by Dakota Chase
He made it out of the building safely, but didn’t count himself free and clear until he made it all the way to the dorm building and up into his room. His roommates were already asleep in their bunks when he climbed up into his, fully dressed, and fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
THE MORNING alarm bell—which was more like a whistle—sounded shortly after Grant left. The sharp, piercing noise set Ash’s teeth on edge as he rolled to a sitting position. What would it be like to have to wake up to that sound every morning? For that matter, what would it be like to have every moment of your day, every activity from taking a shower to eating a meal to waking or sleeping or even taking a piss dictated by an alarm?
Sucky, that’s how.
He made a mental note not to push his luck with the law when he got back home. No more flirting with the justice system. No more joy rides or accidentally setting fire to his history professor’s office. He was going to be so clean he’d practically be sterile. Not even a freaking parking ticket, so help him. He was never going to find himself on this side of the bars again. Ever.
Capone’s thin whisper caught his ear. “You awake over there? We got five minutes to piss and pull our pants on before the head count and breakfast.”
“Okay, Al. Thanks.”
Ash heard Capone moving about in his cell, probably following his own advice. Even though Ash would’ve much rather stayed in bed, doing so would’ve been an extraordinarily bad idea and probably would’ve resulted in another run-in with a guard’s blackjack.
However exhausted he felt, he had no choice but to drag himself from the cot and, favoring his sore arm, relieve himself in the toilet at the rear of the cell, then pull on his rough work pants and shirt. Buttoning the shirt was difficult with his injured arm, but he managed. He knew by then it wasn’t broken—his fingers all worked, and truthfully, it didn’t hurt as much as it had the day before. It didn’t look swollen, either, which he figured was a good thing.
By the time the guards began walking down the corridor calling out numbers as they counted heads, he was ready for breakfast.
The guard banged on the bars of his cell with a clipboard. “You! Fold up that shelf, and sweep the floor of this cell, pronto!”
He nodded and hastened to do as the guard instructed, unwilling to get into trouble again. He must’ve moved fast enough, because the guard grunted and walked on.
Head count finished, the guards waited for the second whistle to blow, then unlocked the cell doors one after another, letting the convicts out into the corridor where they silently formed a single line. Ash took his place behind Capone and waited. The whistle blew a third time, and they marched to the dining room.
Breakfast was dry scrambled eggs, potatoes with onions, a slice of ham, and toast, along with the inevitable cup of black coffee. It wasn’t bad, actually, and although he would’ve sworn he wasn’t hungry, Ash ate it all.
“Hey, new fish. Toss me the salt.”
Ash looked up at the sound of the voice. A man with a familiar face sat at the next table over, looking at him with an expectant expression. “Huh?”
“The salt, you stupid fuck. Give me the salt.” He held out a rough, callused hand. “Just so you know, I didn’t forget. I owe you, and I always pay what I owe.”
Ash’s mind spun, trying to place the guy. Bald head, mermaid tattoo on his burly arm—a name came to match the face. Billy Ray, the convict from the intake clothing window. “I don’t want any trouble, Billy Ray.”
“Aw, ain’t that sweet. He don’t want no trouble.” Billy Ray smirked and addressed the other five men at his table. “Like I give a shit what he wants.” He glanced toward the nearest guard as if to make sure he wasn’t being watched. “My back is still sore from where I got whacked on account of you.”
“Leave off him. He’s under my protection, capisce?” Capone leaned forward and hissed. His eyes looked like hard chips of ice as he glared at Billy Ray.
Billy Ray chuffed and held up a hand. “Sure, sure, Al. I got it. He’s your new pet, huh? Okay.”
Ash wasn’t sure he wanted to be anybody’s pet, least of all a gangster like Capone, but he also wasn’t ready to be beaten up by somebody the size of Billy Ray either. The lesser of two evils, then. Capone’s pet it is. Just call me Fido.
Not that he believed Billy Ray was going to back off just because Capone ordered him to. Billy Ray didn’t strike Ash as someone who obeyed orders no matter who they came from, not unless those orders were backed by a nightstick or a gun. He was going to have to watch his back and stick as close to Capone as possible.
