Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (12 page)

DURING HIS DECADES OF INCARCERATION, EARNEST YATES gained a keen familiarity with the prison, including its buildings, corridors, and grounds better than almost anyone else. Maybe even the administration. At this point in his residency, it was all second nature to him. His focus had become the human elements surrounding him. These days he sensed who would crack up within the first week and who wouldn’t, who’d make it in prison and who’d flame out. Over the years the gangs had changed very little. They differed, but the thuggish personality remained the same.

So predictable, Earnest thought. All of the punks were so predictable. On arrival the first thing they sought was a familiar flash of a sign. That was acknowledged with a head nod or a clandestine sign of their own. Once through orientation, they knew whom to hook up, and the same tired conversations would be hashed and rehashed to the point that Earnest wanted to break their teeth.

They wouldn’ta caught me if I’d done this.
Or
I would have gotten away if it wasn’t for that
, or his personal favorite,
I don’t know how they caught me!
The latter were the complete morons, easy to manipulate, easier to use. Add a touch of drugs or booze, and they moved from moron to total idiocy. They were the stupid pawns who’d shoot up a house or a nightclub just to get what they thought was respect. These guys were ripe for the picking.

Earnest figured it would take him a week and he’d get them to do whatever he wanted, anything he wanted. He smiled at the list he wanted to accomplish. Once they considered him an OG, original gangster, they’d be his. One word would be all it would take to get a hit ordered on another inmate…maybe even a guard.

Through the years, Earnest had ordered hits on hundreds of guys, which included guards who pissed him off or didn’t treat him with respect. Had to be careful about guards though, and Earnest saved his ire for the ones who particularly irritated him or for those who were too good at their jobs.

Back when Earnest got and sold contraband, back before surveillance cameras and other electronic security, he constantly worried about guards finding his stashes of drugs, homemade liquor, or weapons. A determined guard could ruin months of work and land him in isolation. So every once in a while, Earnest had to make their lives difficult. Make it so that their lives weren’t worth the risk of uncovering his stash. Like cops, guards simply wanted to go home after their shift with the same number of holes in their bodies that they’d left with.

That was ten years ago. Earnest didn’t want to work that hard anymore. Now he could sit back and figure out how to get the young ones, his pawns, to do the work for him. One lived longer that way, he told himself. That was why Earnest took particular interest in the new guy they called Clubba and his activity. Already he’d established relationships with every gang in the joint and somehow moved freely between each one.

The more Earnest watched him, the more the kid reminded him of Earnest himself. Only Clubba seemed able to provide something to each gang. That’s what allowed him to weave in and out of the long-established and strictly enforced territories within the prison. But exactly what did he provide each one? Earnest could associate with the factions by providing the goods or services to them. He’d always been able to get or make the necessary contraband and have it delivered directly to his consumers. As a result, he, like Clubba, moved freely among the gangs himself. But Clubba didn’t provide contraband, didn’t provide services, and he sure didn’t work as hard as Earnest.

Daily he watched Clubba play chess with his fellow trustees. That was unusual. Younger inmates didn’t pay them much attention and could care less if they overheard their schemes or not. Everyone, especially the old guys, knew and kept the time-honored prison code: keep your mouth shut.

After chess, Clubba strolled the grounds and commons like he owned it. He’d talk to the leadership of one faction, seeming to take a keen interest in what they said. Then came the handshakes and thug hugs, a quick embrace around the shoulders typical among gangs. It was like he’d just delivered something to them…but what? It drove Earnest crazy.

But there was more, something else about this Clubba. No matter where he was, whether in the commons, speaking to someone on the stairwells or in the hallways, whenever he was asked how he got caught, he always punched his fist into his thigh. Repeatedly. A distinct thudding sound accompanied the action especially when they called him Clubba-Pee. It was enough to silence everyone within earshot, and no one ever laughed. Some inmates thought he had a mental condition, and no one wanted to push the issue.

Earnest observed Clubba daily as he intricately worked with gangs who hated each other. One day he was with the Bloods, the next day with the Crips. Earnest shook his head at the thought. Nobody—
nobody
—did that! He received similar treatment from each group: thug hugs, smiles, and laughter.

And then he’d leave. Earnest watched him speak over and over to the prison gang leaders—all of them. He couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t giving them anything, so he must be doing an errand for them. Maybe he gave some items to the lower bangers before meeting up with the leadership. But no.

Again Earnest came up with nothing. He knew what to look for: a handshake where pills got exchanged, a hug with items dropped into the collar of the person being hugged. But there was none of that with Clubba. Earnest watched as the younger man left the area. Maybe he left something on his seat. No sign of it. Maybe he left it by the window or under the table. Again, zip, nada. Earnest frowned and shook his head. Nobody got access like that for free! Nobody! Not ever!

