JAMES BLAKE

The Widow, Bereft

(Esquire, January, 1970)

Ronnie hooked his hands around the top bar of the grid in the barred door of the cell. Hanging there, stripped to his shorts against the summer heat of the cell, he watched the changing colors and cloud forms of the riotous Florida sunset.

Cell J-57 was on the top floor of the penitentiary and, though an intervening catwalk ran the length of the range, the windows were open for most of the year and afforded a wide vista: acres of park-like grounds, meticulously pruned and clipped and sheared by convicts who were studying landscape gardening in Vocational Agriculture.

His gaze wandered over the geometrical hedges; regal Washington palms, their fronds like heraldic plumes, raffish leaning coconut palms, formal spruce and cedar. He could see all the way to the high electrified fences, and beyond them, the sudden-death zone with the grass trimmed as close as a golf course. Then the dark mass of pine forest stretching to the horizon.

He had never seen a human figure in that bare expanse between the fences with their guard towers and the dark wall of the piny woods. Often he would imagine one lonely running form, streaking for the shelter of the trees.

He raised his eyes to the evening sky again. "Doug, you got to see this. It's all pink, even the buildings are pink. Looks like the light is coming out of the ground, too. Golden pink. Gold-green and pink."

Northrop said absently, "Too pink. He always uses too much pink."

"No, Douglas, get up, you got to see it. Down near the bottom it's magenta."

"Magenta! What the hell is magenta?"

"It's uh -- it's a kind of purple."

"Then say purple."

"Well, it's more -- Wow, it's changing to French gray. Like footlights."

"French gray, for Christ's sake." Northrop got up from the bunk where he had been stretched out in his shorts, reading. Dark-haired, deeply tanned, in contrast to the red-haired sunburned Ronnie, he had a movie-handsome face on which a sardonic mind had stamped the permanent cast of discontent. He stood behind Ronnie, resting his chin on the other's hair, curling a long hand around the back of his cell mate's neck.

"French gray, my ass. Just plain old gray-gray."

Ronnie said in tranquil tones, "Okay, it's Oxford gray. Look, now it's -- ouch !"

From the adjoining cell came the Carolina whine of Newt Barlow. "Northrop? You torturin' that poor Bracken boy agay-un?"

"This poor boy's a phony son of a bitch."

"Well -- if yawl gonna beat awn him tonight, do it before lights-out, okay? Ah'd surely like to sleep for a chay-unge."

"Yessuh. Cuhnel, suh." He turned away to lie down in the bunk again and take up his book. "Bracken, stop mooning over the sunset, and make some coffee."

" -- Mooning at sunset? You might as' well say -- "

"Never mind, just dummy up and do as you're told."

Ronnie went to the back of the cell and filled an empty coffee jar with water at the washbowl, dropped the bug in and plugged it into the socket. The "bug" was an immersion heater illicitly made in the prison electric shop from a length of element wire fastened to a piece of asbestos and equipped with a cord and plug.

From the bunk Northrop said, "Put something on the box, why don't you?"

Ronnie looked briefly through the pile of records and put one on the portable phonograph. The familiar opening of Daphnis and Chloe filled the cell.

"Oh shit, Ravel. It's too goddamn early for that. Put on some Mozart."

"Mozart, I hate Mozart."

"It figures."

"I think he wrote all that stuff off the top of his head."

"Don't make me get up, Bracken. I'll kill you. Put it on."

Ronnie chose Nachtmusik as least offensive. He was handing Northrop coffee in a plastic cup when Artie Dugan stopped outside the cell door. A stocky, muscled Irishman from Jersey City, with the blue-black hair of the Black Irish and, vivid in his tanned face, bright maniacal blue eyes outlined in spiky jet lashes.

Ronnie liked him, liked the way his eyes laughed when his mouth did, though he suspected it might be by design. But it was to Doug that Artie always addressed himself, in a manner that was deferential bordering on sycophantic. He worked hard at being a jazz buff, and Doug played a driving trumpet in the prison combo -- he was a celebrity in the joint. Sometimes Ronnie figured Artie's fawning was because of Doug's rich mother and rich wife. But mostly it seemed to be because of the music.

Artie was looking down through the bars at Doug in his bunk. He threw Ronnie a dancing glance -- "Whatcha say, doll?" -- and returned to Doug. "Jee-zus man, like what kinda long-haired shit you diggin'?"

"That's W. A. Mozart, Artie," Doug said evenly, the studied forbearance in his voice an insult. "Called 'A Little Night Music.'"

"A little goes a long way, man. Why don't you play some sounds, some Basie, man?"

"You buy it, man, I'll play it, man. What are you doing out there after lockup?"

"New gig, man. I'm a surveyor now, on Construction Squad. Number One Trusty, Charlie. Dig my new threads." He turned from side to side, displaying his Trusty uniform, white shirt and white pants with a broad blue stripe running down the sides.

Ronnie said, "You made it,, Artie, that's wonderful. I thought you looked different."

"Yeah, man, I'm in the club now."

Northrop said, "Let's resign from the club, Bracken. They're taking in a lot of bounders."

Artie said to Ronnie, "When are you gonna get rid of this square creep?"

"I'm working on it, Artie. Arsenic takes a long time."

"You know where I live, baby. Stay cool, Doug."

"Hang loose, Charlie." When Artie had gone, Northrop let out a long sigh. "God, what a hippydip."

"Artie is kind of clanky, but I like him."

"You like him because he comes on with you. You're pussy, Bracken. Beat jaithouse pussy."

"Awww. You're jest a-sayin' that."

From the head of the range came the bellow of the convict range-runner. "Count Time! On the door! Count Time!"

Ever since an escapee had evaded detection by putting a dummy made of bedclothes in his bunk, it was required that the occupants of each cell stand at the door to be counted. Some of the convicts on J-Range, in deference to the new guard, a pink-cheeked ex-Marine, had added a refinement to the procedure. They stood rigidly at attention, staring popeyed into space, and barked out the name and number in what they conceived to be leatherneck style.

Standing at the door, hearing the guard making his way down the range, Ronnie turned toward Doug in the bunk, snarling: "Awright, Northrop, hit the deck! On the double! Now hear this! How would you like a taste of the brig, mister? You hear me, North -- "

Doug suddenly sprang from the bunk and seized Ronnie about the waist, and while he spluttered protest, half giggling, half in alarm, stood him on his head facing the door, holding him up by the ankles.

When the guard stopped at the door, he was absorbed in painstakingly writing on his clipboard and did not look up as Doug intoned briskly, "Northrop, sir! Five-seven-nine-nine-four!" at the same time letting go of Ronnie's ankles'. He collapsed against the door in a thrashing tangle of arms and legs. Struggling to articulate, he gasped out, "Bracken, sir! Five-seven-six-oh-three!"

Startled at the direction from which the voice came, the guard raised his eyes from the board and looked down at Ronnie in mingled distaste and disbelief. He looked up at Northrop.

"What's goin' on hyuh?"

Northrop shrugged, looking down at Ronnie with annoyance. "I don't know what's the matter with him, Boss. If I'd known he was epileptic -- "

" What?"

Red-faced, Ronnie struggled to his feet. Shoulders back, he shouted: "Bracken, Boss! Five-seven -- "

" Shut up!" the guard hollered. He was glaring at Doug. "One of these days, Northrop -- " He passed from view.

Ronnie waited till the guard was out of earshot. "Gee whiz, you did it again. He thinks I'm a lunatic. And ah been tryin' to creep into his heart, the little doll."

"Don't feel bad, he thinks I'm a dope fiend. Well -- I hope he's got some mail for me."

"Maybe he'll never give us any mail again."

In a few minutes there was another bellow from the head of the range. "Mail call! Mail call!" And presently the guard Higdon, his face a cold mask of disapproval, stopped outside the door. "Northrop?"

Doug gave his number and received a long envelope. He looked at it and threw it on the bunk. "Parole Board. Jesus." He stared at the envelope.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Scared to. I know what it says. A brush-off." He picked up the letter. Ronnie watched him as he read, feeling a growing apprehension in his gut. He watched the dawning delight in Doug's face. -- Oh Christ, let me be cool.

Doug looked up from the letter, his face glowing. "Holy smoke, I made it! I made it, baby!"

"When do you go?"

He looked at the letter. " -- to be employed by -- starting date to be -- A week. A week ! Next week, Chicago, wow!" He tossed the letter in the air and fell on his bunk.

"I'm glad, Doug." Hearing it totally hollow as he said it. Ronnie climbed into the upper bunk so that Doug wouldn't see his face.

There was a silence. "Oh, like that , huh? You going to mope now, mope around here for my last week?"

"No, Doug, I'll be all right. I promise."

Again the charged, sustained silence. Ronnie slid from the upper bunk and went to the phonograph. He was climbing back up again when the voice of Billie Holiday began:

No fears, no tears Remember there's always tomorrow --

"Bracken, you're a scheming rat."

"Aw, Doug, let it play."

So what if we have to part We'll be together again --

"I think I'll just beat the living shit out of you."

Ronnie's head appeared at the edge of the upper bunk. "So every time you hear the tune, you'll think of us. Is that too goddamn much to ask?"

"Okay, okay."

Times when I know you'll be lonely Times when I know you'll be sad Don't let temptation surround you Don't let the blues make you bad --

Later that night, when the lights-out bell had rung, the last guard patrol had been made, and the deep night stillness had settled over the penitentiary, from far off beyond the piny woods came the hoarse urgent call of the air horn on the Seaboard night express westbound for Tampa. Several times it sounded.

In the lower bunk, Doug murmured jubilantly, "Ah heah you, Mistuh Engineer. Talk to me, baby, talk to me."

Ronnie muttered, "You son of a bitch." Then, "Doug?"

"What?" In a tone that said, "No."

"Can I come down there?"

"Not tonight."

"I don't mean for that. I just want to be with you."

He groaned. "Oh -- all right, come on. But that's all , you hear?"

In the following days, Ronnie fought the steadily mounting tension, while Northrop was morose and withdrawn.

