Read Living Right on Wrong Street Online

Authors: Titus Pollard

Living Right on Wrong Street (10 page)

BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
3.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Chapter 11
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
Psalms 1:6
 
 
Delvin's face wasn't buried as deep into his breakfast plate as the other inmates'. He picked up a cup of coffee. And there it was.
 
YOUR PLACE @ AFTERNOON MAIL CALL
 
Was the note in its entirety. He looked around, seeing if anyone looked out of the ordinary. Maybe he could zero in on the messenger. He wondered how. In a prison, activities seemed to take place so covertly, with such ease.
What took so long for my request to be fulfilled?
It didn't matter. It was a sign that his day had come.
Two-thirty
P.M.
It was easy to hear, or not hear, the myriad of he-motions and responses from individual cells when packages were received. He thought their overuse of passion was silly.
Then, Delvin's turn came.
He was caught off guard by the person who was standing at his cell door. The man was beyond what he would describe as “robbed of good looks.” His right cheek showed evidence of a third-rate skin graft job. He didn't smile. He didn't talk or even grunt. His appearance could've landed him a starring role in MJ's “Thriller” video. The man pushed a plastic cart with an upper and lower bin, which only added to his hideous visage.
“You got something for me?” Delvin asked, praying that the man didn't sense his bona fide fear.
The man bent down, pulled out a 12x12x18 box from the bottom bin, handed it to Delvin and walked away.
Delvin asked, “You have a na—”
“His name is Pilchoevsky,” interrupted Murphy, who had done his usual slithering onto the scene. “But you should refer to him by the same sobriquet as the rest of the residents here in Ashland. We call him Deliverer. And believe me, he always does.”
Delvin asked, “Why Deliverer?”
Murphy confirmed. “Because in this crack of inhumanity, he's the supreme entity behind inmates getting anything accomplished that's worth meaning in their decrepit lives. Deliverer doesn't talk because he doesn't have to. Or maybe, he can't. Nobody really knows.”
Deliverer took hold of the cart, bowed his body and walked away.
Murphy whispered, “Deliverer doesn't choose to involve himself with others' affairs. Unless, of course, you pay him to.”
“What happened to him?”
“He used to set up off-shore accounts for high-dollar crimes. Computer fraud and the like. On the day the establishment moved in for the sting, Deliverer hopped in his Jag, trying to outrun them so he could get to his awaiting Cessna for a flight out of the country.”
Delvin found the deformed mail clerk's story fascinating.
Murphy leaned on the crossbars and continued. “The establishment attempted, to no avail, to convince the guy to give up, surrender to the authorities. He ran his precious automobile into a parking meter and sat while the cops surrounded him. Poor guy. He tried to swift-kick his door open, but it wouldn't budge. Stupid. An over-excited cop and stupidity.”
“I can imagine.”
“He climbed over into the backseat, I guess to get out of the car. Anyway, he failed at his chance. That officer shot; hit that gas tank.” Murphy looked off into the cell block's open space. “Jaguar's just weren't meant for that.”
“What?”
“A bullet. It caused the fuel reservoir to burst, catch fire, splattering flaming fluid on his face.”
Delvin began tearing away the layers of sealing tape that held the box together. “Better him than me.”
Murphy flared his nose. “I can see that story reached into your inner being.” The twists and turns in his voice made the sarcasm evident.
“Yeah. Well.” He lifted the flaps, moving the Styrofoam peanuts aside. He looked at Murphy from the corner of his eye. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“Let me give you fair warning, Mr. Storm. Never, ever try to bypass me to go to Deliverer. The information and distribution network doesn't operate in any manner other than the one established.”
“You have no argument out of me.”
“Also, remember this, when Deliverer sets wheels into motion, there's no spiraling in the opposite direction.” His eyes sharpened, the brows pointed to each other. “So be positive of any requests you make.”
“I consider myself warned.” Delvin reached into the box, pulled out a box labeled
Trivial Pursuit Genius III
. “For you.”
Murphy stared and then smiled. “Ah. Excellent selection. A game that will stimulate my eclectic knowledge. I thank you.”
“If you see Stinson, tell him I have something for him too.”
He wanted time alone and got it.
Did Deliverer secure everything?
Delvin considered the contents of the box as individual treasures, a collective bounty. His skin increased with sensitivity as he looked at each item:
Ream of white paper.
Stamps, envelopes, clear tape dispenser.
Plastic three-ring binder.
Latest issue of the
Robb Report
. He would be able to at least pretend his exquisite tastes were being catered to.
A copy of Sun Tzu's
Art of War
. His plans would take strategy. Just the read to get him in the mood.
Back copies of Louisville's
Courier Journal
.
A 1992–93 Syracuse University yearbook.
Rubik's cube, the toy he would give to Stinson when he came around before lock-up that evening.
A 1988 copy of Nashville's Hume Fogg yearbook. Job's old high school in the year he graduated.
Later that same evening, Delvin heard an unfamiliar sound in the hall, a two-step dance of human feet followed by a clanging and light crunching of items bouncing against each other. He couldn't make it out, so he waited as the sound came his way.
Stinson showed up at his cell door with about six liquid-filled containers in a bag.
Delvin picked up the Rubik's cube and started to make a comment, but Stinson held up a finger to his lips. Silence, which was a first for him. He took the toy and exchanged it with one of the bottles.
Delvin accepted the plastic container, which was shaped like milk man delivery bottles of the '60s. He whiffed. It was grain alcohol with a mysterious animal-decay aroma. He took a sip. The answer to those corn scraps became clear. That night, his bunk, that bottle and the knowledge of his request fulfilled became his relief. His senses numbed, his worries fogged. His ills, just for a moment, were forgotten.
