Authors: William Gordon
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Crime
“Yes, sir,” said Rafael, with a deadpan expression on his face, looking the big man right in the eye.
“I don't like that kind of defiance. You'd better be careful. This Sergeant here is gonna take you to your cell. You understand you'll be locked up when you're not working for the People of the State of California or you're not exercising the privileges you earned for being a good boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow him!”
The first guard unlocked a door and started down a corridor. Rafael followed. His nostrils began to fill with the acrid smell of the musty building and of men living together in a limited space. Behind him was another guard. Neither was armed. They walked through several buildings until they came to a giant cell door guarded by two armed men on a catwalk above it, completely separated from the ground below. They paced back and forth in what looked like a self-contained environment; no one could get to them, even if they wanted to. An electronic buzzer opened a large barred gate, and Rafael saw the cellblock where he would be living.
The two guards walked down the aisle with Rafael sandwiched in between them until they reached cell number 677. One of the armed guards on the catwalk pressed a button and another buzzer sounded. The one in front of Rafael then lifted a bar from in front of the cell door and unlocked it with a key.
“Here's your home, Spic,” said the second guard. “You take the top bunk. Your amigo already laid claim to the bottom one. He'll be back at four-thirty. He works in the laundry. You make sure you guys get along. Any questions, you save 'em up. But don't make the list too long. The warden don't have time for bullshit. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rafael. Turning, he put his sheet and blanket on the bunk, hung his towel by the small sink with a piece of metal above it that took the place of a proper mirror, and plugged the earphones into the radio jack by one of the two small tables in the cell.
“Ya wanna shave every day?” asked the first guard.
“Yes, sir.”
“You'll get a razor early each morning. Don't expect no hot water. This ain't no hotel, so you'll have to shave with cold. The razor will be collected just as soon as you're done, so don't get no ideas, you can't use the blade for anything 'cept shaving. Trying to fuck around with it will mean losing privileges, understand?” said the bigger of the two men, chewing a wad of tobacco. His pot hung over his belt and he had some trouble moving.
“Yes, sir,” said Rafael.
* * *
The cell door slammed. He saw the steel bar come down and heard it clang. Then they were gone. He grabbed hold of the bars and looked out until his knuckles were white, but he couldn't see much. He could hear the sound of other cell doors opening or shutting; he wasn't sure which, as his ear was not yet finely tuned. There were sounds of footsteps on the metal catwalk above, which could only be the guards, and he assumed he'd get used to hearing them night and day. He could also hear the muffled sounds of people talking, but he couldn't make out a word of what was said.
He went back to his bunk, made it, laid down, and watched the ceiling for a long time. He thought of Sofia and the baby. Tears of anger and despair flowed down the sides of his face into his sideburns, then down his earlobes onto his pillow. Fifteen minutes later, he got up, wiped his face, and blew his nose with a piece of toilet paper. The commode was in one corner, in full view of the front of the cellâa porcelain bowl, a chrome handle, and no seat. He flushed the tissue down the toilet and went back and laid down on his bunk again, staring at the ceiling. He swore that he would never shed another tear for the rest of his life.
At four thirty-five, footsteps approached the cell. The buzzer sounded; there was the sound of the bar opening and a key being inserted in the lock, and a short Mexican man with close-cropped black hair and the evasive eyes of a rabbit was ushered in by a guard. He was dark-skinned and wore a mustache. The sleeves of his prison-issue shirt were rolled up above his elbows and his forearms were covered with scars and tattoos.
“Ãrale pues, carnal, me llamo Pancho Alarcón. Soy de Canta Ranas. They tol me about you, the vato from San Francisco, right?”
“Yeah. My name is Rafael,” he said, as he extended his hand. “Where's Canta Ranas?”
“You're kidding. You northern vatos don't know nothing. Canta Ranas is right next to Los Nietos, just outside of Los Angeles.