One evening Doug said, "I talked to Bud Larrabee today. About moving in here when I go."

Ronnie stared at him. "You got to be kidding. Larrabee's next door to psycho."

"Maybe somebody like you could help him. Nobody ever has."

"But why me? I got trouble just trying to stay with it. I feel sorry for Bud, sure. But -- "

"He's heavyweight champ of the joint. Be a good protector."

"Who's going to protect me from Bud?"

"I know you've noticed his build. Quite a body, ain't it?"

Northrop was smiling, a dangerous smiling stranger. Ronnie said, "What's the matter with you? Isn't it bad enough you're leaving, do you have to leave me in a pool of blood?"

"And then, with all the stuff I'll be leaving with you, you'll be a wealthy widow. In demand."

Ronnie's voice was barely audible. "You're like a hyena, Doug. Piss all over something when you leave it."

"Oh? Already got a whiff of that ol' independence, haven't you? Look kid, you better get your mind right. When I go you're up for grabs."

Larrabee . . . Ronnie remembered how hung up he had been at his first sight of Bud. Those unsettling liquid brown eyes that seemed to be constantly beseeching. Like the intense eyes of a deer. Or a dog. Then he had seen Larrabee in a fight in the yard one day and suddenly noticed that throughout the savage brawl, the gentle eyes had never changed. They were frozen forever in mute, mindless pathos.

A couple of days later, Artie stepped outside the cell in the evening, loaded down with belongings.

Ronnie said, "Where are you going, Artie? Running away from home?"

"Movin' to Trusty Range, man. Onward and upward. Next week the warden's daughter!" He looked down at Northrop, lying in his bunk. "Heard about the parole, Doug. Sure glad you made it, man."

Doug sat up. "Why, thank you, Artie. So you're moving to Trusty Range. Fink City. Hmm. Can't beat 'em, join 'em, is that it?"

Artie flinched slightly, but the boyish grin didn't waver. "It's the shortest way out I know of, man."

He looked at Ronnie again, a strangely estimating equivocal stare. "Kinda leaves you out in the open, don't it? What are you gonna do?"

Ronnie shrugged. "I don't know what I'll do, Artie. Maybe commit suttee. You know where I can get a funeral pyre, cheap?"

Artie smiled wryly and inclined his head in an oddly distant formal gesture. "Well -- lotsa luck, Bracken. I'll be seeing you before you go, Doug."

Ronnie turned to find Northrop watching him steadily. "Pretty foxy, aren't you? Why didn't you tell him about Larrabee?"

"I used to wonder about that expression, 'A dog eating glass.' Now I don't have to wonder anymore."

"Getting foxier by the minute. And snottier. See how far you can go, Bracken. I'll let you know when it's too far."

On the day before Doug's leaving, Ronnie spent most of the afternoon walking the Track, the well-worn path around the prison recreation field where so many prisoners had walked with their anxieties.

On one of his rounds he was hailed by Larrabee. Watching him approach, Ronnie remembered Doug's sly allusion to Bud's physique. It was true he moved with feral ease and grace.

Larrabee said, "Did Doug tell you about me movin' up there? I mean -- he said it would be all right with you."

"Yeah, Bud. We -- talked about it. I guess it ought to work out."

"You like to read a lot, don't you?'

"Well -- yes, both Doug and I read quite a bit."

"I was thinkin' -- maybe you could help me with that. You know, tell me what you think I oughta read."

"Oh hell, Bud, anybody ought to read what he enjoys."

"No, seriously. I'd appreciate it a lot. If you'd show me."

Walking alone again, aware of having extricated himself too abruptly, he cursed Larrabee and cursed Northrop. From previous experience, he could chart the course of the Larrabee affair. Guide my faltering steps, Bracken, Bud would beseech with those mad hypnotic eyes. Teach me the finer things. Then, one freak scene in the sack, and pow for the Great Books.

Anger and bitterness were tonic; he felt better. The afternoon rays of the sun stretched long across the grass; he was alone on the huge field. He walked slowly toward the gate leading into the inner compound of cell blocks and mess hall.

Going through the gate, he heard Doug's trumpet in the combo that played for dinner every night in the mess hall.

The band played on a balcony that overhung the entrance to the cavernous room. Ronnie paused under the balcony and decided to sit on the stairs leading to the bandstand. There he could listen without Doug's seeing him. He had found it was often easier to tell his cell partner's mood by listening to him play, rather than by what he said. On the horn he was unable to dissemble.

They were playing "You Don't Know What Love Is." Listening, Ronnie heard loneliness and loss in the music.

There he is, the one I need Where does he go, why does he hide?

The song finished, a pause, and the piano man began a slow introduction. Another ballad. Doug was calling all slow tunes. The horn began again:

No fears, no tears Remember there's always tomorrow So what if we have to part --

The fog had rolled in from the coast around daybreak, and still hung here and there in isolated patches. Cons called it parole-dust.

Waiting at the gate that led from the inner compound of the prison, Ronnie impatiently watched the hand on the gate clock lurch ahead. It was already eight o'clock, but the guard on the gate refused to pass anyone through until the fog had cleared.

It had to be old man Larkin. Senile old prick. He pressed his face against the bars. "Hey, Mr. Larkin? I'm gonna be late for work, Boss."

Larkin swung quickly on his high stool to locate the threat. A fallen chin, incipient goiter and protuberant eyes gave him the witless alertness of a pigeon. His darting eyes pinned Ronnie. Twitching his sunken lips in dismissal, he aimed an expert jet of tobacco juice at the can beside him, and turned again to stare into the yellow tunnel carved in the fog by the gate searchlight.

"Late for work, shit," he said to the fog. "Yew got your first day's work yet to do, Bracken. Awright, get your ass on out here then."

"Gate!" he called to the man in charge of the mechanism.

With his habitual air of loathing, he watched Ronnie disappear into the mist.

Doug was dressed in a thin gray suit, white shirt and black tie. The change made by the civilian clothing was dismaying. Without the prison uniform, Doug seemed diminished. For two years in the prison band, he had worn the immaculate whites of a Trusty; saturnine good looks deeply tanned against a dazzling white, a vivid and dominant figure at the center of Ronnie's existence. Now there remained an uncertain stranger in a flimsy gray suit.

"Wow, man. You look like -- like -- "

"Ex-con?"

"Naw, man, It ain't a bad suit. You look like the night clerk in a hot-sheets hotel."

"Don't worry about it, Bracken. I'll buy a topcoat in Tampa and cover up this outrage on the plane. Or else freeze my ass in Chicago. I'll miss their lousy Florida sunshine."

"I see you got your axe. You think they'll let you blow?"

"No sweat. I give them a year on parole. After that, I'll be blowing my horn again somewhere."

"Doug -- how about -- well, how about, you know, the hang-up?"

He forced himself to look at Doug. As he feared, the gray eyes were hard.

"How about discussing something else? Or how about you dummy up?"

"I don't care, man, I got to say it. You kicked the habit while you were locked up. And the shit was available. Why couldn't you -- ?"

"Did you come all the way out here just to get on my back? You ought to know by now that any promise made in here stops at the gate. I'm going back on the streets, man. It's a new ball game."

"It makes me wish I had something to pray to -- "

" What? Bracken, for Christ's sake. You better pray to the cat that takes care of half-assed whores. St. Pandarus, I think it is. Pray. Holy Jesus."

A runner approached to say that Doug was wanted in Control Room. They walked slowly along the shiny enameled echoing corridor, halted often by convicts and their good-byes, all of them bawdily instructing Doug as to his first night on the streets. He promised to perform for the honor and glory of alma mater.

Talking to Doug, the convicts slid their eyes over to scrutinize Ronnie, looking for signs of distress.

These cats inhale disaster like it was pot. Take a good look, you motherin' buzzard.

When they were alone again, a shy silence fell between them. "You'll be all right, Bracken. Larrabee will be a good cell partner for you. He'll defend the ranch from the bandits and varmits around here."

"Now if I knew somebody to defend me from Larrabee."

"Don't start again with that, Bracken. You got no idea how remote your troubles are becoming to me. You wanted to move Artie Dugan in, and he'd have moved your ass out. I didn't leave all that stuff with you just to give it to a pinball hustler like Artie. God knows you worked for it. Maybe I should have let it happen. You and Dugan. How about a chorus of 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling'?"

"You know why you did it, Doug. Because you're twisted. So forget it."

They were at Control Room. Other parolees stood around, each surrounded by a group of cons.

"I got to split, Doug. I can't take any more jive from these gossiping jerks."

Doug put out his hand. "Well -- " Ronnie stared down at it in confusion. Strangest of all, to be shaking with Doug.

They touched hands. Doug said, "Don't forget, Bracken. Don't forget." Ronnie touched him once more, turned away and did not look back.

At the prison chapel, the other church mice were already at work in the office. He walked quickly past the door of the chaplain's office and went into the empty church. Paused at the piano, sat down, and after some random chords, began "Like Someone in Love." It was damp and chilly in the deserted chapel: the music floated disconsolately up into the rafters. Courting sadness, he went into "I Get Along Without You Very Well." His eyes wet, he crossed the sanctuary to continue his mourning on the organ. Until the chaplain stuck his head in the door, eyebrows raised in his favorite phony attitude, a mixture of consternation and benevolence. This time meaning, Knock it off.

Sinking into a pew behind a post in the chapel balcony, hidden from view, he considered the future. Doug and Larrabee had decided it between them, so he had no choice but to let Larrabee move into the cell as Doug's replacement. Larrabee: unpredictable, volatile, violent. Whatever was done would have to be done with guile and scorpion cunning.

Shortly before lockup, he was lying in the upper bunk in his shorts, trying to read, when Bud came into the cell. He carried a big box of books and a pillowcase stuffed with his gear. Under his arm, a chess set.

Chess? He'll have to kill me first.

"Which bunk, Ronnie?"

"Lemme see, Bud. I'm in this one -- "

"I get the lower? Hey, thanks man, beautiful."

"I'm used to this one, so I'll stay here."

