by Chris LeGrow
“Dropped the metal spoon on the ground and then talked to me and Big Whitey like a street punk. Told me to go back to Africa or something like that. I owe you. If you hadn’t acted like a street thug hating on me because of the way I talked, I might not have been able to pull it off.”
Earnest’s brows furrowed deeper. “Pulled what off?” he asked. “And why gain the Aryans’ trust? I’m black, too, and we both know they aren’t our friends.”
“I don’t want their friendship,” Clubba growled. “I want their trust. It’s one thing I need right now.”
Earnest glanced around as though making sure they couldn’t be overheard. Grabbing a chair, he turned it around and sank into it with his elbows on the back and facing Clubba. “First day you walked into this block, you immediately flashed the different gangs,” he said.
Clubba opened his mouth to correct him.
Earnest raised a hand and shook his head. “It was discreet, I’ll give you that, but yes, you did. You did it to all members, all gangs, everyone. Groups who are enemies on the outside as well as here on the inside.”
Clubba shrugged a broad shoulder. “So?”
“So,” Earnest continued. “They let you waltz into and out of their meetings, their living areas, their eating areas. It’s unheard of. The first couple of months, you earned the protection of each group in the joint. In twenty-seven years, I’ve never seen that happen.” He leaned in close to make his point. “Not ever. You’re the only true associate I’ve ever seen. Many have tried, some have come close, but nobody—” he stabbed a finger toward Clubba, “and I mean nobody has done what I’ve watched you accomplish in a few months.”
Pride swelled in Clubba, and he beamed his approval of Earnest’s accolades. A brief bow of his head at the compliment and he glanced at Earnest. “You say I’m observant? That you’ve watched me from day one and you’ve seen what nobody else could? I’d say you’re the observant one.”
Earnest glanced around the cinder-block walls and sighed deeply. “Twenty years here will do that to a person. You need to watch and learn quickly what’s going on around you. I can get everything I need to know about a man in just a week or two. Very little impresses me, but you do. I’ve watched you for five months, and I’m impressed with everything about you.”
Clubba crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Earnest. “Everything? How much have you seen?”
Earnest held up an index finger. “One, you freely walk into and out of each of the main gangs. Two,” his middle finger joined the first, “for reasons I don’t know, each leader not only talks to you, they protect you. Three, every group trusts you—even the god-awful Aryans! From what I’ve seen, only Big Whitey talks to you, which means he’s telling you things he doesn’t want others to hear. Even the other Aryans! And finally, the guards gave you trustee status—more than I’ve ever seen or gotten and I’ve been here decades.”
Earnest pulled each digit down and clenched them all together in a fist. “Combine all those things,” he said and stuck his fist out toward Clubba’s cheek, “and you’re the most powerful man in the joint.”
Much like the fox guarding the proverbial hen house, Clubba thought. His lips parted in an acknowledging smile. Earnest seemed to know everything; Clubba could use a man like him on the inside. “Impressive deductions, Earnest—if I can call you Earnest?”
He tilted his head and agreed. “Manners,” he said. “A rare attribute in prisoners.”
“My mother insisted on them,” Clubba said.
“My compliments to her, and, yes, please call me Earnest.”
“If you’re thinking about teaming up, forget it,” Clubba said. “I’ll only be here another month or so.”
“Then you need me,” Earnest said soberly.
“Perhaps,” Clubba said. “Once I leave, there will be other Sudanese, others of my associates sent to continue the connections I’ve made. I could use someone of your experience, someone who knows prison inside out, someone who can act as a contact inside.” Clubba let the conversation drift off.
“And?” Earnest asked.
“You interested?”
The question sent Earnest’s mind reeling at the unanticipated opportunity! His plan was to recruit Clubba and settle an old debt with Tiny, but this…Clubba obviously had something else in mind. The boy thought deeply, a characteristic Earnest thoroughly appreciated. He rested his hand on his chin and hoped to appear in deep thought. In reality his mind had been honed by years of quick thinking; there had to be a way to use the offer to his advantage. “I’d be honored.”