“They say you got nailed with an X-ray machine. Que cabrón. What the fuck were you doing driving around with a pinche máquina as big as an elephant in broad daylight?”
“Where did you get all this shit on me?” asked Rafael, noting a large blue dot tattooed on Pancho's cheekbone next to his right eye.
“Oh, alalva, carnal, there ain't no secrets in here, 'cept for the child molesters, and we fix them. Everybody knows you're a good vato. You took the rap for the other cabrones, and you never squealed. That gets you points, mano.”
“It also keeps me alive,” said Rafael, laughing.
He talked a long time to Pancho that afternoon and evening, and got the lowdown on how to survive in the hostile environment in which he found himself. He mused: it wasn't so different from the outside except, if he fucked up, they always knew where to find him. Pancho was an old hand and knew his way around. He was worth listening to.
The next day Rafael was sent to the prison employment committee. He was told he qualified for three different positions. The first was the machine shop, where the license plates for the state were made. The second was working for the prison library, but the third interested him the most: it involved working in the doctor's office.
He accepted the medical job. He liked the idea of dealing with the men who needed help with their physical ailments. He would, in effect, become the doctor's Man Friday. He was to be in charge of appointments and would administer rudimentary first aid. He also had access to the medical library. Even though the treatises were, for the most part, outdated, he could read them in his spare time. And, by the end of his sentence, he envisioned having enough of a background that he could apply to train for a degree as a registered nurse. But he shouldn't make long-range plans, he decided.
The doctor liked him immediately. Rafael made an excellent impression, and being Mexican was an advantage. He would get along well with the ever-increasing Hispanic population of the prison, many of whom didn't speak English. He would work alongside a Negro nurse who came from the outside and together they would ethnically represent a majority of their patients.
Rafael also met with the priest, who already knew of Rafael's good relationship with the church because he had received a letter of praise from his parish at Mission Dolores. Rafael volunteered to help the Father with Mass and teaching catechism, or in any other way he could be of assistance. Since the priest was not at San Quentin on a daily basis and he had confidence in Rafael, he trained him to handle the spiritual crises of the inmates in his absence.
* * *
After several weeks, Rafael fell into the routine of working at the doctor's office and helping the priest tend to the flock. He made no real friends other than Pancho, preferring instead to study the old medical texts and read books borrowed from the library or a romance novel if he could get one.
His cellmate was not particularly smart, but Rafael liked him, since he thought him loyal and he'd given him invaluable information on how the institution worked. There was always another twist, something new to learn.
One evening after dinner, the two were in their cell talking when there was a clanging of the bars from next door and a voice yelled out.
“Hey, Pancho, Cerdo's calling you.”
“Thanks, carnal,” said Pancho. He got up from his bunk, walked over to the cell door and took a small mirror out of his pocket.
“What are you doing?” asked Rafael.
“Communicating with the brothers, carnal.”
“With that mirror?”
“Yeah. Just watch.”
Pancho stuck the mirror out of the cell door, into the aisle and put two fingers in front of it facing in a vertical position. Then he turned them sideways so they were parallel to the ground. He watched the mirror intently until he got the answer to his signal that he was looking for from a cell down the row. He then withdrew the mirror and put it back in his pocket.
“I thought mirrors were illegal,” said Rafael.
“So, who gives a fuck, carnal. It's a free country, isn't it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You want some yesca?”
“No. No thanks, don't use it,” said Rafael.
“You don't mind if this vato has a few tokes, right, ese?”
“Be my guest, carnal, you live here, too.”
Pancho took his shoe off and hit the wall behind the toilet three times with the heel. Then he lifted his mattress and grabbed a wire coat hanger, straightened it out and created a hook at the end of it.