"Well, I want you to know I didn't come empty. Can I come up?" An effortless bound and he was sitting on the edge of the upper bunk. "I brought a tube for us. For opening night."

"A whole tube? Baby, I'm witchoo. Break it out."

Larrabee reached into his sock and brought out an amphetamine inhaler. He removed the plastic cap to show the roll of impregnated cotton inside. Two pieces had been sliced off the roll and wrapped in cellophane. He passed one to Ronnie.

"Wow, Bud, that's a bomber, it'll knock me on my ass. Turn on now, or wait till after count?"

"Frig the count. You got any coffee to wash this down?"

"Everything's over the washbowl. You want me to make it?"

"I'll do it. Put something groovy on the box."

Ronnie tried to avoid the records Doug had liked. He chose Andre Previn as suitably noncommittal. Bud heated water in a jar with the homemade immerson heater. When he handed Ronnie his coffee, they exchanged a conspiring smile. A tube of cotton would not only keep them turned on tonight, they could freak out on it for most of the week. Ronnie's spirits lifted a little. He felt the amphetamine taking hold and stoked it with the hot coffee.

Larrabee said, "It's hot as hell in here," and pulled off his T-shirt, then kicked off his pants. He stroked his belly, looking down at his tapering muscled torso. Ronnie watched him.

"How long was Doug in here with you?"

"About two years."

"And how much time left on your bit?"

"Something like two years."

"No reason we can't make it together till you go home, right?"

Ronnie shrugged. "Pretty early to tell, isn't it? Let's do it as it comes. It's hard by the yard, by the inch it's a cinch."

The bright brown eyes regarded Ronnie for a long minute and were abruptly veiled by thick lashes.

Christ. already I'm irritating him. "You got a lot of books, Bud. What are they?"

"Aw, just a lotta shit."

He glowed shyly as he showed his books. Ronnie saw Kahlil Gibran. (Kahlil? Gibran?) Slddhartha and the Bhagavad-Gita. Metamorphosis and Buddenbrooks.

"And hey, I got some stuff of mine I'd like you to read. Some poetry. At least it's supposed to be poetry."

"That's great, Bud, I want to see it. After lights-out when the joint is quiet, okay? You don't expect to sleep tonight after that wad you swallowed, do you?"

"Reckon not. You got a night-light?"

"I got a blue one, kid. How does that grab?"

"Groovy."

When lights-out bell sounded, they waited till after the guard had passed on his last patrol, then blacked out the barred door of the cell with a blanket. Ronnie took the night-light from concealment, a Christmas-free bulb and. socket he had stolen from the decorations at the chapel.

He plugged it in. The blue glow showed a shadowy cavern. They went to the back of the cell, where the FM played softly. Bud sat on the toilet, Ronnie on the chair. They swallowed more cotton, drank hot coffee, and rapped in the feverish careening tempo induced by the amphetamine.

Bud described his days as a street kid in Detroit, ending with the night in Palm Beach when he was discovered prowling an ocean-front mansion by the banker who lived there. And killed the banker with one shot. And beat the chair because he was only sixteen. Now he was seven years into "all of it," a life sentence.

The voice was a flat uninflected monotone. Ronnie could see, in the dim blue light, the shadowed hollows where Bud's eyes were, the embers glowing in the depths.

Bud broke off to rummage in his box of books. He handed Ronnie a sheaf of papers. "See what you think of this."

Ronnie read, holding it up to the blue light. Frantically high from the speed, he thought the poetry was banal doggerel, and felt strongly urged to say something definitive about it, something lucid and precise. Gravely, earnestly, he began to outline to Larrabee what was wrong with his verse. Larrabee listened for a while, then rose abruptly to go to the lower bunk and stretch out on it, where he lay smoking in ominous silence.

Apprehensive, Ronnie sat on the edge of the bunk and laid his palm on Bud's hard ridged belly. "Look, Bud, I'm sorry if I came on too strong. I'm wasted behind the shit, dig? But I still tried to tell you honestly what I thought. Why play games, right?"

Larrabee's low voice from the darkness of the bunk was pensive. "And that's what you thought."

The blow hit the side of his head like a hammer. Ronnie saw flashes and livid streaks of light behind his eyes.

"What the hell was that for?"

"If I ever hear that snotty superior tone out of you again, Bracken, I ain't gonna stop with one clout. I'm gonna stomp you, dig?"

Ronnie started to rise. "Wait a minute, baby. I didn't do so good in the culture bag. Maybe I'll do better in the sleeping bag. Let's make it."

Daylight found them gray faced and empty eyed. They ate more cotton and drank more coffee. And when the sliding bar was pulled to unlock the cells for breakfast, they went instead to the shower room and stood for a long time without speaking under the warm soothing water.

They had scarcely spoken all night after Larrabee hit him. In silence, save for a few curt commands, Larrabee had methodically blasted him with virtuoso variations on the prison sex canon.

As they were dressing, Ronnie tried again: "Bud, listen man, please don't be salty."

Larrabee smiled. "It's all right, forget it, babe. Now we know what we gotta do. I'll learn to write better and you learn to blow better."

Later in the day, Ronnie slipped away from his job at the chapel and went to the captain's office to consult the convict clerk.

Billy Lane, inmate secretary to the captain, was a thin, intense, waspish queen who ruled the captain's office, and thus much of the penitentiary, with an iron imperious hand. Anyone wanting a cell transfer, a road-camp transfer, or other unspecified accommodations had to go to Billy with the bread in his hand.

Though intimidated by the acid-tongued Lane, Ronnie had established a rapport of sorts with him. Lane played the organ, and Ronnie had arranged for him to make use of the chapel instrument, on which he played earsplitting, window-rattling, inexact Bach. Their relationship was based on the theory they were both cultured beings marooned in an encampment of Tatar hordes.

"Hey dahling! What brings you to the Gestapo? Oh, let me show you something fabulous. Look what my cool captain managed to dig up. Dope, my dear. Soul-corroding shit corrupting all those clean-limbed convicts. Oh it's a wicked world."

He opened the drawer of the desk to show plastic containers of various pills and capsules, and a quantity of amphetamine inhalers. "Not a minute too soon, either. Your poor old mother was running out of merchandise. Worse than that, she was starting to come down. Here, baby, you're always good to me, take this along."

He handed Ronnie a white plastic inhaler. "Besides, If my man gets his hairy paws on this speed, the orgy won't stop. And we got too many hustles to stay on top of."

He leaned back in the swivel chair and calculated Ronnie. "Now, what's on your mind? I heard the mad Larrabee moved in on you. Is that what's bugging you, baby?'

Ronnie knew that whatever he said would be all over the joint in an hour. There was little choice. "I can't make it with him, Billy. Cat's paranoid. And when he hits you, it knocks your head off."

Billy's nostrils flared and his black eyes flashed theatrically. "You mean that wig-sprung pugilist beat you up?"

Already this harpy is embellishing. "No, no, certainly not. He just banged me up the side of the head, but I'm afraid it won't stop there. I always think I'm masochistic till somebody belts me."

"And you want me to change your cell location."

"I got to go somewhere , Billy."

"Mmm. But if you simply transfer to another cell inside the Rock, Bud will find you. And maybe break your jaw. I know that one. It's really too bad. Such a wild lay, isn't he?"

"Well -- he's diligent."

Billy screamed. "You're too much for your old mother! Listen, I think I got the answer. You have a Trusty card, right? So you're eligible to move out of the Rock. Why not move onto Trusty Range where Polack and I live? In fact I don't know what the hell kept you in that miserable Rock for so long."

"I was with Doug."

"Well, you're going to move out before Larrabee gets back from the gym. We're in a four-man room upstairs and we have a vacancy. I'll move you in with Polack and me."

"You said there were three in the room?"

"Oh. Didn't I tell you? Artie Dugan."

"Artie."

"Don't exactly make you mad, does it, girl? Artie digs you. So you move in and play mother and father. It's a pain in the ass having a bachelor in the pad, he just lies there in the sack listening to Polack and me sexualize. Inhibits me something fierce. I'm sure you can focus his attention elsewhere."

Ronnie went back into the Rock to collect his belongings. In the cell, a freshly laundered sweat suit of Larrabee's lay across the lower bunk. He looked at the books neatly lined up on Bud's bunkside shelf, and felt a twinge of guilt. Doug had told him to help Bud. Now he was running out on the lost and floundering Larrabee.

With the help of a spade runner, he quickly gathered all the things that Doug had left to him -- the phonograph and records, the FM, the books, and his collection of pajamas.

Trusty Range was another world from the drab and dingy Rock. The wide hallway immaculate, the floor waxed, two areas with benches for viewing television.

In the big well-lighted four-man room, there were regular beds instead of bunks. Billy was there to help him unpack and show him what bed to take. A chest of drawers between the windows held a large urn with an enormous arrangement of cut flowers.

"You like my flahrs? The spade from the greenhouse brings them to me. Sweet. I think you'll like our little home, darling. We live it up around here."

Inserting a cigarette into a long rhinestoned holder, he sat down on a bed. "Do you know my Polack?"

"I've seen him around and rapped to him a little, but I don't really know him."

"I swear to God it's like being mated to a mandrill. He's got to be the ugliest stud in the world. And the schemingest. But he has one lovable quality, he's free with his bread. Under that armor plate there's a dizzy Polack peasant buying drinks for the house."

"Polack intimidates me. Oh hell, he paralyzes me."

Billy turned to give him a sharply inspecting scrutiny. "Don't ever let Polack see you're afraid of him. He's got a rotten mean mouth. And it wouldn't be good for Artie."

"Artie? I don't get it."

Wanly, he raised manicured eyebrows and fluttered eyelids that were blue from fatigue. The long holder was a baton, the long slender hands gilding and swooping through the air were pale white bats.

"Well, my child -- this is maybe a teeny bit sordid -- but it's like this. Artie works for Polack. They got a wailing Shylock operation going. You know, cutthroat lending, with a twenty-five-percent clout. Compounded whenever Polack gets the urge to compound."

"What does Artie do?"

"Torpedo. He corrects the cons who don't make their payments. It's tricky work. Artie is very useful to Polack."

