Seeding the Ground
by Andrew Vachss

A malevolent fog reduced the morning sun to a hazy, rancid—butter splotch. The iog descended inexorably, merging with the prison walls to form a sea of gray.
The inner gates opened, and the yard slowly came to life. Convicts moved in intricate patterns; some to their own territory, others to the No Man's land where the unaffiliated were allowed to congregate. The boundary lines were invisible to outsiders. But, to the prisoners, they were as clear as the concertina wire that topped the surrounding wall.
Domino players set up their tables, weight-lifters assembled their iron, joggers started on their first circuit. A few men began limbering up on the handball court, their gloveless hands marking them as veterans of the sport.
Only the gray shark of sudden, explosive violence moved freely across the boundaries, swimming silently through the tight clusters of convicts. A lethal shape-shifter, it would stop only to strike.
The yard was a border town on the edge of a frontier that none of its residents would ever cross. And now it was open for business. Bets were placed, debts collected, sex threatened, plots hatched....

One of the last cons to enter the yard was an elderly, even ancient, man. He moved glacially, his back bent from the weight of his life, heading toward a tiny patch of stone-hard dirt, in a corner that never saw the sun.
The old man was mostly bald, with only a fringe of lifeless white hair remaining. The eyes behind his taped-together, steel—rimmed glasses were the color of denim after a hundred turns in the laundry.
As the old man settled into position in front of his patch, a guard strolled by, a muscular young man with a military haircut and a bodybuilder's biceps.
What are you up to, Pop?  he said.
Ah, you know me, Rico. I'm planting my seeds, like I always do. Yeah, I know. What I meant was, how are you feeling?
"Pretty good, son. All things considered. What about you?"
The guard stepped closer to the old man. He rotated his head on his thick neck as if to get out a kink, scanning the yard in the same motion. Satisfied, he began telling the old man about how his dumbass brother-in-law had gotten himself in trouble again, and how that made his wife so upset she wasn't fit to live with, again.
"But if I say one word about him, then she gets mad at me. So what am I supposed to do?" the guard finished, five minutes later.
The old man nodded sympathetically, knowing no answer was expected.
The guard watched the yard, hands behind his back, chest expanded. Playing his role. "So, you still won't let your granddaughter come for a visit?" he said.
"You know how it is when girls come here, Rico. She's been through enough."
"But, Pop, I know she wants to —"
"It's better this way," the old man said.

