Part 9 (1/2)
I walked the aisle at a slow pace, doing a mental count on each cell. When I got to Fenton's drum, I saw that he was already sitting up on his cot, waiting.
”Officer Williams,” the voice in the dim interior said, ”are those your catlike steps I hear?”
Don Juan in all his glory.
”Now, how'd you know it was me?” I asked, dry and sarcastic.
”Oh, you know how word gets around.” A slow, relaxed tone, like he had all the time in the world. ”The boys are jealous I caught a break. They always want my Christmas presents.”
Christmas is over, a.s.shole, I wanted to say. I tapped the green b.u.t.ton on my shoulder radio twice and requested the open cell. It always took a few more seconds than expected. Then the click I'd been waiting for, and I stood back to allow Fenton s.p.a.ce to step out.
Well-groomed hair, a little wet from some kind of product, an easygoing smile on a splendidly handsome face, like a movie star in some romantic comedy. He gave me a cheerful nod and slid by me gracefully, a scent of clean in the air behind him, so unlike the sour griminess of most of the inmates. Fenton was one of those occasional inmates in love with being a con. Early forties, but weathered well, wide shoulders, smooth skin with only a few tattoos. Self-a.s.sured and short-tempered. He had gotten into the pants of three females-three who had been found out, anyway-a secretary married to the head of maintenance, a nineteen-year-old volunteer religious counselor, and a CO named Julie Denly. I knew, without any understanding of the phenomenon, that plenty of women were irresistibly drawn to inmates. Even so, the sordid, awkward physicality of actually engaging in illicit s.e.x inside a maximum security inst.i.tution was utterly unfathomable to me. When Julie got caught-because someone on the cellblock jealous of Fenton had flown a kite to the Keeper-I had been astonished beyond belief. It was my first year on the job, and Julie seemed just like me, ex-military, hard-core, capable, so we got along, even spent some time together outside work, though I knew nothing of her relations with Fenton. I had no doubt Fenton could work his charms, but even then, before my jadedness got so keen, I knew that an inmate was a pathological liar, someone who told you relentlessly what you wanted to hear in order to get what he wanted and then threw all of those emotions away without remorse once you gave in. It didn't matter if it was an extra piece of toast or a career-ending affair-the level of emotional engagement was the same. After the scandal I met with Julie at a cheap restaurant off the highway. She wore a blue turtleneck sweater with plain hoop earrings, and she gripped her daiquiri like a vase of flowers that could tumble over. She told me about the letters and the secret messages and the words of love, and the level at which Fenton understood her, how he antic.i.p.ated her moods and connected with her more completely than anyone she'd ever known. I could barely keep the running criticism out of my head. You poor, stupid, humiliated fool, you've ruined it for all of us. A few months later Julie moved away, and I never heard from her again. Fenton, on the other hand, was still serving eighteen to twenty for armed robbery and hostage taking.
From a dark cell near the front of the range an inmate mentioned that he had an erection to lend Fenton if needed. To his credit, Fenton ignored the comment. We clanked our way down to the ground floor, stood at the door, and waited for release into the hall, an endless, echo-filled corridor that was sloped, paint-chipped, and damp.
”You been double s.h.i.+fting?” Fenton asked. He seemed oddly unsure of himself when he spoke up, as though nervous about trying to make a connection.
”Almost every day. 'Tis the season.”
We walked at a relaxed pace. Some inmates were always in a hurry, wired with ADD energy, but Fenton was all leisure.
”Between you and me-” he said.
Here it comes, I thought.
”Ninety-five percent of the boys aren't looking for this.” He meant the disruptions and lockdowns-self-appointed emissary of the poor, misunderstood silent majority.
I said nothing at first, debated whether to ignore him, and finally spoke up.
”Fenton, why are you telling me this?” I asked.
And he laid it on thick.
”You, Officer Williams, are unusual in that you treat people with respect. That's a clean rep, no bulls.h.i.+t. The problem with the way things are run here is not enough communication. Most of the hard-a.s.s COs just want to bust heads. But if you sat down and talked to us, there would be a lot less trouble.”
”Give peace a chance, huh?” I said. Only part of me meant it ironically.
”Why not?” he asked. ”I'm getting too old for this c.r.a.p. You think I like twenty guys a day asking me what's going on and why? I'd rather be watching the soaps. Look at Elgin, not even a whole man anymore. That's where bulls.h.i.+t gets you.”
I was tempted to stop talking with him altogether, just let the train run on down the tracks, but I couldn't resist. ”What's Elgin got to do with anything? Are you claiming a CO had anything to do with his injury?”