"You're trying to tell me something."

"Of course. If Polack thinks you might louse up his main man in a romance, that's not good. So it's up to you, love."

"You got a rusty razor blade? I think I'll slash my wrists."

"Don't be an ass. I'm just giving you the picture." He rose and went to a cupboard. "Come to think of it, the hell with it. I'll make some coffee and we'll turn on some cotton. From the cotton fields of ol' Massa Rexall. Then we can figure better. We might even forget what the problem is."

Shortly after the four-thirty whistle blew, Polack and Artie came in together. Their heads swung from Ronnie to Bill and back.

Brisk and strident, Billy shrieked, "Surprise, surprise! The Easter Bunny was here, Artie baby. He left you a basket. Or do I mean a bag?"

Artie looked down at Ronnie sitting nervously on the edge of the bed. The manic blue eyes danced in their switched-on way, faintly mocking. "Hey baby. Wow." He sat next to Ronnie. "You movin' in, pussycat?"

He nodded. "It would appear."

The blue eyes studied Ronnie. Gradually they turned frosty as Artie's face assumed his borrowed Bogart expression of menace. It was not convincing, the jet lashes that fringed his eyes were incongruous and distracting.

"Larrabee give you a bad night?"

He shrugged. "You know how that goes, Artie. Bud doesn't know what he's doing."

"A bad night," he insisted, watching Ronnie steadily.

"What can I say? Mother told me there would be bad nights. That's the breaks."

He could hear himself sounding stilted, conscious of Polack silhouetted against the barred windows, looking out and listening.

Polack turned to Billy. "What's happening around here?"

"Happening?" He tilted a languid eyebrow. "Ronnie moved in to be with Artie. Everyone should have a hobby, don't you think?"

Polack swung to Artie. "Is that what you want, partner?"

Artie didn't look at Polack. He smiled a pale uncertain smile at Ronnie. "Well, yeah man. Like this is my chick. I told you about it. Northrop's old lady."

"Northrop. That musician dude. Went out on parole."

Ronnie watched the clean brown face. The blue eyes that met his were suddenly opaque.

Artie, Artie, oh you weak mother, what happened to Humphrey Bogart?

Polack left the window to stand at the foot of Ronnie's bed. The face grotesque, hypnotic, a megalocephalic head too big even for the big body. Massive mashed nose that seemed to stem from the forehead just under the low hairline, bleak sunken eyes crowding the flattened bridge of the nose. Skin spectral white, cratered with past acne, stretched taut over Slavic cheekbones tapering down to a wide wet sensual mouth.

In a voice between rasp and croak, "Whaddya say, bitch, you figure to take good care of my boy?"

Ronnie tried to look at him and had to give it up. He looked at the floor, knowing his mistake. "I figured the boy for taking care of me, Polack."

Polack stared down at Ronnie's lowered bead, and a brief dim smile touched the moist lips. He turned away and said to Billy, "Okay, you brought her in here, remember that. Artie? It's up to you to see that your broad keeps her jaw shut about what goes on in here. You got that?"

"No sweat, partner. She's hip."

"Awright, I'm holding you responsible for your old lady." He regarded Ronnie with a look minutely thawed. "Okay, babe. Use your head. You're not out in the open anymore, you're with Artie. Anybody gives you any shit, tell him. Or tell me, and we'll handle it."

He turned a quizzical glare on Billy. "Awright, don't stand there, bitch. We'll drink to the fortunate couple."

Billy produced glasses and surgical alcohol in orange juice. It was the first lush Ronnie had touched in two years. Maybe I can get blocked, he thought desperately. With Artie's speculating gaze on him, he took a long slug.

Polack, and Billy stood at the window, talking in low tones. Ronnie gulped down the rest of the drink feeling it begin to move in him.

"I think I'll catch a shower. Been a hectic day." Stripping to shorts and shower slides, he hung a towel around his neck.

Artie said, "There's a shower robe at the foot of my bed. Take that."

"What for, Artie? I don't need it"

Artie's voice stopped him at the door. "I said put it on, bitch."

The other two turned from their conversation to look impassively at Artie flexing his machismo. Ronnie blinked in dismay, smothering the retort that rose, and put on the white terry-cloth robe.

"That's better. I don't want you showing your ass up and down the hall."

In his head Ronnie heard, "Oh balls, you muscle-bound ox." It came out, "Whatever you think best." He made another try for the door.

"Come over here and sit down."

Artie's voice a murmur with an edge in it. "What's your beef?"

"Nothing, Artie. Nothing at all. Just, I've had a rough week."

"Northrop. You miss Doug, huh?"

He skirted it. "Two years is a long time. It was a habit."

"Look at me when you talk to me."

He laid a heavy arm across Ronnie's shoulder and his hand turned Ronnie's head. The blue eyes locked on his, leisurely perusing, probing. They were darker now, deepened by something Ronnie had never seen before. The robe pushed aside, a hand on his thigh. Pinned by the watchful eyes he felt the hard calloused surface of the moist warm palm against his leg.

The hand curved and grew heavier. "It'll be groovy, pussycat. I thought I lost you when that slick trumpet player moved that goddamn crazy Larrabee in on you. Thought we'd never make it. But you found your old man, didn't you?"

Ronnie heard somebody else with his voice say, "I had to, Artie. But I wanted to."

"That's a smart pussycat. Go take your shower. Oh, wait a minute." He went to a footlocker at the end of his bed. "Here, take this. I want you smellin' sweet." Aphrodisia. "And this goes on your sheets." Talcum powder.

At the early hour, with most of the cons at dinner, Ronnie had the shower room to himself, and stayed for a long time under the water, wishing he would never have to come out.

In the room, Billy rapidly produced a meal from supplies purloined from the Officers' Dining Room. Ronnie, feeling the buzz from the one drink, decided to continue. He poured from the bottle Billy had left out, and when he turned around with the drink, Artie was watching him. He stared a little longer, as if debating whether to say something, then turned his head to continue talking to Billy.

They had just finished eating when the door burst open and the burly Doc Prescott whirled in. Convict secretary to the head doctor at the prison hospital. He pirouetted to rest beside Polack, on his bed.

"Your frenzied pharmacist is here. How about a drink?"

Polack in one gesture told Billy to serve a drink and indicated to Doc Ronnie's presence.

Doc said, "Oh. Hey, that's Bracken, isn't it? Northrop's old lady. Ex old lady. I bet you're missing your daddy? You move in here?"

Ronnie nodded.

"You know her?" Polack asked.

"Hell, yes. Northrop bought fury pills from me all the time. Those two cats were always stoned out of their skulls."

"Is that right?" A thin gleam of interest in the words. "Okay, friendly pharmacist, what's happening?"

There was a loaded pause. Polack said, "She's okay. I told Artie to keep her trap shut or I'll mash his chops."

"Well then -- Your old family quack made a little score today. Dig." He held out a vial for Polack's inspection. In his other hand he flashed a hypo and syringe. Billy stood beside Polack looking down at the display.

"Now that's what I call attractive."

Artie got up and went over. "What kind of shit is it, Doc?"

"The granny of them all, sweetheart. Pentathol." With brisk efficiency, he drew the colorless liquid from the bottle, and after briefly feeling for a good vein, inserted the needle in Polack'a arm and pushed the plunger.

Polack froze for an instant, said softly, "Aaaah," and lay back on the bed. Billy offered his thin white arm. As the spike went in he said tensely, "Jack it a little, Doc." The blood rose in the tube, receded, rose again and fell.

"Mmmmh." Billy lay down beside Polack. Artie rolled up his sleeve and held out his big hairy forearm. Then walked like a somnambulist to his bunk and stretched out with a sigh.

The light from the lamp flashed on the works as Doc extended them. Ronnie shook his head. "Thanks, Doc, I'll pass. Hardware spooks me."

"Oh, yeah, I understand," Doc said distantly, as if he had confessed to terminal syphilis. Gazing at Ronnie, he made a studied deliberate routine of saturating gauze with alcohol and wiping the spike. And only then turned back to Polack, laid out on the bed and breathing loudly. He hovered over the recumbent Polack, his gaze brooding, watchful, tender.

"You want to go again, my darlings?" And when they did not move, hit them again, and came over to do the same to Artie. While Ronnie lay in bed trying to read and not to hear anything, the three of them would get the flash, go abruptly on the nod, and soon revive groggily to hold out their arms for another hit.

Eventually, Doc briskly dismantled his equipment, wrapped it in a cloth and put it in his pocket. "Anybody want to come down to our joint for bridge? No. Okay, good night all. Happy embolism." He went out surveying Ronnie.

In a few minutes, they began to stir. Polack sat up and said, "Artie, tell your broad where to go for hot water. I want some coffee."

Ronnie took the pitcher Artie gave him and went into the hallway. It was dark out there. Just outside the door, in the television area, other Trusties who lived on the floor sat on benches before a blasting TV.

Ronnie walked down the long hall to the shower room. He pushed the heavy iron door open into a fog of steam. At one side, naked cons were showering, and at the long sink, several others stood before the mirror, shaving.

The din dwindled to silence as they saw Ronnie. He ran one of the taps, letting the water run over his hand. Ed Jones, a member of the chapel choir that Ronnie directed, was one of those shaving.

"Hey, Ed, what's happening? You still going to do that solo on Sunday?"

Jones surveyed him leisurely before answering. "I don't know, Bracken. I'll have to think about it."

In the silence, the flat hostile tone bounced off the tile floor and walls. Accustomed to hearing only unctuous servility from Jones, Ronnie stood looking down into the sink at the running water, cursing the rising tide of color he could feel in his face. When he had filled the jar, he walked through silence to the door. And when he had closed it behind him, he heard the noise break out redoubled.

Ah so, he said to himself, retracing his steps down the long hall and being careful to look at no one. Ostracism goes with this gig. Not to mention obloquy. I got to ask Billy what gives.

Billy made coffee. Polack grabbed his cup and said to Artie, "Let's dig the TV. Will you take the Pope's chair?"

