The Animal Factory (12 page)

Ron accepted the trek to the West cellhouse, but he rebelled against eating with the man. “I don’t feel like it. I’m going to walk around the lower yard, get myself together. I’ll meet you after lunch.”

“Up here. You be up here.” The threat beneath the order was open.

As Ron went down the stairs he looked over the field where bullets had rained the last time he’d seen it. Now a cheering crowd of several hundred convicts watched an intramural football game. Cleats dug into grass stained with blood, and Ron was amazed at how quickly convicts forget. He heard music from a jazz group. In the distance Mount Tamalpais was crowned with cumulus.

Ron didn’t know what to do. He had no reason to doubt Psycho Mike’s story, though it was utterly unreasonable. He didn’t know anyone in the West cellhouse. He wondered if the narcotic agents had set him up. They’d offered him a soft deal if he cooperated and were enraged when he’d refused. No, that was crazy. It was just a mistake and would be corrected when he saw the man. Yet what if the man persisted? Ron knew the code required him to make the man retract or else do him violence, in a kind of trial by force. Without a retraction or a stabbing, the accusation would be taken as true. He would be a reviled outcast and someone—a twenty-year-old psychopath craving a reputation—might run a shiv into his spine. He could go to the yard office and ask to be locked up, but that would be taken as a confession.

He found himself at the gymnasium door when what had been lurking in the back of his mind surfaced. He’d put the story before Earl, ask advice. He wouldn’t ask for help, but he knew that he was hoping for it.

The gymnasium, the prison’s newest building, had a guard inside the door checking privilege cards. As Ron held his card out for inspection, he scanned the vast room. Tall, supple blacks in red gym shorts were playing half-court basketball. Chicanos and whites were watching games inside the two four-wall handball courts. The weightlifting platforms were filled with workout groups, each one with three or four men. Ron saw T.J., remembered the craggy face from the laundry during the strike. Now the weightlifter was
barechested
, his muscles pumped up and flushed with blood. His massive arms were marred with jailhouse tattoos. He was sitting on the end of a padded bench, two other men with him. He sprawled back, raised his arms to where a rack held an Olympic weight bar, on each end of the bar five forty-five-pound wheels. It totaled well over four hundred pounds. The two assistants lifted the weight from the rack and held it until T.J.’s extended hands had a grip. “Okay,” he said. They let go. The weight came down, went back up with seeming ease, descended again, and then rose slowly, the great arms
quivering
for a second until the elbows locked firm. The two men took it away and put it on the rack. Ron exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“Get on, Superhonky,” an onlooker said, bringing a grin and a wink from T.J. as he swung up to his feet, arms extended from his sides, the blood vessels on his shoulder caps swollen into hard ridges.

Ron went up on the platform, through the groups of men. T.J. saw him coming and gave an impassive nod of recognition.

“Where’s Earl?” Ron asked.

“They’re all up in the equipment room,” T.J. said. “An’ they’re up to no good.” When Ron hesitated, T.J. jerked with his head and pointed with his eyes toward a wide mezzanine at the far end of the gym. A third of it was wired off with heavy mesh and here were stored football and baseball uniforms. The rest of the mezzanine was a television viewing area.

Skirting the basketball court, Ron went up the stairs and rattled the door by banging on the mesh with the heel of his hand. The inside of the area was invisible because the uniform racks were set to hide it.

A slender Chicano, shirtless and barechested except for a dangling medallion, appeared from behind the uniforms. His visage was thin, ferretlike, but his hazel eyes were ready for quick laughter. Before Ron could speak, the Chicano called back over his own shoulder, “Earl, that youngster is here.”

The reply was inaudible, but the Chicano unfastened the lock and opened the door. Behind the uniforms was an area with a
Ping-Pong
table and chairs. Half a dozen convicts were spread around, and a sweet alcohol odor came from a plastic mattress cover on the table. It was loaded with liquid and the pulp of oranges and its folded mouth stood upright. Paul Adams was dipping a gallon can inside and pouring the contents into a plastic tumbler. He handed the can to the shirtless Chicano who’d opened the door.

“Hot Vito, baby,” said Bad Eye from a corner. “Don’t get too drunk. You’re too smooth to lose your senses.”

“Man,” Paul said. “Hot V’s got a prick like a horse. You’d better not mess with him. Show him, V.”

