubba seated himself in his place; pleasure beamed from his face. “Kizibwe wange,” he said in his native tongue.
“Cousin,” Brittany thought. His mother’s nephew.
“How’d you get rid of him?” Abrahim asked.
“I simply reminded him about the rules in here.”
“What rules?”
“Let’s just say there are…risks in here if you don’t stay with your own race,” Clubba said.
Abrahim expelled a long breath. “Very good cousin; I thought all was lost for a moment.”
“All is fine,” Clubba said. Before Abrahim could comment further, Clubba smiled at the Blues. “Hello gentlemen. I think it will be fun to put together these flags, don’t you?”
Abrahim blinked in apparent confusion. “Kizibwe wange,” he began. “What are you doing?”
“Getting them started and busy first. We give the guards nothing to watch and then we can talk.”
“Got it,” Abrahim said.
“Too much conversation in Sudanese,” Clubba said and gently arranged the materials for each Blue, “would surely be noticed. Getting on with the purpose of the day gives us the cover we need to talk.”
The Blues moved slowly but steadily on creating the flags. Clubba followed suit as did Abrahim.
“Kizibwe wange,” Clubba said under his breath. “What news do you have for me?”
Abrahim quickly explained his recent activities with Clubba’s followers as well as house shootings and three attempted murders that had occurred in Omaha. “Now with instructions getting out sooner,” Abrahim said, “things can be carried out faster. The Aryans are the hardest to deal with,” he continued. “They don’t like African-Americans. They hate Big Whitey’s use of a black messenger, but they’re impressed with all the information getting to them. They put their distaste aside. Much of it was up-to-date, and they didn’t have to wait a week for an encoded letter. That way cost time—”
“—and time is what they need most.”
“Correct,” Abrahim said.
“Good,” Clubba said.
“The leadership out there finally recognizes that by using the blacks to serve as messengers confuses federal investigators who were undoubtedly watching them. The Aryans like screwing with the FBI and DEA. Using us is not only a source of information but a good laugh as well.” Abrahim stopped talking and looked expectantly at Clubba.
“Aryans don’t concern me,” Clubba said. “We will only be able to influence them when we have one of my soldiers in the prison. Now that we can talk longer, it will work out well.”
Abrahim’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “Indeed. What information do I need to convey?”
Clubba reclined in his chair, his long arms resting on the table. Like a king, Brittany thought.
“We only have a month to put my plans in action for the gangs of Omaha. Take twenty of our most devoted soldiers and instruct each to join a different gang. They’ll be a liaison to me. I’ll have a network of soldiers to influence each one. When I get out, this must be in place.”
Abrahim nodded somberly. “It will be as you say, cousin. Each of your soldiers wants to be in your service. Each of their families is indebted to you.”
That Clubba already knew. Their indebtedness was his currency. What he asked of Abrahim was the next step in developing gang dependence on him and his network.
“One thing,” Abrahim said, breaking his concentration. “How will having a soldier in each gang give you great power? Why not increase our own group? Wouldn’t we be a force respected and feared?”
Clubba steepled his fingers and smiled at Abrahim. “So thought the original gangs. They’d start with many members only to have to watch after them.” Clubba shrugged. “And what did it get them? Individual gangs are limited to their Omaha neighborhood. If found outside their hood, they get attacked or killed. Believe it or not, I learned something in school about history and the war against the Japanese. The Americans employed Native Americans for communication—the Wind Talkers. Because the Japanese could not understand their language, the American army gained a great advantage. They coordinated their efforts throughout the Pacific using those men but protected them from th
e Japanese. If I control gang communication, I control the gangs. The police, much like the Japanese, don’t understand our language—”
Brittany bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding.
“Eventually they’ll get a Sudanese police officer who speaks the language. Until then, I’ve got my network set up throughout the city.”
Clubba sounded pretty proud of himself to Brittany.
“Think what it will be, cousin. I will control all the communications from prisons to the streets. They will all depend on me—and that makes me very valuable. Then, like the Americans with the Wind Talkers, they will protect me. I won’t need my own gang; I will be part of all the gangs. Like the powerful men in Sudan: Warlord!”