After the guard moved off, two men passed by where the old man was working. They were both in their late twenties, prison—complected, and cold-eyed. The taller of the two nodded to the old man, who nodded back.
The two men kept moving, walking the track around the outer yard in a leisurely circuit as they did every day. They walked in perfect synchronization, shoulders almost, but never quite, touching.
The shorter of the two was stocky, round-faced, with curly brown hair. His forearms were so thick with crude, prison-artist tattoos that they looked black.
You really think he knows the whole layout, like he said?  he asked his partner.
The taller man was hawk-faced, with jet black hair worn short on the sides and long in back.  Why shouldn't he?  he demanded.  I mean, he worked there, right? He was the gardener, had the run of the place."
"But that was, like, what? Five, six years ago? And, anyway, he's an old man now, soft in the head. Being old don ? make him stupid."
Stupid wouldn't bother me. Crazy, that's what bothers me."
Crazy people can still know things, Eugene,  the taller man said, confidently. "Anyway, you think he's crazy just because he keeps trying to make something grow on the yard?"
"Maybe not when he first started, okay," Eugene said. "But he's sure crazy by now. That ground's like concrete. Even if you could break it deep enough to plant decent, nothing would ever grow there."
"It's his money. What else has he got to spend it on in here?"
"You city guys don't know nothing about growing things," the stocky man said. "You ever look at the packets those seeds come in? The commissary's had them for a thousand years. They're way too old to work. Got no life left in them. He's stone lunar, Pete. Trying the same thing, over and over, like a robot."
"He's just stubborn."
"Even a damn mule quits after a while, bro. But he don't even have that much sense. You ever put a worm in a glass bottle, watch what happens? The worm crawls a little bit up the side, then he falls back down. Then he goes back, does the same thing. Over and over."
"what else is the worm going to do?" the taller man said.
"Huh?"
"what I'm saying is, so what, Eugene? It's not like he's going to be going along with us.
"Yeah, but what if he is crazy? I mean, that place he used to work at is a damn long ways from here. We don ? know nothing about that part of the state.  The stocky man eye—swept the yard, dropped his voice even lower.  I don ? know about you, bro, but I can't stand another jolt. I had two rides already. You know the deal; the next one's life—without.
Right. That's why there's not going to be any witnesses."
"You think I don't know that? But ... four people. That's going to draw heavy heat. There would have to be a lot of damn money to make it —
The old man says more than half a million, the hawk—faced one said urgently.  All in those — what did he call them, Krugerrands? Gold coins. Solid gold. Untraceable. They're good anywhere. And in Mexico, they're better, than money. Remember that article he showed us in the newspaper? About that Mexican money? Nobody down there wants it; they all want American dollars. But gold, that's even better. We'd be kings, Eugene.
"Kings? We'd be gods, bro. I wonder how much the lawyer would cost."
"The lawyer the old man wants?"
"Yeah, for his  appeal.' Like any lawyer's going to do him any good. How old is he, anyway? Seventy—five?"
"Hell, he's older than that. It was the old man's granddaughter those guys raped. And she wasn't no kid, herself."
"That's right. Man, you'd think a jury would have cut him some slack, behind what they did to her. And him being in World War Two and all."
"Probably would have," the hawk-faced man said, thoughtfully, "if he'd just gone berserk and blown them away. But that old man, he was a coldblooded bastard. Hunted all three of them down, one by one. And he'd done some time, too, back in the day. You know they hold that against you forever. Only reason he's not in the death house is, the jury figured, guy his age, he's going to die soon enough, anyway."
"For a guy who's supposed to be such a stone killer, he's sure going out quiet, bro. Won't even let his own granddaughter,  the one he did it for, come to visit him. All he does is plant those seeds of his. Talks to himself, too. A real wet-brain."
"But he remembers real good. Don't forget, he worked for Rexum himself. Eight on that big estate. Hell, that's where it happened. With his granddaughter, I mean."
"Yeah. I heard, the guys who did it, they worked for —"
"Point is," the hawk-faced man interrupted, "he knows, okay? Those maps he drew us...."
"Yeah, well, I guess it couldn't hurt to go down there and take a look; see if it's like he remembered it."
"We're doing it, Eugene," the hawk-faced man said, flatly, taking control. "I get out in two weeks. I'll get everything set. You raise a month after that; that's when we move. No partying first. Nothing that could attract any attention. Soon as you make the door, we go for it."
"No witnesses, bro," the stocky man said, extending a clenched fist at waist level.
"No witnesses," the hawk-faced man replied, tapping his fist against his partner's. "Now, let's go see if we can pump any more out of him, while he's still got a memory."

Two months later, the old man walked slowly out to his patch of ground. He dropped a handful of seeds, bowed his head.
The guard walked up. "What's going on?" he greeted the old man.
"l want to see my granddaughter, Rico. One more time, before I die."
"You mean you're finally going to let her come for a visit? Hey, Pop, that's great! I knew you'd finally —"
"No. I want to go and see her."
"what are you talking about?
"But, first, I have to go and see the warden."
"You? About what, Pop?"
"About a special visit."
Sure,  the guard chuckled.  Just go off all by yourself, and promise to come back, right? Yeah; you and every con on the yard.
I have something to trade. Come on, Pop. What could you have to trade?
The old man looked up from the ground, his pale eyes holding the guard's. The Rexum family murders, he said, softly. "Those four people killed down south a couple of weeks ago. It was in all the papers.
"Come on, Pop. What could you possibly know about that?"
I know who did it. I know for sure. And I know what that's worth, the old man said, tossing his last handful of dry seeds on the dead ground.
Copyright © 2002 by Andrew Vachss. All rights reserved.