Vito grinned impishly but said nothing. He was too busy drinking.

Earl Copen was on a chair tilted against the one solid wall, a coffee jar filled with home brew in his hand. “Yeah, remember Vito put that sissy in the hospital with a split asshole last year.”

“You motherfuckers got dirty minds,” Vito said.

Bad Eye was at the brew sack. He glanced to Ron, who stood just inside the room. “Want some? It’s pretty fuckin’ good hooch.”

Ron shook his head, feeling ill at ease and out of place. These were volatile men, and half-drunk more unpredictable than usual. Yet there was apparently no resentment at his presence. Nobody looked at him with hostility. He caught Earl’s eye and motioned that he wanted to talk. Earl thunked the chair down and followed Ron outside. The room was noisy behind them.

“I’d like to borrow a knife,” Ron said without preamble.

“Whoa!” Earl said, holding up both hands. “Not so fast. I can’t give you a piece if I don’t know who it’s for. I gave one to a guy once and he stabbed a couple of my friends in the Mexican Brotherhood. And they might’ve wanted to kill me if they found out … even though I didn’t know. What is it? Psycho Mike making trouble?”

“No, not him directly, but—” And Ron told the story, at first hesitant and stilted, but then in a rush. Earl listened with the wisp of a smile, but his eyes drew narrower and the flesh around them flickered.

When Ron finished, he became aware that Bad Eye’s face was at the wire on the door, like a fish at the glass of an aquarium. He’d been listening unnoticed.

“I know I’ve got to stop that kind of talk,” Ron finished.

“Think he’s needin’ a knife, Bad Eye?” Earl asked.

“Yeah … to stick in that greasy Puerto Rican for tryin’ that stale ass game.”

Earl looked Ron directly in the eye. “They want to trick you over to the West block. There’s just one bull in the whole building. They were going to pull you in a cell and rape you.”

Ron colored, furious at such treachery and embarrassed at his own gullibility.

“It’s no big thing,” Earl said. “Lemme go talk to the dude.”

The burden on Ron was lightened, but he didn’t want to involve Earl, and he didn’t want to be obligated. Not knowing what to say or what he wanted, Ron didn’t answer.

“Stay here,” Earl said.

“I don’t want you to fight my battles for me.”

“I’m not, man. If I thought I was going to have trouble, I wouldn’t go. But he’s playing a game and I’ve been playing games around here for eighteen hard years. It’s easier if you’re not on the scene.”

“I’m goin’,” Bad Eye said.

“Fuck you,” Earl said with an affectionate grin. “You’re drunk and you get too extreme even when you’re sober. We don’t want a war over some bullshit.”

“He might not like you gettin’ involved.”

“I’ll take Superhonky. And Ponchie, if I can find him—just to stand in the background and look tough. If we’re gonna have some trouble, you’ll be there—’cause I know you ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to me. I raised your ass.”

When Earl went down the mezzaine stairs, Bad Eye asked Ron if he wanted to go inside. Ron declined.

Inside, Bad Eye repeated the story to Paul and Vito.

“Is Earl tryin’ to fuck that kid?” Vito asked.

“Naw,” Paul said. “He might think he wants to, but he won’t turn him out. Earl hasn’t got any dog like that in him. What’s happened is that kid’s found a friend.”

“Shit!” Bad Eye said. “Earl’s an old snake in the grass.”

“Hold it! He befriended you when you were just a shaver.”

“I was a tush hog and a bully when I was a baby.”

“Okay, tush hog … but it’s still not a smart move for Earl. Someone that young and good-looking is a time bomb around here. There’s a lot of animals here. There’s some crazy motherfuckers here—”

“We’re crazy as anybody,” Bad Eye said.

“Right … but you know there’s nobody
that
strong here. We don’t know every maniac. I mean … you know what I mean.”

They knew—any fool can kill you.

Psycho Mike and his retinue were among the last to leave the mess hall. Despite the bright day, their jacket collars were turned up. They slouched along in arrogant toughness.

But a viper gives no warning, Earl thought, and a coral snake is pretty. He was standing nearby, leaning on a steel pillar of the shed, while T.J. and Ponchie stood twenty yards away in feigned
nonchalant
conversation.

