by Dakota Chase
Today’s lunch selection was fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and a roll, along with coffee. There was dessert too—a wedge of blueberry pie. Ash carried his tray to his customary seat, pleased to see Capone already seated and eating.
“Hey, Al.”
“Hey, kid. How’s life treating you?” Al spoke around a mouthful of chicken. “Gonna drink your coffee?”
“Nope. It’s all yours.” Ash slid it over.
A guard rapped his blackjack on the table. “Quiet in here! You know the rules. Talking for passing salt and pepper and that’s it!”
They ate in silence until the guard moved to the other side of the room. Ash had to admit, the fried chicken was actually pretty tasty, crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. The blueberry pie was good too. Those were real berries in there, not some jellied crap like they served in Stanton’s cafeteria.
Ash glanced at the guard, trying to judge if it was safe to whisper to Al. “Hey, Al, about that thing I asked you to get yesterday…. Think you can get it? Billy Ray threatened me again today. I’m sort of afraid of what he’ll do if I don’t get it for him.”
Al chewed slowly and stared past Ash to where Billy Ray sat across the aisle, paying them no mind, intent on eating his food. When he finally swallowed, he looked at Ash. “Okay, kid. I’ll get it. You took one for me, and Al always pays his debts. But that guy? Watch out for him. Guys like that are never satisfied. They ain’t got no honor. They’re greedy. They’ll ask for one thing, then another, and another. Capisce?”
Ash nodded. “I get it, but it’s just this one thing. I’ll be out of the shoe repair shop when the other guy recovers enough to go back to work. Another few days, and I can breathe easy.”
Al snorted. “Don’t never make the mistake of breathing easy in here, kid.” He drank Ash’s coffee and belched. “This ain’t the type of place where you can relax. You turn your back in here, and somebody’ll stick a knife in it.”
Ash desperately hoped Al wasn’t talking about himself. He needed to trust Capone would come through for him. If not, he might not live long enough to get the locket.
Chapter Twelve
GRANT AWOKE with a start. Light streamed into the room through a window, dust speckling the sunbeam. He sat up and rubbed his face. He’d been dreaming he was home at Stanton’s in the dorm room he shared with Ash, and now he felt deflated as he realized he was on his bunk in the bachelor guard quarters at Alcatraz.
He wrinkled his nose and glanced at the still-sleeping forms of his roommates. Ugh. Somebody must’ve eaten beans with supper last night. God, it stinks in here.
The stench more than anything propelled him out of bed. He glanced at the clock on the wall as he pulled on his pants. One o’clock in the afternoon. His shift had ended at 7:00 a.m., which meant he’d gotten roughly five hours sleep. Not nearly enough for him, but as much as he was likely to get. Between the farts and the light washing in from the window, he wasn’t likely to be able to fall asleep again.
He’d been told guards could get food whenever they wished from the dining hall, so he figured he’d grab breakfast before heading to the showers. After that, maybe he’d try to get into Capone’s cell. Maybe Capone left the locket behind during the day. If nothing else, it couldn’t hurt to look.
There was no one else in the dining hall when he got there, so he walked into the huge back kitchen. There was a flurry of activity as the prison cooks worked getting supper ready. Some were peeling mounds of potatoes; others tended various pots and vats on the long black stoves.
“Help you, sir?” A convict wearing cook whites looked at him expectantly.
“Um, yeah. I was hoping to get something to eat.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make you a plate and bring it out to you.”
“Thanks.”
The convict looked momentarily startled, as if he wasn’t used to being thanked, then nodded. Grant went out to the dining hall and took a seat at one of the tables. True to his word, the convict came out and placed a plate loaded with fried chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes in front of him, along with a generous wedge of blueberry pie.
The food smelled good, and Grant suddenly felt famished. He tucked in, eating with relish, and ended up cleaning his plate, including the pie. He sat back in his chair, his newly filled stomach straining at his belt.