”s.h.i.+t, you think that one-armed painter messed up a hard-a.s.s like Elgin that bad? No doubt he deserved whatever he got, but it's an insult seeing him hang on like a piece of meat. Tell your Keeper we give up. All we want is a fair shake, a normal routine, and a bit of tender loving respect. We'll be putty in your hands.”
For whatever reason, some ease Fenton inspired in me, I made a confession.
”Wish I could help you, Fenton, but I don't exactly have the Keeper's ear.”
”Really?” he asked, surprised. ”That's not what I hear.”
”Not so much.”
”Ah,” he said, and I regretted it instantly. They were data miners, collectors of random information. Somewhere, on a hospital bed with tubes up his nose, Ray MacKay was laughing his a.s.s off.
We entered the hub, then took the hallway between the education wing and the gym. The lights were still dimmed.
Fenton stopped suddenly and turned, and my forward momentum actually pressed me into his shoulder. ”Well, if there's ever any favor I can do for you,” he said quietly, ”you just have to ask.”
Jesus f.u.c.king Christ, I thought, and pushed him forward with the heel of my hand. Oh, Julie, you stupid fool.
The lights were dim in the cafeteria, too, as though we were in a store after hours, and that surprised me. I was expecting a small crew of inmates and COs working together on the annual New Year's Eve hot chocolate run. I got nervous next to Fenton and kept one hand on the baton and the other at my shoulder radio. The eating area looked like a highway McDonald's, each table and chair unit growing by a single thick stem from the floor, like a field of bright pastel flowers.
Then we heard voices, a laugh, and a mop or broom handle hitting the ground. I decided to walk around the metallic counter and into the kitchen.
”Ahoy, Billy! About time you got here.”
Roy Duckett stood before a steel counter wearing kitchen whites and an ap.r.o.n that started at his shoulders. He held the biggest wooden paddle I had ever seen, and he stirred a vat of hot chocolate like he was rowing a boat. Another inmate was sprawled across the counter-an easygoing lifer with mutton-chop sideburns and a beer gut, named Eric Jackson, a.k.a. Jacko.
”And a happy New Year to you, Officer Williams,” Roy added.
A small TV was set up on a counter, sports news recounting the football games. I saw an enormous punch bowl filled with cheese-covered nachos, a platter of buffalo wings, and another of baby back ribs dripping in sauce.
Roy and Jacko were without CO supervision. In my early days I would have a.s.sumed the worst-that the COs were hostaged, stuffed into the cabinets and meat lockers, a trap set for me-and reacted appropriately. But with experience I had come to understand that there were moments of laxness, moments of audacious inmate independence tacitly permitted under the contract of barters and deals I did not follow or condone. I had also learned that I should not interfere. It made me feel twice the fool-out of the loop and humiliated by my submission to those rotten unwritten rules.
I could see they wanted nothing more than to laugh at me. A voice within urged the crackdown, the negation of promises, and the cancellation of the hot chocolate run, throwing the entire inst.i.tution into order and discipline, even as I knew that such heroic and reckless prudishness would be the end of me, or at least the end of my job, which felt about the same.
So I swallowed the bitter pride I could taste in my mouth and said nothing.
Then I noticed Josh Riff off to the side.
He looked caught out at something, seeing me there.
I met his eyes, but I did not want the other inmates to see the contact, so I kept it briefer than brief, the indifferent harshness glazing over me like a lizard's blink.
If he'd wanted out, he would have communicated something in that look other than deer in the headlights.
So I left, knowing I had an hour to go on my s.h.i.+ft, three hours to go on the year, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from Ditmarsh as possible when the calendar flipped over another digit.
17.
When she was gone, Roy introduced Josh to Fenton with a flourish, describing Fenton as ”the finest hot chocolate pourer it's ever been my pleasure to know.”
”He's the one, huh?” Fenton said.
”He is the one,” Roy repeated.
Until then, Josh had felt lulled into a rare camaraderie. Roy had convinced the CO in the infirmary that strong-backed, ever-eager Josh would be of a.s.sistance on the rounds, and so he'd been led along on this holiday excursion. Then came the surprise. The television and the food had been a revelation to him, a glimpse of some other kind of inmate life. They'd even pa.s.sed around a thick spliff. After Fenton showed up, the illusion of easy pleasure got tugged roughly away, and Josh felt as though he'd been handed over by Roy as a kind of sacrifice. Fenton had a smooth and pleasing face, a relaxed manner, but that was the surface. Josh had heard things from Crowley about Fenton's activities, and the vibe of respect and even fear the others felt for him was obvious. All except Roy, who seemed more powerful than usual, some kind of change come over him, a different Roy, who told people what to do.