From against the wall, Artie hoisted a large, ornately carved wing chair upholstered in tapestry cloth. He nodded at Ronnie. "Gimme a hand." They carried the chair into the hall, past the rows of benches where the other cons sat, past those who had brought stools to sit on, and folding chairs.

And placed the big chair before the TV in front of the assembly. There was some muttering and shifting about as Artie and Ronnie, and the high back of the chair blocked the view. Polack, sauntering behind, waited. Then sat down in the big chair, hidden from sight by the wings, lighted a cigarette and crossed his legs. He blew out a fog of smoke that clouded the TV screen.

Artie split down the hall, leaving Ronnie to go back into the room alone. Billy was fiddling with the FM. An orchestra came on, a Prokofiev concerto. He adjusted the volume and lay back on his bed. He winked at Ronnie.

"At last we get some relief from the buffaloes. I hope they got a good long shitty movie to look at."

Ronnie sat on the edge of the bed. "I need some answers, Billy."

"All right, love. Ask a stupid question."

"When I went down to the shower room, I got frost a foot deep."

Billy smiled a feline smile. "Yeah. I used to get it. Still do. You'll get accustomed."

"I will? What is it?"

"Simple. They're all scared shitless of Polack and Artie, so they hate their guts. They know Polack is running the joint, and there ain't a swingin' dick can do a motherin' thing about it."

"So?"

"Oh, come on. Call it hetero-backlash. You won't see them dummying up on Polack or Artie. Once they dig you're definitely Artie's old lady, they'll warm up some. They'll have to."

At lights-out call, Artie came back carrying the chair, followed by Polack. Billy turned on a dim lamp and turned the FM down to a murmur.

Stripping to his shorts, Ronnie crawled under the covers. Stretching, flat on his back, he felt some of the tension abate. Then, remembering, he crawled out and, rolling back the top sheet, he sprinkled talcum powder on the bed, feeling ludicrous.

The dim shape of Artie stood by the bed, wearing the white shower robe.

"Be right back, babe." He returned on a wave of cologne. Sniffing, Ronnie recognized Aphrodisia.

Lo the bridegroom cometh, an eagle on scented wings. He stared at the shadowed ceiling, listening to Artie's movements and the murmur of the FM. A piano was playing "Come Rain Or Come Shine." The music reached out to tell him that Doug was gone. A new ball game . . .

Artie stood at the bedside, with slow deliberation removing his white robe. "You asleep, babe?"

"Coitinly I'm asleep. Something you require -- ?"

"I got your require swinging. Brylcreem okay with you?"

"Bryl -- whatever you think is right, Mister."

"Crazy. Here you go."

After the initial flurry, Ronnie began to feel that the fervor was contrived, seeming to be somehow linked with the action in the other bed. It was distracting, he listened in spite of himself to the sound at the other end of the room. And thought of the coupling of buzzards. There was a sinister macabre authority in the sounds.

Absently performing, automatically responding, disoriented, he could not keep his mind from wandering.

Could it be second billing that's bugging me, for godsake? Or all these goddamn cross-vibrations hanging me up?

There was a sudden furtive tapping at the iron door of the room. Billy had rigged it shut. Now somebody was making tentative efforts to force it open.

Artie slid swiftly out of bed and into his own. A creaking of springs and muffled curses from the other end of the room. Billy said, low and tight, "You gonna answer that?"

Polack, with calm contempt, "You want him to wake the whole joint?"

Wrapping a towel around his middle, Polack gingerly opened the door. Captain Miller, head of Security, "Dickless Tracy" to the cons, slipped in, his face flushed from emotion or juice or both, his sparse brown hair disheveled.

Polack led him to the windows, where they murmured. The one insistent, agitated, the other with the cadence of command. Once Polack rose to full voice: "I haven't got that much here, good buddy. I'll give you what I got, and more tomorrow, awright?"

A shadow loomed, and Artie slid back into bed with Ronnie. They whispered:

"Are you out of your mind?"

"That lame? He don't bother me."

"Whaddya mean, isn't that -- "

"Dummy up and take care of biz, will you?"

Eventually, the caller was maneuvered out the door. Polack returned to bed muttering, "Schmuck, what a schmuck." Low urgent voices from Billy's corner, and finally Polack wearily, "Will you get out of my face, bitch, or do I clout you? I know what I'm doing, he's in my pocket. Lemme sleep, for Chrissake."

In the morning Ronnie was still in bed when Artie went out with Polack. Wearing his hard construction helmet, Artie leaned over the bed to give Ronnie's cheek a perfunctory pat and say brusquely, "Take this and get yourself something today, babe."

When they were gone, he looked at the folded bill. Ten bucks. He lay staring into space as waves of dismay and chagrin washed over him, then slowly drained away, leaving him beached.

On his way to the canteen to buy breakfast, he passed two trusties he knew casually. Approaching, they became suddenly involved in conversation, didn't look at him and seemingly didn't hear his greeting. Stung by the pointed rebuff, he found himself unable to muster a front to enter the crowded lunchroom where the trusties with money hung out. Instead he bought fig bars at the grocery window and walked slowly to work at the chapel.

The hell with them. Moronic slobs. Christ, I got to find a way to cope. Or get used to it. ("Here, babe take this and get yourself something.") Black underwear? Rhinestone jockstrap? I got to turn on or die.

He practiced furiously all morning on the piano and organ. When he returned from lunch, the chaplain called him in. He could see on the chaplain's face that it was Heat. A conclusion strengthened by the throbbing tremolo of reproach in the chaplain's voice.

"Are you in any trouble, Ronald?"

"Not that I know of, chaplain."

"Mr. Darby is here and wants to talk to you. You'll find him in the chapel."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." He went into the toilet and rapidly emptied his pockets into a handkerchief and stashed the bundle under the trash in the wastebasket. Checking his eyes in the mirror, he decided he couldn't risk wearing shades. Just have to keep looking down.

Son of a bitch. Darby, the Assistant Supe. Little Caesar, they called him. Cons claimed he could photostat a rap sheet with his eyeballs alone. And said that he knew everything about everybody, and saved it all for when he needed it. His manner with cons was a wry alert politeness, a deference studded with snares. Alone among the officials he received a grudging respect. And the ultimate accolade: "Con-wise."

Frantically running reels in his head, trying to remember where he might have slipped recently, Ronnie went nervously into the chapel. Darby was sitting in the choir loft inspecting a hymnbook. Short and dapper, crisply groomed, cropped gray hair, and disinterested eyes.

"Hello, Bracken. How are you?" he said.

"Pretty good, thank you, sir."

"Chaplain tells me you're doing a good job with the music program here."

"It's not exactly my bag, sir, but I do the best I can."

"Good, good. Two more years to go, is that right?"

"About that, sir."

"Got a good record so far? No D.R.'s?"

You're asking or telling? He looked at the bridge of Darby's nose briefly and dropped his gaze. There was just so much of the man-to-man, eye-to-eye bit you could hope to sell. With Darby it was important to try to compute it precisely.

"No, sir, I haven't been written up since I've been here. Well, not quite, sir." He was startled to find himself suddenly spitballing. "Once I was gigged for an overdue library book." He smiled primly at the official, sharing a rueful knowledge of the inscrutable ways of minor bureaucrats. Why? I must be losing my mind.

"Is that so? What was the name of the book?"

"Gosh, I don't remember, sir."

"It doesn't matter. I just thought you might have taken a special interest in it, to keep it overtime. Why did you move up on Trusty Range with Polack and his friends?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Don't give me a routine, Bracken, I'll bury you in Maximum and you'll be rapping to the roaches, chaplain's boy or no. I came over here instead of sending for you. To give you a break. You know my reputation around here, I only get visits from finks. Should I go back to the office and send for you?"

"I -- I don't know what to say, Mr. Darby."

"Oh c'mon, Bracken, you can think of something. Like overdue library books. Ever since you've been here you lived in the Rock. Did a good job, kept a good record. Suddenly you jump off the end of the dock. Why?"

Ronnie felt himself losing ground under Darby's steady-rolling pressure. The first bloom of panic popped open inside him and began to grow.

In his throat, his voice: "I lost my cell partner, sir. And I have a Trusty card. So I moved to Trusty Range for a change of scene. Kind of break up this time a little, that's all. There was a vacancy in Polack's room. I wasn't even sure who lived there, sir."

"Well." A sour smile moved one corner of his mouth. "Sounds reasonable." He gazed into the rafters, searching for the rest of the thought. "You got a lot of gain time accumulated, son. I'd hate to see you blow it."

Son! There it was, nitty-gritty. Trying to quell the mounting dread, he caught a breath and plunged. "I hope you won't think I'm lipping off, Mr. Darby. But I'm the one has to build this time, sir. I have to live here. I got a clean record. All of a sudden I get a choice between Maximum Security and Protective Custody. And I haven't done anything."

Darby smiled broadly, shaking his head. "Correction, you haven't done anything today. Let's see, you were in the same cell for two years with Northrop, till he left on parole."

Ronnie looked down at his clasped hands, trying to keep them loose.

Let that one go by.

"I just don't get it, Ronald. An inmate with a good job and a perfect record -- perfect on the surface at least, we understand that, don't we? Suddenly moves in with a gang of hustlers. Worse than hustlers."

His pulse pounding, waiting to hear the Man drop the Label, Ronnie continued to look gravely at his hands.

Darby sighed a bored sigh and stood up. Leaning against the rail of the choir loft, he reached into the pocket of his crisp short-sleeved white shirt.

"Smoking allowed in here?"

"Not for me, sir."

"I'll give you -- what do they call it? Indulgence."

Ronnie took a cigarette from the proffered pack and Darby lighted it for him. "You got a parole hearing pretty soon, haven't you? Well -- I thought I'd try. I can't help you if you won't help me. Chaplain says you're a valuable man, Ronald. Says you're the only one he's got who can play the organ."

"Yes, sir."

"You're over your head, Bracken. You could get into some bad shit. So protect yourself. Oh yes. You can tell your new friends about our talk if you want to. But you know how that goes. They'll only wonder how much you're holding back."