Abrahim’s eyes widened with realization. “Genius,” he said. “Rule them and profit from them all. There’s much money to be made; it’s brilliant.” The last words came out loud enough to draw attention to their table.
“Enough talk for this visit. Let’s help these old cows make their flags.” Clubba turned to help a Blue with his glue. “No suspicions. Ever.”
Brittany breathed a sigh of relief. She’d gotten their entire conversation recorded. Tiny raised his eyebrows at her in question. Leaning closer she dropped her voice to a low whisper. “I understood most of it, but there were a few words I didn’t.”
“No worries,” Tiny murmured and fiddled with a paintbrush. “We’ll review it at the precinct. Until then, I need to keep Clubba off-balance.”
“What?” Brittany asked a little confused. “Why? He sounds like he’s going to be the top boss of Omaha. You can’t disrupt his plans yet. Can you?”
Tiny smiled his gap-toothed grin. When he spoke in hushed tones, she didn’t notice that whistle.
“I’ve been building a special relationship with Clubba,” Tiny said. “I want his hatred so focused on me that it disrupts his thinking.” He gave one Blue at the farthest table a wink and a nod. The Blue returned the gestures and levered himself up to his walker. One foot went out and the Blue dropped to the floor.
If she hadn’t known it was all an act, Brittany would’ve been taken in by the performance. With masterful grace his left leg jerked and the lower prosthesis spun off the upper stump. The fake limb complete with an attached blue tennis shoe skipped across the floor ramming the foot of a female guard. She screamed and jumped. The Blue hollered on his way to the floor and made sure the walker clattered with a loud crash. Everyone’s attention riveted to the ruckus in the room. As though on cue, the Ol’ Blues at Clubba’s table rushed toward their fallen friend. One grabbed Brittany by the arm and hauled her along with them.
Mesmerized Brittany watched Tiny. He pulled the piss pack out of his pocket and tossed it at Clubba’s feet. It hit with a wet splat. With all the commotion of the downed man and detatched leg, no one noticed.
Except for Clubba and Abrahim. The spray hit them and they froze. From the looks on their faces, they didn’t fully comprehend what happened…until a distinctive odor oozed skyward.
Abrahim doubled over. “I know that smell.”
Clubba’s gag reflex immediately responded to that stench. Bile rose from his stomach to his throat. Rage enveloped him and he threw himself to a standing position.
Guards descended into the confusion but Clubba couldn’t hear anything. Somewhere in this room was the source of his wrath. Almost absently, Clubba punched his thigh with his fist. Glaring at each person, an odd sound penetrated the fog of fury surrounding him. A shrill whistle penetrated the commotion in the multipurpose room. Hard on its heels came a soft laugh. It couldn’t be!
Earnest Yates had been in prison long enough to recognize a diversion when he saw one. Immediately, he turned away from the pandemonium. He had to admit, though, it was a good one. A leg skidding across the floor and hitting a guard—nobody’d ever thought of that before.
Earnest quickly surveyed the opposite side of the room. Clubba and a smaller, younger man stood with arms in the air, plucking their clothing away from their skin. A yellowish-brown liquid dripped from their shirts to their pants. Earnest was seated close to the entrance with his back to the door in case he had to make a quick escape. When fights broke out, it was always best to know the quickest exits. A person lived longer that way.
Clubba’s face, usually calm and controlled in every situation, contorted into a mask of rage; he pointed to a small man. “You.”
Earnest followed Clubba’s line of sight. The object of Clubba’s ire stood about five feet four inches—every bit of him convulsed in laughter. Earnest’s heart skipped a beat, and he examined the man closer, homing in on him with laser precision.
“It can’t be,” Earnest said out loud. He blinked and hoped it would clear his vision. It didn’t. The same person, small stature, cocky attitude, fearless in the face of potential danger stared at the convicted felon. The description fit only one person in Earnest’s mind, only one who’d dare a banger to come after him. “Tiny!”
The one who’d put Earnest in this hellhole more times than he cared to count. Right here. He could kill him right now, Earnest thought. “Right freaking now,” he said through gritted teeth.