“Don’t be,” Clubba said. “You’re clever, know the system and the players involved. In exchange for your service, I can get you protection.”
“Service?” Earnest asked. “What service exactly?”
“To me,” Clubba said, “and my soldie—ah, Sudanese associates.”
Earnest noticed the verbal stutter-step but didn’t know what it meant. He’d find out soon enough what the kid was up to and what his real game would be. “Protection is always a prize possession here,” he said blandly and glanced across the room. No need to tip his hand too soon.
“We’ll work out the details as my parole nears,” Clubba said. “Too much talking draws attention.”
“Mm,” Earnest said in agreement. “We’ll pick this up later.”
“Later,” Clubba said.
Earnest strolled back to his house—his current cell. It wasn’t much but it was home. So Clubba planned to send others behind bars. Incredible. What kind of power did the kid have outside prison? If he could send his accomplices here, it followed that he could direct them to commit crimes, get caught, and go to prison. It was mind-boggling that anyone would follow orders like that. No one intended to go to prison; when your luck ran out, it just happened.
Thinking back to their recent conversation when Clubba caught himself, Earnest finally understood what he almost let slip. More than compatriots or colleagues, the young men Clubba would send would be his soldiers. But how? How did one have his own army, get others to do his complete bidding? The scope and size of Clubba’s plan took Earnest’s breath away.
“This guy’s a lot more than I ever gave him credit for,” Earnest whispered aloud. He continued down the tier to his house. This new wrinkle would take some thinking and planning. His new Sudanese associate would keep Earnest on his toes. “A helluva lot more.”
THE SARGE’S OFFICE BUZZED WITH CHATTERING BLUES. From his desk overflowing with surveillance monitors and streaming video, the Sarge worked on the finishing touches of his upcoming presentation. The desk had one-way glass on the top. The Sarge activated the screen by tapping it and turning a built-in lever on a desk leg. Glancing down he could watch in the same way as an evening news anchor from both the cue screens and others built directly into their desks.
The Sarge knocked on the desk leg and gently moved the lever. The glasses were hooked up to a cable that allowed them to be played back. The back of the Sarge’s office held a hidden projector. From there, images could be displayed on the white wall to the right of the Sarge’s desk. Surveillance and footage from Brittany’s intelligence mission played, and Brittany translated for the Blues.
Her father walked up behind the Sarge. “She doing a good job for you?”
“I think she was born for it.”
“From what Clubba is saying,” Brittany said, “it looks like he wants a hand in all the major Omaha gangs. Here he’s saying that he wants a Sudanese…soldier? I think…soldier in each gang as a messenger. He’s also talking to his cousin about the gangs protecting him when he gets out.”
There were murmurs and nods among her audience members. “This confused me a bit. He used a term I’ve never heard before. Something about an ‘air speaker’ as near as I can figure out, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. What about you?”
The audience exchanged puzzled looks and murmured among themselves. “He said it would be like the war against the Japanese,�
� she continued, “where Native Americans communicated for the American military. He told his cousin the gangs would protect him outside the prison just like the Americans protected these ‘air speakers.’”
“That’s Wind Talkers,” a voice from the back of the room said. “Navajos that saved our butts in the Pacific. Japs could never understand them on radio, and it made it easier to communicate throughout the war campaign.”
“That Clubba is right,” another man said. “If he gets Wind Talker status, the gangs would definitely protect him. Just like the Marines did for the Navajos.”
“Clever plan,” the Sarge said. “He’ll be ruling each gang through his soldiers—one apiece. Then he can dictate their instructions and get internal intelligence.”
“What a position of power,” Smitty said. “Leader of all the major gangs and he doesn’t belong to any of them.”
“Reminds me of Tolkien,” the Sarge said. “One ring to rule them all…only it’s a king, not a ring.”