He took a few steps and stopped, looking out over the empty pews. Half to himself he said, "From concubine to stooge. Is that up, or down?" He strolled across the sanctuary, not looking back. Across the charged silence, Ronnie barely caught the words: "Keep a good record, Bracken. Be glad you play the organ."

Transfixed, he watched Darby go. Even numb with foreboding, he savored Darby's walk -- the dispirited trudge of a man burdened with more than he cares to know, the tireless prowl of one implacably determined to expose and examine the last remaining secret.

Alone in the chapel, he sat stunned, his mind so clogged it was blank. He paced the long aisle, trying to decide what to do, and inevitably he went to the captain's office to see Billy.

"Can you take a break? I got something to tell you, but I think upstairs would be better."

In the room, Billy put some water to boil with an immersion heater. "You look shook, Ronnie. You want to turn on? I got some Dexies."

When they had downed the capsules and were sipping the scalding coffee, Billy reclined on the bed, propping himself on an elbow.

"All right, love. Wail."

"Darby came to see me at the chapel today.

" He? Came to you? The small Caesar?" Billy sat up to put a cigarette in his long holder. Seemingly absorbed in lighting up, he said, "Let's have all of it."

When Ronnie bad finished, Billy sat nibbling the holder. Then, "I knew it. I tried to tell the stubborn bastard. Well." He looked at Ronnie as if seeing him for the first time. "I got to fill you in, my dear. You know Miller has only been captain for a few months. Since Captain Kern collapsed with penis envy or something and had to take sick leave. They didn't figure he'd be out long, so they decided to humor Miller and let him wear the King Hat for a while." He rose and began to pace the floor, waving the gaudy holder. "Miller has political friends, if you can believe that. He also gambles, juices and chases. You couldn't expect Polack to work around him and pass up a hustle like that. He became the understanding Big Brother, The Little Sister of the Poor. Advanced Miller some bread, friendly, like. Just enough to bring him back for more. Kept raising the ante, ever so precisely. Sometimes I think he worked it out with a slide rule."

Listening, Ronnie felt like a man descending a sand dune. With every step downward, he slid six on the shifting sand beneath his feet.

"So how much further does Polack intend to ride it?"

"God. I wish I knew. Most of the time I can browbeat him. But now he's got this megalomania thing that he's big time at last. Utterly nutty. Darby has suspected all along that Polack had Dickless Tracy by the scrotum. He's just trying to figure a way to cut Polack's ass in half without splattering merde all over everything. And having it get to the Commissioner in Tallahassee. Every greedy mother in Administration is hustling something , and they don't want some square inspector to come in here and shut off the merry-go-round."

Billy stopped pacing and bent to open the cupboard. "Oh, balls. I think we need a stiff belt about now, don't you?"

Drinking the orange juice and alcohol, he eyed Ronnie carefully over his glass. "All right now, listen closely to your old mother, dahling. This could blow us right across the river into Solitary. We're just a couple of warmhearted hustlers in a world of rape artists, right? So let's sit on this for a while, thee and me. Polack's tantrums bore the shit out of me, anyway. We play it cool and pay attention. Okay little sister? We'll finish our drinks and go back to work like decent Kelly Girls."

Ronnie gulped the rest of the drink and went to stand looking out the windows. Something in his aspect made Billy swivel his glance to follow him.

At length Billy said, "What's the hang-up, baby? Tell your mother."

Turning from the window, he said, "You got to help me, Billy, or I'm going to crash. I feel like I got to turn on and never turn off again."

There was something that hadn't been there before. Billy inspected him casually, trying to name it.

"Turn me on, Billy baby. I got a right to sing the blues."

"Of course I will, love. I just hope you know what you're doing. What's your pleasure?"

"Cotton, anything, anything to twist my wig. I got to cut the balloon loose and sail for a while. Otherwise I'm going to flip."

Billy kept him supplied with inhalers and pills from the store of confiscated drugs in the captain's office, and Ronnie took off on a journey to the remote interior of himself. During the day, he discharged his routine duties at the chapel automatically, and kept to himself as much as possible. At night he slept very little. When he had performed his connubial routine with Artie, he joined other sleepless convicts around the Trusty Barber Shop. Under the sickly glow of two small naked bulbs, they sat on benches and folding chairs, each man to himself, reading paperbacks. Sometimes during the night he would return to the room to lie on the bed, his eyes open, his mind racing, waiting for the day.

On Sunday morning he rose in darkness, having been in bed for less than an hour -- he had to play the organ for early Mass. He swallowed some amphetamine, drank hot coffee, and gulped honey from a jar.

A guard answered his ring to unlock the iron door off the Trusties' floor.

It was still dark outside, and the moon was up. The long cell blocks were silent black silhouettes against the sky. He walked slowly through the dappled shadows under the live oaks, tasting the night, solitude, silence. He thought of Doug again. And again, he wished the same old wish.

If he was still here, I could tell him about this when I got back to the cell. The hole inside was getting bigger instead of smaller.

The Catholic priest was already at the chapel, dressing in the vestments of the Mass. He was a ruddy young Irishman of the provincial gentry with a politely disdainful manner, the high color of a wine drinker, and the sleekness of a well-kept horse. Father Aidan considered, and spoke it forth, that Mother Church had abandoned him in a swamp full of cannibals. He loathed Florida and his parish in town, and flew back to Dublin whenever he had the chance. Ronnie would watch from the organ, standing, at the altar, and wonder if the disenchanted Father Aidan had been taking a closer look at the Bride of Christ.

He stopped at his desk to put on a big pair of shades for a barricade, and knocked on the door of the priest's office. Father Aidan looked wasted, Ronnie noted with satisfaction.

In his Irish tenor voice and precise English accent, the priest said, "Au, here is my cherished organist. I have a couple of suggestions for you." And indicated places in the Mass where he wanted special music.

Beautiful. He's stagestruck again. Probably do Paul Scofield or Brian Aherne this morning. We'll wail.

At the door leading to the sanctuary, he paused to collect himself: Deliberate. Coordinate. Operate. Meticulously he navigated his way across a sea of polished floor under the gaze of those devout convicts who came early to kneel and mutter.

Once he was seated on the organ bench, it was better. The keys of the organ regarded him expectantly and made him eager to play.

Father Aidan made his entrance with the altar boy, and Ronnie gave him austere flourishes and fanfares, then softly improvised behind him as he moved through the Mass, always building toward the climactic Sanctus. When Father Aidan was up in the part, the music had to sustain him and even push his performance a little higher.

Sometimes they got carried away and overblew the gig. One Mass had ended completely off the rails when Father Aidan, after giving Benedictus and Dismissal, had come to the lectern and by some circuitous ploy, launched into a bellowing rendition of "Galway Bay," ending in a florid wild Irish coda. The conservative cons had been stunned and offended.

Now Father Aidan was leading up to the high moment of the Mass, the Sanctus. He raised the chalice high, and the long rays of the morning sun through the tall windows caught the brass cup and struck flame. Ronnie brought up the music crescendo under it, sustained, and stopped.

From here on, it was downhill. He wondered if he had come on too strong with the movie-score music, induced by a sudden vision of Loretta Young as a nun. But no, it was all right -- at the end of the Mass, the priest was smiling, nodding his head, bowing slightly toward the organ.

And then, to Ronnie's dismay, Father Aidan blew it again. Advancing to the lectern, he called out, with the false heartiness of an Irish tummler, "And now let us all rise and join in singing 'God Bless America."'

Ronnie played the introduction too loudly, to express his distaste. The convicts had the words in their songbooks, but there was an unspoken law about patriotic songs, no con in his right mind would sing them. They slouched, they sagged and shuffled, and droned a low grumbling monotone of injury and complaint.

Father Aidan bawled all the louder, making up his own words, and finished with a braying flourish that bounced off the walls. He beamed fatuously down at the organ. Ronnie, walled up behind his big shades, told the lower half of his face to smile: And there he goes, folks, the Singing Priest. From Vatican to Vegas, overnight.

The short winter of northern Florida was coming to an end. Wandering in the isolation of an amphetamine dream, Ronnie was suddenly surprised and gratified one morning to notice the redbud trees in clouds of blossom. With the longer days, he was able to delay returning to the room until dark. He spent the time between the end of his workday and the twilight reading on a small porch at the rear of the chapel. Or wandered the prison grounds, mourning for Doug, unable to heal the pain of his loss.

The warmer weather also brought the return of Yard Night, when the huge banks of lights on the prison recreation field were turned on for a weekly sporting event. On the first of these nights, there was a program of bouts by the boxing squad.

Virtually the entire prison population came out for the show. Some to visit with friends they could not otherwise see, most of them to enjoy the darkness and the night air as a change from the grinding bleakness of daylight existence.

Polack and Billy, Artie and Ronnie, dressed in immaculate, freshly starched whites, went into the Rock to see the fights. Ronnie cringed at the entrance Polack insisted upon making, a promenade before the stands packed with cons, before taking seats on the top-most level, where nobody would be behind Polack. There were cracks, and some random booing, as they climbed up. The prelims were already in progress. The windup was a bout between Bud Larrabee and a highly touted newcomer to the joint.

Ronnie saw Bud by the ring, jogging back and forth and shadow-boxing. Bud took off his robe and in his trunks came up into the stand where they were sitting. In his tentative diffident way he nodded to all of them. "Hey, whatcba say? Got some visiting wheels here tonight, huh?"

Polack said, "You gonna flatten this mother for me tonight, partner? I got a lotta bread riding on your handsome ass."

"My ass ain't where it's at. Partner. You shouldn't gamble, it rots your teeth."

He turned his head suddenly to catch Ronnie unaware, pinning him with the unsettling fixed brown stare. "Evening, Bracken, how you been? How's everything in Fink City?"

Ronnie was thankful for the shades he wore. "Good to see you, Bud. You going to take this cat?"

"I'm gonna make you a present of his ears." He turned and made his way back to ringside. He knocked out his opponent in the first round, and after the fight Polack kept them waiting while he rapped to Larrabee.