The view unfolding in front of him held him still. Clubba looked at Tiny with cold malice. The boy was all but vibrating with enmity. His longing to attack Tiny was written all over his face.
“Well, well,” Earnest said and relaxed into a smile. “Looks like the perfect pawn to do the job for me.” Earnest chuckled to himself. “How perfect. Clubba gets out in about a month. He can do the killing for me.”
Clubba didn’t take his eyes off Tiny. “Kizibwe wange,” he said, “keep working with this group. Find out everything you can about this man.”
“Are you all right?” Abrahim asked. “I’ve never seen you so angry. “Who is he? Kizibwe wange?” he asked.
“Just do it!” Clubba responded.
“As you wish.”
Brittany tamped down her initial shock. It was like being in a war zone but things were calming down. A guard carried the leg from the other side of the room and handed it to the Blue lying on the ground. He should take a bow after that performance. She spotted Tiny staring down Clubba and laughing. It appeared to enrage the younger man. He turned to Abrahim and spoke in Sudanese. She wasn’t as close as before and only heard a few words, but it sounded like he was telling Abrahim to watch Tiny.
From what she saw, Tiny thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the excitement. This Clubba person was frightening on paper; in person, he was absolutely terrifying. Bats were his weapons of choice against his enemies, and he wasn’t afraid to let people know he was the one who’d hurt them. None of it appeared to bother Tiny in the least. His antics only goaded Clubba. The more Tiny laughed, the more rage filled Clubba’s face.
Brittany cocked her head and listened intently. Was that a whistle? Tiny was whistling? It made no sense, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. She only prayed he did.
Once calm returned to the prison room, it was time for the group to leave. At the exit, the Blues turned and waved to the inmates in thanks. The inmates stared after them, confusion etched in every face.
Helpless little old men indeed. Brittany readied the group for the return trip up the interstate. “Let’s have an uneventful trek back home,” she said.
Tiny kept his gaze focused on the scenery outside. “Don’t know what you mean.”
A glance into the mirror showed Abrahim glaring at the back of Tiny’s head. Brittany leaned over and informed him.
“Good,” Tiny whispered. “The bait’s set for these mutts.”
EARNEST WATCHED CLUBBA STALK BACK TO HIS CELL, THE younger man’s massive fists clenching and unclenching. Brows drawn together in unambiguous ire, he muttered all the way down the hall in a language unknown to Earnest. One thing he was certain of. This was prime time to talk with the kid. Particularly now that they had something in common.
Freshly showered and cleaned up, Clubba emerged through
the steel bars of his cell a short while later. He didn’t stink anymore and his jumpsuit was clean. He assumed an air of self-control and stopped punching his thigh. It was all so unbelievable.
He slumped down into a sofa in the commons area. “He came—” Clubba sliced his hand through the air, “here! That crazy old man came all the way down here…to mock me.”
Several inmates threw sidelong glances his way as if he’d lost his mind and skittered away.
“And he doused me with urine—again.” Clubba trailed off and stared into space.
“Looks to me,” said an older, calmer voice from behind, “as though you’ve got a man that doesn’t like you much—at all.” Earnest’s low tone validated everything Clubba felt, thought, and lived through.
Surprised, Clubba didn’t bother looking behind him. “I wondered when you’d talk to me, Earnest Yates.”
Earnest jerked back.
“Surprised?” Clubba asked.
“You know me?”
Clubba chuckled. “How could I not? You been on the same volunteer unit with me for the last three weeks. Never talk to me but you stay close enough to hear what you think’s going on and then from a distance. I’m not stupid.”
“Then I won’t waste your time denying it,” Earnest said. He drew his lips into a smile. “You’re observant.”
Clubba turned around and leaned his back against the cushions, crossing his ankle on his knee. “And you’re smarter than you let on.”
Earnest acknowledged the compliment by a curt head tilt.
“You’ve watched me,” Clubba continued, “quietly but consistently. And you helped me out with the Aryans.”
Earnest’s brows drew together in a frown.