When other prisoners saw the tall, thin Sudanese guy walk by and they started messing with him, they quickly learned that one word to the gang leadership earned a beating to remember. Not dirty looks, not threats, an immediate and thorough beating. Nobody in the joint, it seemed, messed with Clubba.

After two months of surveillance, Earnest was getting nowhere fast. The usual ways and means of learning about another inmate weren’t working for him. Earnest’s surveillance needed to be closer, needed more intimate details. One thing was immediately apparent. Clubba was rarely written up for any violations. That slight English accent gained him differential treatment from the guards. For them, it seemed, talking to Clubba was fun. Totally different than conversations with the usual population. Just by sounding different, he became interesting. Guards went out of their way to talk to him. Unbelievable!

By staying out of trouble, Clubba had quickly gained trustee status. It wasn’t so much that Clubba stayed out of trouble. He actually had the bangers handle his trouble for him. Clever kid, Earnest thought begrudgingly. If Clubba was providing shanks or any metal tools or equipment to the bangers, he had to be doing it through his work detail in the kitchen. It would be an easy delivery from there. That had to be it.

Through his own behavior and status, Earnest easily attached himself to Clubba’s assignments. As he watched from a discreet distance, his trained eye could spot what Clubba might steal whether equipment or other items. Yep, Earnest would know in a heartbeat. After all, he’d been doing it himself for years.

After two weeks, he had the same thing as when he’d started: zero! Clubba put on quite the show as a model prisoner. The guards were duly impressed, and as a result, he gained even more trust. Earnest clenched his teeth in frustration. Clever kid, he silently acknowledged. But Earnest knew how to get good treatment and access to all the details with the guards too. What he couldn’t figure out was what Clubba was doing for the bangers.

On kitchen detail one afternoon, Earnest silently watched in wide-eyed fascination. While cleaning the massive, stainless steel prep table, Clubba slowly but with obvious intention worked his way over to a gigantic white man standing by the sinks. He stood six feet eight and weighed around three hundred and fifty pounds. Earnest immediately knew who he was and what he thought of blacks. Everyone knew. The man advertised it in swastikas tattooed on his huge bald head.

“Big Whitey” took no notice of the dark-skinned Sudanese man who drew close enough to be within talking distance. Earnest stood over a pot of chicken noodle soup and pretended to work. Truth was if it had boiled over, Earnest wouldn’t have noticed. The strange affair unfolding in the room held him fast, mesmerized by the audacity of the younger man and the sheer brute force simmering from the older one.

“You know,” Clubba began in a stronger, more demonstrative English accent, “I simply can’t stand these bloody black African-Americans.”

Big Whitey stopped rubbing the cleaning solution onto the surface in front of him and slowly raised his head to meet the younger man’s gaze, then quickly did a double take and stepped back. “Wha’d you say t’ me?” Big Whitey asked in a low, threatening tone.

Either oblivious to the mounting tension in the room or purposely ignoring it, Clubba continued as though it was simply a pause in their ongoing conversation. “I mean their manners. Despicable. They gallivant about in an absurd manner, constantly claiming to be some kind of brotha’, trousers pulled down below their bums, and what on earth are they even saying? I mean honestly, what they’ve done to the Queen’s English is positively dreadful.”

Big Whitey stared dumbly and stood transfixed. He even managed a nod of agreement.

Clubba inched a few millimeters closer, continuing his one-sided conversation to the massive man. “If we were back where I came from, we would not put up with such shenanigans. I cannot wait to conclude my stay in this ghastly hellhole and,” he took a breath before delivering his brilliant finish, “return to Africa where I belong.”

Earnest rolled his eyes and stirred the simmering pot. The kid had simply walked up to the biggest, meanest Aryan in the place and started a conversation—a conversation! Not an argument. Not a fight. A conversation. What was more, Big Whitey was talking back to him. Earnest sneaked a quick glance at the two, and he was smiling.

“You…you want to go back? To Africa?” Big Whitey asked. “Where you belong?”

Clubba beamed and nodded his agreement.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” he asked with a wide grin. “We been saying that for years!” Big Whitey threw back his head and let out a big laugh.

Earnest had never—not once in a decade and a half—seen Big Whitey laugh. Ever. Earnest shook his head. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears.

“Te’quan Koak, right?” Big Whitey asked. “I’d shake yer hand if mine weren’t covered in crap.”

“Yes,” Clubba agreed. “Quite nasty.”

CLANG!
Earnest’s huge stirring spoon slid from his hand to the floor. The noise snapped him back from his dumbfounded staring.

Big Whitey and Te’quan focused their attention toward the sound and stared at Earnest who was no fool. He wanted in on this, wanted more information on Clubba. “What make you think we want yo’ uppity black African self here anyway?” Earnest shouted in his best street attitude.

Big Whitey’s gaze narrowed into a warning glower. “Want som’ma me?”

The threat to fight received, Earnest turned his gaze to the floor and shook his head, “No.”