Walking back to Trusty quarters, Ronnie heard Billy say, "What did Larrabee want?"

"Bread. I let him have it. He earned it."

"You gave it to him?"

"Are you nuts? I loaned it to him. His brother sends him money every week, he's good for it."

Next day, one of the chapel clerks, with an indefinable air of emphasis, told Ronnie somebody wanted to see him outside. On the steps of the chapel he was surprised to see Black Daddy -- the wheeling-dealing hyper-hip spade who was ramrod of the Negro convicts in the Black Rock. His air of power, his enameled sophistication and his mocking oblique way of rapping had always rendered Ronnie near speechless the few times they had talked

"Black Daddy. Hey man, what's happening? You're early, church ain't till Sunday."

A shadow that might have been a smile flitted over the impassive jet-black shiny face, the big lips barely moving. "Say, Bracken. Ain't nuthin' shakin'. Got a minute?"

"For the King of Africa? Command me."

The guttural chuckle was more formal response than mirth. They walked around to the side of the chapel and sat on the grass behind some shrubbery. Black Daddy handed him a box and Ronnie opened it to find a gold wristwatch.

Startled, he gaped at the spade chieftain, an electric surmise on his face.

With a sardonic grimace Black Daddy said, "Naw man, cool it, it's from Larrabee. He knows I got gate passage. Asked me to bring it to you."

"From Bud ? What the hell for?"

"Hey man, I just brought it, that's all. I don't know nothin'."

"I -- Jesus. I don't know what to say. You puttin' me on a hummer? I don't know what to think."

"You hear from Doug?"

"No man, don't expect to. You know how that is. When they go, they're gone."

"That was a blowin' cat. I miss that horn."

" You miss it."

"Listen, Bracken. Larrabee's my main man. Only white stud besides Doug I ever rapped to. He's a brother."

Ronnie tried to find a clue in the impenetrable sculptured black face. "What key is that in, Black Daddy?"

"Splivy broad, ain'tcha. I like Doug. I dig Larrabee. I dig the way you blow sometimes. Sometimes. Otherwise -- "

"Awright man, sorry. What's the story?"

"Larrabee's pissed, he's fixin' to rumble with Polack. And your half-hip stud."

"Rumble about what?"

"The shylockin', for one. Lotta cats are pissed, but now they got Larrabee in front of 'em. And when he goes, he don't feel nothin'."

"Is that all he's hacked about?"

"You're kiddin'. If I had a broad moved out while I was away from the cell, and stripped it, I'd ventilate her snatch with an ice pick."

"Wait a minute, Black Daddy, that's not all of it, he -- "

"I give a shit, man. I'm just doin' this for Bud. If you wanna keep that toy stud of yours in shape to take care of biz, you better tout him off."

"Hey man, I feel you, this rumble shit is a drag. Nobody wins."

"Okay, just tell your old man to stay out of the Rock. I don't wanna see my boy mess up his hands. They make a lotta bread for me."

"I got no eyes for that hassle, Black Daddy. And I don't think Artie goes into the Rock all that much, anyway."

"Sheet. What joint are you in? He's a collector, right? Him and Polack hit that joint at daylight, most mornings. Move in on the cats before they're awake. Make the bar-man pull the bar, go in the cat's' cell, waste him, and split. You got yourself a man , babe. Real high-roller." The lips curled in a massive sneer.

Ronnie looked at the ground, the desolation inside him deepening. "Dig. Tell Bud -- if he cares -- I fouled up and I'm payin'."

A snort of derision. "The hell you think that gold block is for? Jeez if you were my -- ah nuts, I got to split."

His contempt lingered in the air. Ronnie looked at the costly watch, tried it on, took it off and put it back in the box.

He walked over to the captain's office and showed it to Billy.

"Rolex! Jesus Christ, girl, what did you have to do for that ?"

"Bud sent it."

"Larrabee? Larrabee sent it?" He folded his arms and stared into space. Ronnie was startled to see him throw his head back and burst into wild barking laughter. When he paused, his eyes wet, he looked at Ronnie and burst again into redoubled hilarity.

"Oh, Christ," he murmured. "Oh Jesus Mary and Joe. My perishing ass."

"Billy. Gimme a break. What's so goddamn funny?"

"He -- he -- Larrabee borrowed the bread from Polack. From Artie, you might as well say."

They stared at one another. Ronnie murmured, "He set them up for a burn. Black Daddy said -- "

"He's inviting Artie to try and collect." Billy was smiling, a look of rueful admiration. "You said what about Black Daddy?"

"What? Oh nothing. What am I going to do with this ridiculous watch?"

"You're not going to wear it? You ain't got a hair in your ass -- "

Ronnie shook his head. "Uh-uh, madame. You don't agitate me into nuttin'. You're trying to stir up some shit for laughs."

"Who, me? Larrabee , you mean. When I think of how I have low-rated that boy. He's crazy? Some lunatic. The son of a bitch turns it on and off like a faucet."

"Crazy? No. Bud isn't crazy. The demon that goes' everywhere Bud goes is crazy."

"So what are you going to do with the bauble?"

Ronnie looked at the white box. "The impulse is to bury it with my other bones. But Larrabee's playing games. So I think I better send it back. Besides, it may be hot."

That evening Polack and Artie came in looking grim. Ronnie was lying on the bed reading a magazine. Artie sat down by him. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"Larrabee gave you a gold Rolex. Where is it?"

"I, uh -- sent it back."

"Where is it?"

"I told you, Artie, I sent it back."

Polack came over. "Forget all that, forget it." To Ronnie, "What's with you and Larrabee?"

"Nothing, Polack. He's hot at me, so he's trying to put me in the middle, that's all."

Artie said, "You sure you sent it back?"

"I told you, partner, forget it. We got more to think about. I got some muscle lined up. We go in there tomorrow."

"Into the Rock ?"

"You know any other way to get that wise punk?"

Artie got up to walk. "Christ, Polack. He's got half the Rock with him."

"He thinks he has. They'll fold when it comes down to it."

"Jeez, I don't know. That cat's out of his skull."

The deep-set eyes measured Artie. "If you're chicken I better know it now."

Artie swung around, bristling. "Wait a minute, Polack, I ain't chicken but I ain't crazy either."

Billy had been sitting there immobile and silent, his head down. "He's right, Polack. Go in there now is stone bugs."

"Keep your jaw shut or I'll wire it shut." To Artie, "Either we're in business or we ain't. I'm not lettin' that punchy athlete back me down. So make up your mind."

Artie chewed his lips. "I'm with you, but -- "

"Awright. Tomorrow early."

Billy said, "I truly hope you know what you're doing."

Polack wheeled, pointing, livid. "I told you once!"

"Okay, okay." Grimacing in distaste, he got up. "I have to work tonight. I'm way behind. If you'll excuse me."

That night, instead of the routine perfunctory sex, Artie stayed for most of the night with Ronnie, lying silent in his arms between the surges of bleak troubled sex. For the first time in a long time Ronnie was stirred by his nearness and held him close, his face pressed into the thick lustrous black hair.

It was not yet daylight when somebody tried to force the door of the room open, and failing, rapped violently. Artie slid into his own bed. The pounding grew in volume, till Bill got out of bed and deftly removed the spike holding the door shut.

One of the night guards pushed it open. "Majewski?" He stepped further into the room. Louder: " Majewski?"

Polack raised his head from the pillow and growled, " What? What do you want, Peters?"

"Pack your shit, Polack. You're going to the road. Be at Control Room in half an hour."

Polack leaped naked from bed. " What? What the hell are you talking about?"

Peters retreated to the door. "Control Room, half an hour, Polack."

Billy sat huddled on his bed, seemingly locked in. Artie got up to stand aimlessly in the middle of the room, as Polack, muttering curses, stumbled into his clothes. The brass tang of panic thickened the air.

"I'll get that shitbird Miller on the phone. Somebody's ass is gonna burn for this'." He banged out of the room.

Artie started to put his clothes on.

Billy said, "Better stay out of it, Artie."

"Hell, you mean stay out of it. I'm goin' down there."

" Artie. Go back to bed. I'm telling you, baby, this is sticky shit." Billy had finished dressing and was at the door. "For once use your pretty head. Get back in your rack." He gave Ronnie a tight tired smile. " Sauve qui peut, chéri. I'll try to rescue the groceries. Looks like happy Armageddon."

He went out. In a few minutes the door burst open again and Polack came in, two guards along with him. One, the burly Lieutenant Johnson, said, "Awright, Polack, quit stallin'. Get your stuff and let's ramble. The bus is waiting."

The formidable face was clogged, incandescent with fury. He threw the contents of his footlocker into a cardboard box.

Artie hovered anxiously. "What happened, Polack, did you get him?"

"Bastard won't answer. It's a shanghai job. I'll be back, partner. Just hold the fort." He hoisted the box on his shoulder and left with the two guards.

Artie opened the cupboard and took a long drink of alcohol from the bottle. He sat on Ronnie's bed. "Jesus. Miller blew it."

Ronnie, at a loss, curved his hand around the big hairy forearm. "Hang loose, Artie. Better his ass than yours, right?"

He jerked his arm away. "Aw, man?" And began to pace the floor again.

Billy slipped in. He raised his eyebrows at Ronnie, exhaling a long breath. "Hoo-eee, baby. Groovy moving day. Lions in the street."

Artie grabbed him by the arm. His voice shrill, "What the goddamn hell is going on?"

Billy spread his long pale hands, shrugging his thin shoulders. "Caesar finally nailed Polack. Simple as that. They put him on a bus for Deep Lake."

They gaped at him and repeated, "Deep Lake!"

Billy nodded, a mordant smile touching his lips. "Siberia. Sic transit gloria. "

Artie said, "What the hell is that?"

"Gloria vomited on the subway. You want some coffee, Ronnie?"

"Coffee. I need a pill. Everything's moving too fast."

"As to that, I saved the groceries, anyway. Now all we got to sweat is getting shipped across the river."

Ronnie said, "I still don't know what happened."

"It's shit-simple, babe. Darby shipped Polack before daylight so he couldn't reach Miller. Before Miller got here, dig? And he sent him to Deep Lake, dig?"