“Clubba did say something about making himself a, uh…I’m not sure how to translate it exactly but we heard it a lot in the safe zone refugee camps around Sudan,” Brittany said. “The term means something like a fighting god or war god.”
“Warlord maybe?” Smitty shot Brittany a startled glance.
“Yeah,” Brittany said. “That could be it.”
“That means,” Smitty said, “that he’s taking a page from the Sudanese fighters who ruled significant portions of his lawless country. They were called warlords.”
The Blues in the room fell silent as though chewing on that piece of information.
“This guy thinks he’s gonna set up his own little army in Omaha and nobody’s gonna stop him?” The Sarge asked and glanced from Blue to Blue in the front rows. “Well, we’ll see about that, right, boys?”
Affirmative grunts and silent nods of agreement met his question. The video of Tiny started; the Sarge pointed at the wall. “And this is how we’re going to get this little warlord to screw up. We’re gonna keep him off-balance, get him so focused on Tiny that he won’t be able to dedicate his time to establishing an army or go after his ex-girlfriend.”
The video showed Tiny’s partner wink at him. As the artificial leg skittered across the floor, the Blues in the audience bellowed with laughter. Once the female CO jumped into the air and screamed, the room howled their approval. Brittany joined in right along with them.
Once Tiny chucked his piss pack at Clubba and his cousin, the Blues exploded with renewed merriment. “Ooooh!” The audience chorus erupted the moment the explosive liquid burst onto Clubba and Abrahim.
“Look at his eyes,” one Blue shouted. “He’s a comin’ for you for sure, Tiny.”
“Which is exactly what we want,” Smitty said. “And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him. Warlord prick!”
Brittany sat down, the Blues’ remarks swirling around her. She watched her father and the Sarge make their comments. It showed a side of these men she’d never seen before when delivering cookies and coaxing a smile out. These men were undercover the entire time she visited, acting weak and old. She smiled and glanced at her father again. Talking strategy with the Sarge, he caught her eye and winked.
The Blues in the room convulsed with laughter again, many pointing at the screen. Dragging her attention from her dad to the screen image on the wall, one of the Ol’ Blues yelled, “Women?”
“Uh-oh,” a smart aleck in the front row called out. “Potty break.”
Brittany watched her own hand push the door open; there were three stalls to choose from and Brittany picked the first. Rule one of covert surveillance: shut off the video glasses during private time.
“Yikes.” She sprang from her chair and dashed to the front of the room to stand directly in front of the broadcast.
“Down in front,” came a comment from her left.
“Get out of the way,” said another on her right. A few unmentionable comments drifted up from the middle of the audience.
She silenced each one by pointing that vicious finger of hers moving it from left to right to make sure every Blue, including the Sarge, got her full meaning.
While thoroughly enjoying the terror that flashed on Brittany’s face and her unflinching stance in front of two dozen former cops, the Sarge wasn’t about to let Brittany lose her dignity. He stopped the video and froze.
A litany of boos started at the back and rippled forward. Every Blue in the precinct had wanted to see the undercover assignment and congratulate Brittany on her first mission, so much so that everyone had left their posts unattended. The Sarge blinked.
The Blues in the room continued their phony displeasure of missing Brittany on the porcelain throne. Person by person they caught the look on the Sarge’s face and quieted instantly.
The Sarge reached down and hit what looked like a slightly warped piece of wood on the floor under his desk. The emergency shut-off button. Everything and everyone went quiet; all attention flew to the Sarge.
The unmistakable image of three-hundred-pound Boss Nurse Betsy entering the precinct office burned in his brain. And she made a straight line for the Sarge’s office; every Blue heard the unmistakable sound of her overstretched polyester pants rubbing together.
At the front of the room Brittany smiled. “Wow,” she said to no one in particular, “I really scared those old poops.”
She turned to the Sarge and followed his line of sight. Through the smoked windows of his office, the silhouette of someone on the opposite side showed through. Whoever it was certainly had every Blue’s attention including Sarge’s. The huge silhouette moved along the windows toward the Sarge’s door. At fifteen feet out, a strange whooshing sound reached her ears, but Brittany couldn’t identify what it was.