“Thanks, Al.” He smiled and slid his coffee over to Al just as he had the night before.
Al slurped the coffee down in one big swallow, then belched quietly. “Sure thing, kid. Nobody fucks with my friends.”
Ash wasn’t so sure about that, but he’d happily take whatever protection Al could offer. Plus, he had to find out about the locket, and the way to do that was to gain Al’s confidence. If sucking up would get him that trust faster, then he was happy to kiss lots of gangster ass. “I appreciate it.”
The whistle blew again—Ash was really getting sick of hearing that damn whistle already—and the prisoners began the process of tossing their trash, returning their trays, plates, and silverware, and lining up for yet another head count.
A guard walked down the line with a clipboard and stopped next to Ash. “Prisoner 119, you’re assigned to the laundry. Capone, you show him the ropes.”
“Sure thing. Happy to.” Capone nodded and smiled.
“Listen to the dago, like he’s got a choice in the matter.” The guard snorted as if he’d told himself a joke and moved on. Capone and Ash forgotten, he continued checking names on his roster.
Capone called the guard a coarse name under his breath and, turning his head, spat on the ground. Ash noticed both Capone’s voice and action were guarded, and with good reason.
Not even Capone, as tough as he was, would risk insulting a guard on purpose, not if he wanted to keep his brains safely inside his skull where they belonged. Ash’s banged-up arm was the case in point, proving how dangerous irritating a guard could be. But Capone’s voice had been so low, Ash was pretty sure he was the only one who heard it, although Capone’s gesture was probably clear to the other prisoners in line.
At the sound of yet another whistle, the line of prisoners began moving out of the dining hall. It snaked through the door, down the corridor, and out another door where, for the first time since he’d woke to find himself on the tugboat heading to Alcatraz, Ash felt the cold snap of fresh air on his face. He didn’t realize how much he’d gotten used to the smell of air polluted by body odor and overflowing toilets until he smelled the sea on the breeze. Funny how time could numb a nose to stenches so powerful they’d make a guy want to hurl when he first smelled them. He hated to think he’d need to get used to the pungent stink all over again after his shift at the laundry was finished. He figured getting used to that god-awful reek every day had to be one of the worst parts of being incarcerated. You know, besides being locked up, of course. And being at the mercy of the guards.
“Come on kid, look sharp.”
He glanced up at the sound of Al’s voice and realized the line had begun moving again. He hurried to catch up and followed Al inside the large building at the top of the hill. A neatly printed sign over the door proclaimed it to be the New Industries Building.
Heat hit him full in the face like the slap of a hot, sweaty palm. He found himself entering a large room that ran nearly the length of the building. Steam rose in dense white clouds from large vats lining one side of the room where water boiled, ready for new loads of wash. Huge machines were laid out in neat rows on the other side, lids open and waiting for the next load of sheets to be pressed. Ironing boards stood like silent sentries in yet another row, ready for inmates to guide steam irons over pant pleats and shirt collars.
“You can put your shirt in one of these cubbies he
re.” Capone had already stripped his shirt off, revealing a sleeveless white T-shirt, and a burly, hairy chest and wide set of shoulders under it. “No sense stinking up your work shirt. It’ll be hotter than Satan’s ass in here by noon.”
Ash couldn’t really imagine how hot Satan’s ass might be—or how Capone might know the temperature of said ass—when it was already a bajillion degrees in his estimation. The air was so humid from all the steam it actually felt wet. Wet and hot. He nodded, though, and unbuttoned his shirt, neatly folding it and placing it next to Capone’s.
“Okay. So, new fish start on the folding station. It’s easy enough, just repetitive, you know? Fold the shirts neat, or the screws will just make you do it over again. Capisce?”
“Huh?”
Capone chuckled. “Capisce. It’s Italian, kid. Means ‘understand.’ So, capisce?”
“Oh, yeah. Capisce.”