“Got a good appetite, huh? Didn’t think a skinny kid like you could put away so much in a sitting. Don’t blame you, though—Franco, the cook, makes damn fine fried chicken. Better than my ma’s, and that’s saying something.”
He looked up to see Hocks standing next to the table, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Um, yeah. I was hungry.”
Hocks sat down opposite him. “I heard you done good last night on the cellblock. Listen, I think you and me got off to a bad start the other day. You understand now that we got to keep the inmates in line, right?” His eyes were hard chips under his beetled brow.
Grant knew better than to contradict him. “Yeah, sure. I, uh, didn’t get it before, but I do now. You have to be firm with them.”
“Firm?” Hocks laughed with a dry, guttural sound that had little mirth in it. “What are you—a schoolteacher? Firm is for kiddies. What you need here is an iron fist. Keep ’em in line, don’t give ’em an inch, and when they break a rule, you bust a head. That’s how they learn, see?”
Grant didn’t “see” Hocks’s rationale for beating prisoners, but again, he knew better than to disagree. He just nodded.
“Good. I’m glad we got it sorted out. I like you, kid. I think you and me will get along now. I’m going to tell the roster officer to put you on the cellblock shift again. I’m working that shift tonight too.”
That was good news—not about Hocks working the shift, but that Grant might have the opportunity to talk with Ash again. “Okay. Um, thanks, Officer Hocks.”
Hocks offered Grant a smug smile, as if he was a king giving a peasant a gift, then drained his cup and set it on the table. “You do good again tonight, and who knows? I just might let you in on a—whatchamacallit—golden opportunity.” He laughed again, although he sounded no less amused than before. “Gotta a few things I need to do before my shift starts tonight. See you later, kid.”
Grant watched him walk out of the dining hall. What “golden opportunity” could Hocks have in mind? Something illegal, no doubt. Bribes or stealing materials from the prison and selling it on the outside, maybe? Whatever it was, it was probably the cause of the corruption Warden Johnston suspected Hocks of being involved in.
Getting proof of Hocks’s guilt wasn’t Grant’s priority while he was in Alcatraz—getting the locket was—but if he could manage to help Johnston fire Hocks and rid the prison of a psychopathic guard, he’d count it as a plus.
Still wondering what kind of deal Hocks might want to cut him in on, he made his way back to the dorms to grab his toiletries. The showers used by the guards were separate from those used by the inmates, and they were empty when he arrived. A nice, leisurely hot shower revitalized him after his huge lunch, and by the time he was dried and dressed, he was feeling better than he had since arriving at Alcatraz.
At least now, he had a plan. Sort of.
Get into Capone’s cell and toss it, hoping to find the locket. Failing that, he would have to leave getting the locket up to Ash, but there’d be nothing else Grant could do. Instead, Grant would devote his energies to getting Hocks fired. He’d pretend to be friendly with Hocks and try to get information on what Hocks’s scheme was so he could report on it to Johnston.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it something. He wouldn’t feel like he was just wandering aimlessly around the prison with his thumb stuck squarely up his butt.
IT WAS after lunchtime, so the prisoners were all at work in the industries shops, or in the kitchens, or cleaning the bathrooms, or working outside. The handful who were too sick to work were either in their cells or up in the Treatment Unit. The guards were with the prisoners, wh
ich meant the cellblock was empty. It was the perfect time for him to try to get into Capone’s cell.
All he needed was the key.
The office was empty except for the secretary. He walked in, pretending to have every right to do so. His performance must’ve been believable—or else she simply didn’t care enough to question him—because she ignored him as he lifted a set of keys from the peg on the wall. He pretended to write his name on the sheet of paper where guards signed for the keys, then slipped out of the office again.
He planned to make it a quick trip since he needed to return the keys to the peg before any of the officers who might actually be authorized to take the keys went into the office to look for them. He didn’t want to have to explain why he had the keys in the middle of the day when he wasn’t even scheduled to be on duty, let alone wandering the cellblock.