Smitty sprang to his feet with an agility that surprised Brittany. He grabbed her forearm and pulled her toward the audience. Boss Nurse drew closer; everyone stood and faced the door.
Smitty tugged Brittany and stuck her behind a Blue. “That’s Big Brock,” he whispered. “Sit on the floor, stay still, and for Pete’s sake be quiet.”
She knew that tone of voice brooked no argument. Brittany pulled her legs up and slumped on the floor trying to make herself as small as she could. Although she hadn’t realized it at first, Big Brock had his indignity bottoms on—and she was directly under him. A glance skyward confirmed that analysis. Thankfully he stood more than six feet tall and wore crinkled boxers that stuck out below the leg holes. A quick glance up showed her she was directly below… the coconuts. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rested her forehead on her knees. “Oh great,” she muttered.
The words no more than left her mouth and Big Brock demonstrated the art of being old and male. He loudly broke wind, jumped slightly and turned his head down toward Brittany. “Sorry.”
Brittany highly doubted it, but before she could follow the thought up, she cupped her hands over her mouth and nose. Dang! She had to stay still to keep from being discovered, but this was above and beyond anything she’d imagined. This secret agent stuff was nothing like James Bond. Nothing!
The Sarge called out, “Green light.”
All the Blues moved a step forward—except for Big Brock. Brittany gritted her teeth in frustration.
“Red Light!” The Sarge called out.
Several guys froze; others laughed and moved anyway.
“Got ya, Smitty.” The Sarge said with a whoop.
“Did not.” Smitty responded. The room of Blues broke into renewed laughter like they’d done earlier during the video.
“What’re y’all doin’ in here?” bellowed Betsy.
The entire group froze and stared at her. She returned them with one of her own and lapsed into an uncomfortably awkward ten seconds. His back to her, the Sarge pointed at a nearby Blue. “You moved!”
A line of others against the wall joined in. “Yep I saw him; he moved all right.”
“He’s out,” called another. The Blue shrugged and took
his place against the wall.
The Sarge turned to look at the head nurse. “Oh, hi, Nurse Betsy,” he said.
The Blues against the wall waved and smiled, but those still in the game stood like statues.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded.
“Just a friendly game of red light/green light,” Tiny said.
“Green light,” the Sarge called out.
Britany opened one eye and looked through the legs of those standing. Several sets started to make odd-looking shuffles forward.
A muffled laugh came from Nurse Betsy. “Look pretty funny trying to sneaky walk, guys.”
“Red light!” the Sarge called again. “Got you…and you.”
“No you didn’t!” a voice piped up.
“Oh, yes I did,” the Sarge said. “Right, Nurse Betsy?”
“You bicker like a buncha little kids on a playground.”
One Blue shifted from foot to foot. “I’ve gotta tinkle.”
“Oh, all right,” Boss Nurse said. “Come on…and make sure you hold it. I don’t want you wettin’ the floor.” As they walked away, she said, “Ol’ Blues, humph, more like a Senile Squad.”
Two other Blues—on the opposite side of the room, a fact Brittany was completely thankful for—let loose with a flatulent encore. Boss Nurse made a disgusted sound, then walked away with the Ol’ Blue holding himself as if trying to keep from having an accident on the floor.
Brittany shook her head. Seems like these guys could fart on demand.
“That’ll make sure Boss Nurse doesn’t come back,” Big Brock said.
Brittany kept her eyes on the ground and nodded. “Good.”
The Blues left behind started to chuckle.
“Okay, Brittany,” the Sarge said. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
She pushed to her feet and stepped out from behind Big Brock.
A sheepish look crossed his face. “I’m really sorry ’bout that.”
She pointed at him and slowly turned her attention to the Sarge. She let the indicting finger linger at Big Brock. His countenance grew more ashamed with each second that passed.
