Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (8 page)

THE ONLY PENITENTIARY CORRECTIONAL FACILITY IN THE state is located on the southwestern edge of Lincoln, Nebraska, about sixty miles southwest of Omaha. Every gang member across the state served their sentences there. Any associate arrested in the state had a ready-made network inside; all the bad eggs were in one basket.

Walking into the orientation center, Clubba sensed the interest of the other inmates checking him out. The cry of “fresh meat” echoed through the cinder-block walls behind him and the rest of the shuffling crowd headed to intake. Everyone watched for someone they knew, a fellow affiliate to add to their clique. Clubba knew the drill. They patiently waited for the flash of a discreet sign to identify which “G” was his. For security and protection, gangs were segregated—a lesson learned quickly by wardens all over the country to avoid maximum bloodshed and maintain a shaky peace.

Several bangers from the major gangs immediately straightened when Clubba strode through the buildings en route to his cell. Their slight change in stance said they recognized him. Those he didn’t know quickly flashed a generic Blood or Crip sign. Clubba suppressed a smile. He could provide satisfactory responses so each gang could identify him as a trusted associate. Here he’d be one of the few inmates who could freely mingle among rival gangs without fear of being viewed as a threat, someone who could be trusted. The sense of being watched didn’t bother him; it was expected.

Clubba went through the orientation drills from inventory to body search. The latter came with the complimentary squat and cough routine. Clubba tried to remove himself from the whole thing, but each time an irritating whistle popped into his head. The old man was going to drive him nuts. Each time he thought about the old man’s gap-toothed grin and belly laugh, he hit his thigh with his balled fist in imitation of his bat landing on the chest of an enemy. The little man’s day would come. Clubba would make sure of it.

Clubba pushed the thought aside. Right now there were more pressing issues. He needed followers and an organization within these walls surrounding him. Clubba loved the game of chess and played it as often as he could—but only with a skilled opponent. Chess kept a man sharp, thinking ahead, focusing on the next move. Mastering the game let him set up his opponents to believe one thing so he could do another. Through it, Clubba learned to always plan his next move.

Over the next few weeks, Clubba worked with members of the major gangs in his pod or building. It didn’t take long to establish himself as an associate to every group there. Eventually he sat in the commons area with any gang cliques he chose, freely socializing with all.

With the ease of a gifted quilter, Clubba wove and stitched himself into the myriad prison groups. Like using a single connecting thread, Clubba accomplished his goal without anyone noticing.

Once again, however, Clubba sensed someone watching…just like the first day he arrived in orientation. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing. With a shrug, he shook off the sensation.

Clubba was definitely being watched. And not merely by other inmates. Earnest Yates, an older man well into his fifties, watched Clubba flit seamlessly from one group to another whether in the chow hall or the yard. The boy was always on the make.

Behind bars for almost twenty years, Earnest Yates’s white jumpsuit reminded everyone of his “trustee” status at the prison. Respected by the black and brown inmates and ignored by the white ones, his position gained him access to parts of the prison unknown to regular inmates. It made it possible to observe a lot, hear a lot, and know a lot. Earnest received daily perks from his status like special details and better living conditions. He wore the coveralls like a uniform. Officials thought him a model prisoner, but truth was, once he hit forty-five, he didn’t have the time or the patience to cause any problems. He already knew how to play the game.

From the day Clubba had sauntered in with that arrogant look on his face, he broadcast his game to Earnest loud and clear. Flashing a covert sign to then unknown Bloods who eyed him, Clubba would turn around and signal affiliation stealthily to a Crip…and so it went. The kid had shocked him, Earnest recalled, still watching Clubba weave his personal magic to almost every group in their building. A humorless smile tweaked the corners of Yates’s mouth. The boy was no run-of-the-mill associate, that was for sure. Whatever his game, Earnest thought he might find a good use for him.

For Clubba, his success in infiltrating the major gangs of the main population was to suit his long-range purposes. Truthfully, he considered them beneath him, stupid and disgusting. They were also simple. Keeping himself in their good graces was a no-brainer…just listen to the bragging and play right into it.

“You guys crazy!” he’d say and then listen to their stories and laugh along with them. No one had ever tumbled onto how much intelligence he’d obtained—exactly the way Clubba wanted it.

They may be criminals and dumber than a box of hammers, but Clubba made sure no one got a hint of his thoughts. On a daily basis, he played cards or checkers—which he particularly considered a game for simple minds—or just made small talk with those who valued his opinions. He fawned over them, made them feel bigger and better when he spoke about his past gang activity. Whichever crime they’d committed became his focus; everyone tried to out-gansta one another. Clubba let them think they were bigger, badder, and better than he’d ever be and pumped up their egos and pride. They never suspected a thing.