Hurrying from Times Square down Broadway, he came to cell number 181, Capone’s home sweet home. He glanced up and down Broadway to make sure the coast was still clear, then swiftly unlocked the cell door and let himself in.
Capone’s cell was identical to all the others in the cellblock as far as Grant could see. Even though Capone was a famous gangster, it was obvious to Grant he was just another inmate at Alcatraz, with no special privileges or possessions. It didn’t take long for Grant to search the bare-bones cell.
Grant checked under the thin mattress and looked through the few toiletry items and books Capone kept neatly lined up on his shelf, but came up empty-handed. Capone must keep the locket with him. The visit to his cell was a bust and a waste of time, but Grant still figured it had been worth a try.
He hurried back to the office and replaced the keys on the peg, pretending to sign them back in. The secretary had smiled at him when he walked in, then went back to her work. He was gone again before anyone else came in.
The cold air had the tang of sea salt in it, and he took in a deep lungful when he walked outside. It was only then, after being inside the prison for a while, that he realized how stuffy and dank it smelled in there, and how claustrophobic it made him feel. He had no idea how Ash was tolerating being kept in a cell. It would make him nuts, for sure. He hated tight places. In any case, the crisp, clean air smelled and felt wonderful.
Where might Ash be today? Grant remembered him saying something the night before about being forced to play shoemaker with a psycho con during the day. Did that mean Ash was assigned to shoe repair shop, and would he be there again today? It was worth taking a look-see. At worst, Ash wouldn’t be there, or Grant would get shooed away by another guard. Even if he couldn’t have an actual conversation with Ash, just seeing him would make them both feel a little better, right? Remind them they weren’t here alone.
He knew the shoe shop was located at the top of the hill across from the laundry and headed in that direction. The shop was on the first floor of a two-story building hugging the rocky cliff of the island’s northeast perimeter. A tall smokestack rose from the back of the building, a plume of black smoke spiraling into the sky, a byproduct of the incinerator where they burned all the island’s trash.
A work detail of inmates, escorted by a pair of guards armed with rifles, was swabbing the recreation area with mops. Nearly the entire island was either bare rock or paved with almost no landscaping so outside pests were of little concern, but being on an island in the middle of the bay presented a different sort of problem—birds. Hundreds of starlings, sparrows, geese, and ducks flew over the island daily, dropping splats of white, goopy excrement all over the place. The inmates were required to wash the outdoor picnic tables and yard on a regular basis to keep the area relatively clean.
Grant strolled past them unchallenged and made his way up the hill to the building housing the shoe repair shop. The door was unlocked, and he let himself in the building. Chain-link fencing ran the length of the left side of the hallway. Behind the fence, he could see shelves and boxes of shoes and worktables. Two men sat at the workstation, each intent on repairing shoes. A guard lounged in a chair in one corner, his feet propped up on a box.
He looked up at Grant. “Help you?”
“Oh, uh, I guess I’m in the wrong the place. I’m new here. Looking for the uh, laundry.” Grant answered quickly, but he was looking at the prisoner nearest the door.
Ash offered him the tiniest of nods and a small smile. It was enough—it would have to be. They obviously couldn’t have a conversation, but at least Grant knew Ash was okay, and hadn’t been knifed or beat up during the night.
“Yeah, that’s in the industries building across the yard.” He tapped his name tag. “I’m Blake. Listen, you go over there to the laundry and find Lieutenant Merloch. Tell him I’m still waiting for my relief to get here so I can go get lunch. He’s late, and I’m hungry. I thought maybe you were him for a minute.”
“Oh, sorry. Sure, I’ll tell him.” Grant nodded to the guard, then gave Ash one last look before leaving.
He paused outside the building, wondering where he should go. He had a lot of time to spare before dinner. Sleeping was out of the question—he felt too wound up, and besides, the idea of going back to the bachelor dorms wasn’t the least bit appealing. His roommates would probably still be there, asleep, snoring and farting and mumbling in their dreams.