Capone laughed again and playfully grabbed the back of Ash’s head. “Good. I’m going to make a guinea out of you yet, huh?”
He had no idea what Capone was talking about, but he nodded anyway.
A guard yelled from the other side of the room. “Hey! No touching, Capone, or you’ll be spending a few nights in the Hole.”
Capone held his hands up in mock surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He nodded to Ash. “Come on, kid. I’ll show you what to do.”
He led Ash to the back of the room, past the giant presses already being manned by prisoners, to a double row of long tables. Each station had a wicker basket piled high with freshly washed T-shirts, long underwear, and socks standing at the ready. Several men were already plucking clothing out of the baskets and folding them on the table. As piles grew higher, other men removed the piles to carts and took them away.
“Here ya go. Duck soup, right?”
“I don’t like soup.”
Capone blinked at him, then laughed. “Aw, you’re okay, kid. I mean it’s easy.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah, sure. Duck soup. Got it.” He actually didn’t have any idea what ducks or soup had to do with anything being easy, but if Al thought it did, Ash wasn’t about to disagree. Then something caught his eye that riveted his attention and made him forget all about language and laundry. It was a bit of glinting metal hanging around Al’s neck. He hadn’t noticed it before because it had been hidden under Al’s work shirt. “Um, hey, Al? What’s that?”
“What, kid?”
“That. Around your neck.”
Capone’s meaty hand reached for the thin chain, and fingers stroked it as a small smile lifted his lips. “Ah, this. My good luck charm, kid.” He pulled it free from under his T-shirt and showed the small rectangle of silver to Ash. “Got my initials on it, see? A.C. My wife, Mae, gave it to me.” His thick fingers pressed a tiny latch and the locket sprung open. It was actually like a little book with pages, each teensy black-and-white photographed face of a smiling person framed in silver. “This my Mae. Beautiful, ain’t she? And my boy Sonny, my sainted mama, and my sister, Mafalda.” He closed the locket and slipped it back under his T-shirt. He patted his hand over it. “I keep it here, always, close to my heart.”
A guard walked by, his nightstick held in one hand as he tapped it against the palm of his other. Ash watched him warily, waiting to be reprimanded for talking, but to his surprise, the guard just glanced at them and kept walking.
“It’s okay, kid. We can talk in here. We gotta keep our traps shut out in the cellblock, but not here, and not in the recreation yard.” Al nudged Ash. “How’s your arm, by the way?”
“Feeling a lot better. Thanks.”
“Good. Okay, we better get to work. Anybody gives you lip, you tell me.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Al.” His mind was still focused on the locket, and the fact that it was only a foot away from him, but might as well be a thousand miles. The damn thing held Al’s family photos! It was all the guy had to remind him of a family he might never see again. How could Ash steal it?
Then Al was gone, walking back to his own workstation by the giant presses, taking his locket with him.
Ash watched him go, then tried to shake off his mood. As sad as it might be, he was going to have to figure out a way to get the locket from Al. He reached for a pair of socks from the basket and lined them up toe to toe, heel to heel before folding them in half. He placed them on the table in front of him and then reached for the next pair.
“Hey, you. New fish. What’s your number?”
He looked up from the pair of socks he was folding at the sound of the guard’s voice. “Uh, 119, sir.”
“Okay, 119, come with me.”
Ash blinked. “With you? Um, I’m assigned to laundry—”
The guard scowled and thumped his nightstick against his palm. “You’re assigned to wherever the hell I say you’re assigned. Got it? Good. Now move.”
“Uh, sure. Okay.” Ash dropped the socks and walked around the table, following the guard up the aisle. What the hell was happening now? He had some protection here, with Al so close by, but where was the guard taking him? He glanced over his shoulder as they passed Al’s workstation, but Al never even looked up from the pressing machine. Then Al was lost as the clouds of ever-present steam closed in.
“Grab your shirt, 119. You don’t go outside without it.” The guard paused at the cubbies near the front door.