On the following day just before noon, the cell doors had opened and the majority of the inmates had gone down to the cafeteria. Delvin decided to forgo lunch, recognizing he had more important matters, and he could satisfy his hunger with snacks from the canteen should he so desire.
He looked toward his cell door where Murphy had made his usual reptilian entrance. “You're compiling quite a collection there. A hobby?” He referred to the conglomeration of news clippings, scribbling on notebook paper, and other diverse material covering the bunk.
Delvin had worked through the night to plaster an eclectic selection of articles, pictures and correspondence. Any person with a reasonable amount of intelligence could've walk into his cell, glanced at the mural, and made accurate determinations about his schooling, vices, and dislikes. “This occupies my time.”
Murphy informed Delvin that Shiloh had inquired about his whereabouts. “He hadn't seen you since the first time you went to chapel. He wants to know if it was something he said?”
“The whole religion thing isn't for me. I thought I made it clear to him.” Delvin ripped an article from the
Courier Chronicle
that read:
WRIGHT AND STORM REAL ESTATE TWENTIETH CENTURY STYLE
It went into his spiral notebook after a nauseating thought of his past partnership fluttered through his mind.
“This place is sneaking up on you,” Murphy said. “It's an aggression you haven't worked out as of yet. And you've been here, some—”
“Never mind that. I need you to do something for me.”
“All right. I am here to be your conciliator. What's your desire?”
If you must know, destroy Joseph Wright
. Equal partners in business should feel equal pain when put out of business. Well, it couldn't be totally equal. There was no way of seeing Job in prison. What he did want, and felt he could do, was to put his former partner, classmate, and friend in a dungeon-like position. And to do it, there was a fundamental piece of info that he needed to know. That's where Murphy, Deliverer, and anyone else connected to the prison's Vitalink came into play. “I need someone found.”
“Blunt and to the point, eh?” Murphy asked. “You'd like to initiate an endeavor. An extant human being or someone assigned into the most recently departed?”
“They're alive and doing too darn well. At least, I think they are.”
“More than one person.”
“Just one. Well, truthfully, he's married, so I guess his wife can be buried with him. Wherever he is.”
“That's the gist of it. You aspire to have someone located.”
“Yeah.”
That'll do for now, anyway.
“So. What will you pay to have Joseph Bertram Wright located?”
How did Murphy know that? Job's full name was given with such an assured tone, as if he was a soothsayer reading Delvin's palm. And the revelation was real, no hoax.
“You have a peculiar way with things.”
Murphy told him, “Like the R&B tune, ‘it's written all over your face,' and I rarely use euphemisms. I don't regard them as academia. Pictures of the two of you together. A copy of that man's high school annual in your possession. Other paraphernalia obtained at your request and at your disposal. How could I not have deduced? But, for the life of me, I can't determine how you ended up with him on the cover of
Black Enterprise
magazine. You are, by no means, black.”
Delvin explained to Murphy that his lineage was Israeli on his mother's side and a mixed-bag on his father's, his paternal grandfather being part black, Italian and Creole.
“A percentage of what you described is of African descent,” Murphy concurred.
“But the fact is I'm
non-White
. And
BE
wanted to recognize us as partners, together in the realty firm.” Delvin felt a peculiarity settle in his gut. “And besides, Joseph Wright was recognized as the actual founder of the company. And there's no doubt that he's black.”
Murphy widened and then narrowed his eyes. “Oh. I see.”
Delvin knew that Murphy was trying to sum up exactly how a major African American magazine saw fit to include him as a major feature. But what was the point in trying to figure it out? What had been done had been done. And it was because of that thought, that Delvin's response to Murphy was, “I'll bet you see.”
“None of us have purity running through our veins.” Murphy laughed, which sounded more like a hiss. “Get past your apprehensions and misgivings, Mr. Storm. Information—I told you—is my specialty. It would stand to reason that I'd figure out who it is in whom you have such deep-seated interest.”
“Having to work through a third party gives me cause for suspicion. Anyway. I'll admit it. You're right. It's Job Wright who I want found. And don't take long. I want this to happen while I still can breathe under my own will,” Delvin declared.
“Oh, the enigma that the lack of concrete knowledge creates. Don't let me unnerve you. Guys like you couldn't get your needs fulfilled without gentlemen like me.”
“And capital. This is far from an ordinary request.”
Delvin knew that on his end it would take a few days, a letter and some phone calls to his attorney, who had taken power over his financial accounts, to pull cash aside for his bidding at the moment. He had developed some confidence in Murphy's abilities, and handing out cash as the incentive would be worth the reward. “How much are we talking?”
Murphy took a brief scan of their surroundings for unruly ears that might be clinging against the cell bars. He turned back, his eyes widening. “I'll have to check with Deliverer on the financial measures. Then, he'll come through with positive results.”
An evening shift guard came marching through the cell block, rapping his baton on the bars. “Start heading to your rooms, gentlemen,” he hollered.
Delvin nodded to the guard when he looked in, and walked on down the line toward the end of the block. Confident that the guard was out of sight, he handed Murphy a small piece of ruled paper where he had written bits of Job's personal information. “This should aid you in finding him.”
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
3.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Salem's Cipher by Jess Lourey
Shadow on the Sand by Joe Dever
The One From the Other by Philip Kerr
Betrayal by Christina Dodd
Deliciously Wicked by Robyn DeHart
Sovereign by C. J. Sansom
ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe
Desert Bound (Cambio Springs) by Elizabeth Hunter