He was trying to decide between taking a walk around the perimeter of the island or going to the dining hall to see if he could score a cup of hot cocoa when he heard someone call his name.
“Hey, Vaughn! Wait up!”
Turning, he spotted a familiar figure jogging up the path toward him from across the recreation area. Hocks on a run wasn’t a pretty sight. His belly flopped over his belt, jiggling with every step, and his cheeks flushed red as he huffed for breath.
What did Hocks want with him now? When, exactly, did he get to be his best friend? Wasn’t there anyone else on the island Hocks could hang out with? It was bad enough he had to work two shifts back-to-back with the man.
Then again, he was supposed to be spying on Hocks, and he had no idea when the warden would call him into the office and ask what he’d found out. If he didn’t have any information to offer, Johnston might get angry and fire Grant, sending him off the island. Then how the hell would he and Ash ever get home?
“Hey, Officer Hocks. What can I do for you?”
Hocks bent over at the waist, propping his hands on his knees, huffing like a steam engine. Grant was surprised at how out of shape he was. Weren’t guards supposed to be fit? Maybe Hocks was when he was first hired, but it sure didn’t seem like he was anymore. “I. Was. Looking. For. You.”
“For me? Why?”
Hocks waited another moment or two before answering, regaining his breath. “I got an errand for you to run.”
“An errand?”
“What? You suddenly gone deaf or something? Yeah, an errand. I need you to go up to the Treatment Unit and get a package from Doc Kearney. He’ll have it waiting for me. I gotta go relieve the guard in the shoe shop. Bastard’s been whining to Merloch about his relief not coming on time and I don’t need no more trouble with the lieutenant. Bring the stuff to me there. Got it?” He handed Grant the set of cellblock keys on the big circular keychain. “I signed out for these keys, so don’t lose ’em.”
“Um, I won’t.”
“You know where the Treatment Unit is?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Hocks scowled at him. “You guess, or you know?”
“No, I know. It’s all good. I’ll go up there now.”
“Damn right you will. Hurry up. Doc Kearney usually leaves the island on the four o’clock boat. He’ll be starting to pack up about now.”
What could Doc Kearney have for Hocks? Medication? If so, why didn’t Hocks get it himself, earlier? Or couldn’t Kearney just leave it for Hocks in the office? What was the big hurry for Hocks to get it before Kearney left the island for the night?
He let himself into the cellblock and hurried down Times Square. If he rememb
ered correctly, the stairs leading up to the treatment area were through the doorway under the west Gun Gallery. He took them two at a time, pausing when he reached the second floor. The treatment room door was propped open with a chair.
Inside the room, two of the hospital beds were taken by inmates, both of whom looked to be sleeping. He slipped past them and headed to the tiny office at the rear of the room, where he figured to find Doc Kearney. He lightly rapped his knuckles on the door.
“Who is it?”
He opened the door. “Um, Doc Kearney? Hi. Um, Officer Hocks sent me to get a package—”
Kearney’s eyes opened wide and he hissed. “Son of a bitch! Shut up and get in here. Close the door. You want someone to hear you?”
Grant did as Kearney ordered, but he was confused. What the hell was going on? “Um, Officer Hocks sent me—”
“I heard you the first time! Jesus, you’d think the man would have the common decency to wait until I left the building before…. Never mind. Here.” He shoved a small bag toward Grant. “Tell him I expect payment bright and early on Friday. I plan to go on the early afternoon boat, and I want the money before I leave the island for the weekend.”
Money? What money? What’s in the bag? Grant nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
Kearney looked Grant up and down. “How’d he rook you into this business? No, never mind. I don’t want to know. Now get out. I have work to do before I can leave for the day.”
Grant turned to leave, but Kearney stopped him. “Listen, you tell Hocks something else. You tell him it’s getting harder to find it anymore. The opium parlors are almost all gone in San Francisco now, and nobody’s cooking it anymore. My price is going up another C note. Understand?”