Ash hurried to find his, slipping his arms into it, buttoning it, and then tucking it neatly into his pants. He followed the guard outside into the cold. The air felt invigorating after the heat of the laundry room, but soon enough it began to feel less cool and more cold, and he wondered when—or if—the inmates were issued coats. Not that he planned to be there when winter rolled in over San Francisco Bay. Not with the damn locket so close he could practically touch it.
The guard led him down a path to another building. “We’re shorthanded in the cobbler’s shop. Better than the laundry—you get to sit and work. Lucky you, huh?” He opened a door and ushered Ash inside. “Hey, Louis. I got a warm body for you.”
Another guard, whose name tag read Officer Louis Blake, waved Ash over. He peered at Ash’s inmate number. “Good. Any experience shoemaking, 119?”
“Um, no. I took shop in school. I don’t know if that helps any.” He remembered taking the class as a freshman. It was the full extent of his experience with tools, but he doubted it was going to help him here.
“Shop, huh? What did you do there?”
“We built birdhouses.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “Great. Well, we don’t make no birdie houses here. We fix shoes for the convicts. Got a man down with stomach cramps. Johnson, number 177. Bet my week’s pay he’s faking it too.” Then he shrugged. “Don’t matter. If he is, the doc will figure it out. Then I’ll be shorthanded longer because he’ll be spending time down in the Hole. Either way, it’s a lucky break for you because you get to work here instead of sweating your ass off in the laundry.”
The first guard popped off a half-assed salute. “Speaking of, got to get back to the laundry before the lieutenant starts looking for me. This one is all yours.”
“Gee, thanks.” Blake motioned to Ash to follow him. “This way, Birdhouse.”
Great. Just what Ash needed. Another lame nickname. The last one he had was “Mr. Uh,” given him by Merlin when he’d answered a question by muttering “Uh….”
Blake led him into a cramped room filled with boxes of shoes in various states of disrepair—missing soles, ripped tongues, and otherwise riddled with holes, tears, worn spots, and burns. A long wooden worktable edged a set of shelving units that held all sorts of glues, brushes, hammers, and little glass jars full of tacks. Another inmate had a shoe secured in a vise and was attaching a new sole to it, tapping tiny tacks in with an equally small hammer.
“Hey, this is 119. He’s here to help out while 177 is in the Treatment Unit. Show him what to do. Now, you play nice, boys, or I’ll bash both your skulls in, got it?” Louis gave Ash a little shove toward th
e workbench, then turned and walked away.
When the man sitting at the workbench turned, Ash’s mouth fell open and he gaped.
It was Billy Ray, the man who’d threatened him twice so far.
Chapter Eight
A HAND shook Grant awake. He sat up sputtering, shaking the hand off. “Knock it off, Ash.”
“Don’t know nobody named Ash. I’m Roberts, and the warden wants you in his office pronto.”
Grant blinked and rubbed his face. He squinted at the face looking at him. “Who? Where’s… what?”
“The warden, newbie. He wants you in his office five minutes ago!”
He remembered Roberts’s face as one of the guards he shared a dorm room with, and it all came back to him—Merlin’s task to find Capone’s locket, Alcatraz, him a guard and Ash a convict. He tried to think. The last thing he remembered was returning to the dorms after speaking with Ash in the cellblock and climbing into his bunk. He’d been so tired he hadn’t even gotten undressed.
Why would the warden want him? He doubted the warden would even know his name. He’d only been on Alcatraz for less than twenty-four hours.
“The warden?”
“Jeez, are you deaf or stupid? Yes, the warden! Now hurry up!” Roberts yanked the blanket off Grant’s bed. He snorted. “Well, at least you’re dressed.”
“Oh, yeah, uh… I was tired.”
“Guess so. Better move. The warden doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Son, I don’t know what you did, but it must’ve been pretty bad to wake the warden up this early.”
Grant swallowed hard but nodded. “It must be a mistake. I didn’t do anything that I can think of.”
“The warden doesn’t make mistakes. Get moving. He’s still up at the house.
“The house? Like, the Big House?”