"In the middle of the goddamn Everglades," Artie said. "Higgins is Boss there. A murderin' redneck bastard."

"You get the picture. In a couple of weeks or so we'll hear that Polack escaped."

Ronnie said, "You mean they'll let him escape?"

"I mean that in a couple of weeks or maybe sooner, Polack is going to be belly down in the swamps with the ants munching his eyeballs. I guess you could call it a bust-out. Poor bastard."

Artie sat on his bed, his elbows on his knees, face in hands, staring at the floor. His dark tan was sallow. "What happens now?"

Lips pursed. Billy considered him. "Us poor kids, you mean? Hmmm. Speak low, walk slow, love Jesus."

Ronnie went about his' duties at the chapel, anxiously wondering what Darby's next move would be. He passed him on the grounds one day. Darby had nodded cordially, with the familiar smile that seemed to be secretly amused, perfectly devised to disconcert those with guilty knowledge. But that was all.

Avoiding Billy and Artie as much as possible, he delayed returning to the room in the evenings until just before Count Time. And usually when he got there, he found the two of them deep in conversation.

And to further puzzle and discomfit him, convicts who had been giving him frost suddenly began to greet him ostentatiously, or to seek him out when he was eating in the canteen.

I liked these creeps better the other way, he thought. They act like I personally turned Polack up. The idea hooked in his mind . . . Turned Polack up . . . He stared blankly as his thoughts raced, circling the sudden suspicion. Something like fear moved in him . . .

The sex scene with Artie became a source of acute uneasiness now, with Billy lying alone in his bed, listening. It improved some when Billy eventually began spending the first part of the night away from the room, with the stay-up cons around the barber shop.

One night when they were alone in the room and in bed, Artie startled and shocked Ronnie by presenting himself, making it clear that he wanted Ronnie to assume the aggressive male role.

Stunned and baffled, he concurred, his mind in a turmoil, his body operating automatically and seemingly without direction. On the ensuing night the reversal of roles became the permanent arrangement.

He spent much of the day dreading the coming night -- in a daze of conjecture, trying to figure what had happened. It was not uncommon in the joint, it even had a name -- FlipFlop -- but it was the first time in Ronnie's experience. He forced himself to function, in a riot of confusion and ambivalence.

He had been tempted to confide his dismay to Billy -- but increasingly, for the first part of the evening between Count Time and lights-out, Artie and Billy were together, to the pointed exclusion of Ronnie. The relationship between Billy and him grew steadily cooler, Billy's manner one of careful distant politeness.

One day during lunch hour, Artie came into the chapel office. "Can I see you for a minute?"

Ronnie took him into the empty church and they sat in a pew. Artie's manner was' portentous -- grave, and subdued. Blue-eyed sincerity, Ronnie thought, nagged by the remembrance of the bed scene the night before, of Artie's unnerving and shameful turnabout.

"I don't know exactly how to say this, Ronnie."

Ronnie regarded him in silence, calmly waiting, feeling the strange and new poise that stemmed from his domination of Artie in the sack.

In the daylight Artie seemed the same as always. "It's like this, Ronnie. We ain't squares. We're both hip intelligent people, right?"

Ronnie nodded. "Both hip, yes."

"Well -- " Then in a rush, "See Billy and I got eyes for each other and I wanna -- we wanna -- "

Remote, he watched the dialogue unfold as in a predictable movie. "I think that's wonderful, Artie. I think that's beautiful. I love you both."

"You're not -- you don't mind."

The boyish eyes so troubled, so blue. So true-blue. "Mind, Artie? Well, yeah, how could I not? But what kind of a prick would I be?"

"Jesus, thanks a lot, Bracken. You're beautiful, you're too much." He got up, blushing, and shook Ronnie's hand warmly.

Artie gone, he sat for a while, speculating, bemused by the charade. In some tribal way, he had failed. Falling among jackals, he had sought acceptance by accepting jackal rules, jackal manners. And all along they had known he was not a true jackal, and would have to go. His chest was stuffed with what felt like a gusher of wild insane giggles ready to erupt. (Were they sobs?) And a squalid sense of pique at having been rejected and jilted.

"Jilted." He tried it aloud, and decided not to repeat it for fear of hysteria. Or whatever it was, lying there in ambush. Later it would be funny. Now, somehow, it was not.

He took a pill, and sat waiting for it to hit. Then he went to see Billy.

"Artie told you." The brassiness was absent, the hard black eyes were wide, almost demure. "We couldn't help it, love, believe me."

"I think it's charming."

"You really do? You really don't mind, baby?"

"What's to mind? It was an arrangement, Artie and me. Only thing is, what do I do now? I got to move, you know that."

"Yes, I think that's wise, love, but I hate to see you go."

"I hate to go, love. But find me a place to move, okay?"

"Of course." Billy took out a chart and studied it for a moment. "Jesus, baby, I don't know what I can do, though. There's no vacancy on Trusty Range. Before all this goddamn heat, I could move them around like dominoes. But now I got to watch myself." He studied the chart again at length, and looked up at Ronnie, eyes wide.

"This is absolutely nutty. The only vacancy there is, is in the Rock: J-fifty-seven."

Ronnie searched the smooth, concerned, slightly pained face raised to him. "What kinda stupid jive is that? The cell I came out of? Larrabee's still in there, isn't he?"

Billy nodded. "He's in there alone. Everybody that moves in, he muscles out."

"What are you trying to do to me?"

A note of the familiar arrogance and asperity was heard. "Listen, baby, you asked me for a move, and that's what I'm giving you. I told you I have to watch it now. You want to go back in the Rock or don't you? Are you scared of a numb-numb like Larrabee?"

Ronnie let the smile come on slow, delaying the shaft. "Why shouldn't I be? Artie is."

Billy said icily, "I think we can agree that it's not quite the same thing. Do you want it or don't you?"

"Oh, shit. All right, run it."

Bud was in his shorts, lying on his belly in the lower bunk, when Ronnie opened the door of the cell just before lockup. Behind him were two spades, on loan from Black Daddy, to carry the phonograph, records, FM, and the books.

Larrabee looked around startled, and jumped to his bare feet. "Hell's goin' on? You on safari?"

"I got moved, Bud. They assigned me here. If you say no, I'll go down and get another assignment. If I can."

The liquid brown eyes were fixed on him, and again he had the sensation of immersion, sinking.

Larrabee scratched his shaven head. "I'll level with you, Bracken, I don't dig it worth a shit. But Doug was my friend, and when he left he asked me to look out for you. He said you'd be a pain in the ass, and I got to go along with that."

He began to remove the books and clothing that littered the upper bunk. "It might be kind of dull for you here. After you bein' with the Billy Lane Circus and all."

He turned and transfixed Ronnie with the hypnotic gelid gaze.

"I got some new poetry I want you to read."

A week later, Ronnie lay stretched out on the grass at the side of the chapel. Screened by some shrubbery, he was stripped to his shorts, letting the hot Florida sun soothe him, ease his tension.

Billy suddenly appeared around the bushes, and dropped to the grass beside him. "So peaceful here. Mind if I join you?" He pulled off his shirt and lay down on the blanket. There was a silence.

"Pretty sly, Bracken. You really sold me a blind mule, didn't you?"

"I don't understand, babe."

"Oh god. I'm beginning to see how you do it. Artie , I'm talking about. All-Boy Artie."

"You may have bought it. I didn't sell it."

"Uh-huh. The way you do the suffering victim. It'a too much."

"Just living is suffering, Billy."

"All right, okay, but don't bleed on me. How is it with the mad Larrabee?"

"I found out he isn't mad. Just maddening. You know what it is? He's simple. Intolerably, deviously simple. Anyway, I'm on probation. I'm studying Poetry Appreciation. Well . . . at least, nobody else is bugging me. The wife of the centaur, whoopee."

Billy lighted a cigarette. In the bright sunlight, there was a sudden flash of gold at his wrist. Ronnie sat up and lowered his shades to look.

"Isn't that the Rolex? That started all the hassle?"

Billy regarded the watch fondly. "The only thing that hasn't turned to shit for me."

"Do you mind if I ask you -- ?"

"Not at all. I did a favor for a friend."

"For Larrabee."

"I think you could say Bud's a friend of mine."

"Devoted, it would seem. Such handsome payment. A difficult favor."

"Difficult, no. Peculiar, maybe." A trace of testiness in his sigh. "He was looking for a cell partner who understood poetry."

"Ah. And you delivered this -- rarity."

"In a way. In a way."

The sun beat down. They lay motionless and silent.

"You turned Polack up, didn't you?" Ronnie asked.

Billy didn't answer right away. When he did, he sounded tired.

"You know what a rumble like that would have done? Locked everything up, tight." He propped himself on his elbows and looked down at the recumbent Ronnie. "And you, little flower, and I would now be across the river. In that birdcage with the rest of the parakeets." He lay back and raised his thin arms, stretching luxuriantly. "This is nicer, don't you agree?"

"Expediency." It was a murmur, bemused. "I wish I knew how to do that."

"Oh Bracken, c'mon. You? You with the laminated motives? All I can say is, I hope I never have you for a victim."

Biographical Notes

James Blake was born in 1920 in Edinburgh, Scotland, and grew up in
Chicago. He studied to be a concert pianist during his childhood and
adolescence, and attended the University of Illinois and Northwestern.
He was evicted from both for the sin of sloth and became a jazz pianist.
From 1950-1952 he served time on a county chain gang in Florida. Letters
he wrote to Nelson Algren from there came to the attention of Simone
de Beauvoir and were published in Jean Paul Sartre's Les Temps
Modernes . George Plimpton published the letters as a prison
chronicle in 1957 in the  Paris Review. From 1955 to 1968,
Mr. Blake served three sentences in the Florida State Prison, with
brief periods of freedom. In 1967 George Plimpton suggested compiling
a collection of Blake's letters from the penitentiary, and the book,
The Joint , was published in 1971. He is now living in Woodbury,
Connecticut, and working on a novel.