Earnest threw a disgusted glance in Clubba’s direction. “Listen to that crap,” he said to Toni Delmotti, a fellow trustee.

“Best keep yer mind in the game,” Delmotti said and took Yates’s knight in their afternoon chess game.

“You hearin’ that?” Earnest asked. “He plays those fools for idiots every day.”

“Who?” Delmotti took Earnest’s bishop.

“Te’quan Koak,” Yates replied glumly. “Been watching him since he got here a month ago. Dude strolls in like he’s some sort of celebrity. Starts playin’ the bangers right off. One by one, he’s got ev’ry one of them in his stable. Got my twenty-year date coming up, and I never seen anything like that guy. Nobody done that in so short a time. And he’s slick. Real slick.”

“How long he in for?” Demotti asked.

“Little over a year,” Earnest said.

“They wasted a space for a fool to serve that little time? He must’ve pissed somebody off. What he do?”

“Something about messin’ with his girlfriend. They call him Clubba…like in somebody who likes to use a bat for somethin’ more than baseball.”

“Them young ones all got a claim to fame these days,” Delmotti said.

Yates had been in and out of prison since his teen years. Both he and Delmotti were “ol’ men in the pen” to the general population. Earnest had to admit he’d seen more than his share of violence both inside and outside the pen. Even if he was paroled tomorrow, he was done for. His body betrayed him physically, and he could never get back in the game even though his mind was still sharp.

But, Earnest thought, if he could play Clubba’s game with the man himself, the kid would come in handy once he was paroled.

“And checkmate,” his partner said with a grin.

Earnest shrugged the loss off, his gaze pulled to Clubba once again. The boy was smart and talented. Picking up the final pawn of his game, he twirled it between his fingers and focused on Clubba’s broad back across the room. Yep, the boy might definitely come in handy.

The newly completed Ol’ Blues retirement center had turned out better than anyone hoped. Television stations repeatedly aired spots of feel-good clips featuring retired officers who had served the community for years moving into their new quarters. Public opinion was squarely behind the first-of-its-kind home. Regional coverage picked up the stories, and it wasn’t long before even national news outlets raved about the soon-to-be-opened Omaha experiment. Using the concept of incorporating state offices, state-of-the-art medical and educational services, and incorporating all of this around the design of a huge police precinct captured everyone’s imagination.

Local media often sought feature stories of the retired officers who resided there, especially on a slow news day. Adam Jones, the new anchor with the local ABC station, led his photographer up to the doors. “Just a few clips,” he said to reception. “We need a human interest story for tonight.”

In the penitentiary, Earnest Yates watched the news story. Behind Jones and off to his left the camera zoomed in on one group of former officers before zooming out and letting the anchor finish his story. Earnest didn’t hear a word; one of those officers, the one a good six inches shorter than everyone else, caught his attention.

“Tiny!” Earnest said and drew in a shaky breath. The cop Earnest owed big-time for too many trips behind bars—including this last one. “Still alive?”

Earnest slumped back into his chair, his mind spinning. He might not get the last twenty years of his life back, but maybe he could find a way to pay Tiny back for all the problems he’d caused Earnest over the years.

Back in the day, Tiny was always two steps ahead of him. Earnest clenched his fist at the memory. Every time Tiny’d arrested Earnest, he’d say the same thing. “You don’t stop this, I’m gonna be all over you like a dirty shirt.” Then he’d smile or laugh and Earnest wanted to punch his fists through the cop’s face. Tiny always acted like he was six feet tall when he barely came up to Earnest’s shoulder. Earnest frowned. Just like Napoleon, Tiny would take on anybody any time. The man was fearless; Earnest had never seen him back off as much as a millimeter.

Earnest had even tried to get Tiny jumped back in the day. Knowing what shift the cop worked and his precinct, Earnest pumped up some of his younger, dumber underlings in the neighborhood, getting them drunk and high. Then he released them on the unsuspecting neighborhood. His boys started fights with people just walking by, and Earnest knew it wouldn’t be long before Tiny showed up. Sure enough after only five minutes, a cruiser jolted to a stop by the altercation and out hopped Tiny.

When Earnest’s boys saw him, they laughed. Even at the cop’s call for backup, they still laughed. Earnest stayed in the shadow of a project apartment. A smile of anticipation split his lips. He couldn’t wait to see Tiny beaten up—hospitalized even. Earnest’s boys circled Tiny, but he seemed to understand the tactic they were going for: inside a circle was an indefensible position.