Earl strolled casually toward Psycho Mike’s group, thinking that these kids had seen too many motorcycle movies. He kept his hands exposed to show he wasn’t armed—though he wouldn’t have put his hand under his clothes even if he was; that showed the hole card. He was thinking that he would have to be delicate, imply the threat without showing it, be careful not to upset insecure egos. He wanted to get through without violence—not that he was afraid of violence when necessary, but he
did
want to get out of prison one more time without having to break out.

Psycho Mike’s eyes were on him; his face was hard and he’d noticed Earl’s allies, though they were giving no indication that they were involved.

“Excuse me, Mike,” Earl said. “I need to talk to you.” He angled between Psycho Mike and the gang, separating them, and then eased away a few steps. Mike stepped with him, warily.

“I heard about that guy in the West block putting a jacket on Ron.”

“So,
ése
?”

“So it’s bullshit.”

“He’s gotta do something about it. It makes me look bad.”

“I know it isn’t true … and the kid is ready to cut the guy’s head off. He’s got a shiv.” Earl paused, noted the flicker of surprise in Mike’s eyes. “Personally, I don’t want to see him get in trouble. Both of us are his friends. We can go over and see the dude … do
whatever
has to be done. Maybe you’re not that involved … I dunno. If you’re not, tell me who the dude is and T.J. and Ponchie and me’ll go see him.”

Earl spoke with such sincerity that Psycho Mike was confused. He couldn’t be sure it was a ploy, and his scheme shriveled up. He was not afraid of Earl, whom he didn’t really know and thought was too old to be tough, but he knew of T.J. and Ponchie and the White and Mexican Brotherhoods. Psycho Mike’s ego would have required that he make a stand in a straightforward power play, but Earl’s strategy left him an out.

“Whaddya think?” Earl asked.

“We don’t have to do that. I’ll see the guy and pull him up. I thought something was funny ’cause he’s from Sacramento, not L.A. He’s got Ron mixed up with somebody.”

“I’ll really appreciate that, bro’,” Earl said. “I’d hate to see serious trouble over nothing.”

Psycho Mike grunted noncommittally. He’d been
outmaneuvered
and was certain Earl had the same plans he had for the youth. Why else would a hardrock con put himself out on a limb for a pretty kid?

Earl didn’t know what his intentions were about Ron, nor why he’d become involved. He would have snorted derisively at the mention of altruism and become irritable if accused of trying to make the kid a queen. At the moment, however, he was giddy from relaxed tension. He walked down the stairs between his friends, patted Ponchie on the back and thanked him for coming along. They’d known each other since juvenile hall but were in different groups, and Ponchie was under no obligation to get involved in Earl’s problems.

“You didn’t need me,
carnal
. You could bust a foot in all their asses.”

“Maybe … but sometimes it’s better to be a fox than a lion. You being there cinched the domino that we’d skate without a
shitstorm
.”

When they reached the lower yard, Ponchie went off toward where some Chicanos were gathered around a trio with guitars singing
rancheros
.

“That guy’s all right,” T.J. said.

“Solid and game,” Earl said. “But he gets wilder as he gets older. He was cooler when he was twenty-two.”

“Fuck, they made him a mad dog in these places. Happens all the time.”

“Sometimes you’re pretty perspicacious, old country boy.”

“What the hell does ‘pers-shit’ mean?”

* * *

When they pushed through the gymnasium door and turned right, they saw Paul, Bad Eye, Vito, and Ron being marched down the mezzanine stairs by three guards, the last guard carrying the sack of home brew over his shoulder. Some of the other convicts in the gym stopped to watch the bust. A few scattered catcalls rang out, but they were more for form’s sake than out of real indignation.

As prisoners and guards crossed the basketball court and headed toward the door, Earl and T.J. had to step aside to let them pass. Paul was first, strolling hip, as if the guards didn’t exist. He shrugged as he passed. Vito was next, still smiling mischievously. He winked. Bad Eye, however, was flushed and glowering. “These assholes say I’m drunk,” he said as he went by. Ron was last, his face grim, but he nodded recognition with the shadow of a smile.

“That other mess is square,” Earl said to Ron.

“Don’t talk to ’em, Earl,” the guard with the sack said, a pudgy little sergeant with tufts of booger-encrusted hair coming from his nose. He was notorious for his halitosis and for snitching on other guards. He loathed influential convicts like Earl.

T.J., who shared a cell with Bad Eye, said, “Well, damn, leastways I can jack off in peace for a few days.”