Rafael started to say something, but Pancho interrupted, “Shh, it's about to happen.” He rushed to the commode and stuck the hanger in as far as it would go, hook end first. He put his finger up to his lips asking for continued silence. They both heard a toilet flush above them, and within two seconds Pancho's experienced hand was pulling a small waterproof pouch out of the toilet. It was attached to a long string. He squeezed as much water out of the string as he could, then wrapped it in his towel and wrung it out. Afterwards, he hung the string at the back of the bunk to dry, so it wasn't visible from outside the cell.
He opened the pouch and felt the marijuana with his fingers. He raised it to his nose and smelled it.
“This is some good shit, carnal. Sure you don't want to smoke some with your compadre?”
“No, thanks, mano, it's not my thing,” said Rafael.
Pancho took a package of Zig Zags off his small table, rolled a joint and lit up. He reclined on his bunk enjoying every minute of it as the smoke wafted up toward Rafael's bed and the ceiling beyond it. “Life is good, carnal,” he said, after three tokes.
X
SING CHING
was lounging on Virginia Dimitri's comfortable couch long after they had made love. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, exposing part of his hairless chest. He looked totally relaxed, unusual for such a guarded person. Virginia entered the room dressed in a pair of navy-blue bell-bottom slacks. She had on a soft white shirt, the tails tied in a knot in front, exposing just enough of her midsection to tease any onlooker.
“Can I freshen your drink, Xsing?” she asked
“No, thank you. I'm comfortable just the way I am.”
“Mathew will be here any minute. He's always late.” She sat down beside him and patted him on the knee.
“How's Ren?”
“The crisis passed, as you know. Doctor Rolland is ready to do the bone marrow transplant when necessary. I don't know how I'll ever be able to pay you for what you've done for my son, Virginia.”
“Don't try, Xsing. Not everything has a price. Sometimes one just has to resign oneself to being in debt,” she joked, kissing him on the neck.
She heard a key unlock the front door. Mathew walked quickly down the hallway into the foyer of the apartment, while Fu Fung Fat stood silently by the kitchen door, watching him.
“I'll have a bourbon and soda,” Mathew instructed him.
He kissed Virginia on the cheek and extended his hand to Xsing Ching. “Sorry I'm late; too many things going on in my world. But I'm sure you two haven't missed me. I understood from Virginia that you wanted to see me, Xsing?”
“Yes, Mr. O'Hara, we need to talk. You know we have to be discreet.”
“Here we can talk freely. Virginia is my partner.”
“Of course, I wasn't referring to Miss Dimitri. As you no doubt know, I have already been in contact with other clients and have some offers. It would be very discourteous on my part to ignore them.”
“We can offer you a better deal,” said Mathew.
“I think I've convinced Mr. Ching to deal only with us, Matt. The fewer people who know of the shipment the fewer risks there are,” said Virginia.
“I agree with Virginia. This makes the most sense,” said Mathew. “You and I are businessmen, Mr. Ching. There won't be any problems. We both have experience and know that discretion is indispensable in these cases. I assure you that no one will ever know where these items came from or how they got here.”
“I don't usually sell a whole shipment to one person. I try to be more subtle about that much quality merchandise coming into the same part of the country at one time,” explained Xsing.
“I understand your concerns, but I insist on obtaining the entire shipment. Virginia has explained my motives to you, and I understand that you agree,” said Mathew.
The discussion went on for almost an hour. Mathew kept turning the conversation over to Virginia whose soft exchanges with Xsing seemed to hold the key. Finally he gave up. “Okay, okay, I've decided to sell the whole shipment to you. I want to emphasize that I'm doing it because it is very important to Miss Dimitri. I'm indebted to her. Because of her intervention my son's life may be saved.”
“Of course!”
“She knows better than anyone what this means to me, because she's also lost a child,” said Ching, putting his hand on top of Virginia's.
“Virginia? A child?” Mathew seemed lost.
“Let's not talk about that. It's a loss that I haven't been able to overcome,” interrupted Virginia, shooting a look of warning at Mathew.
“We must be careful,” Ching said, nervously. “You know I had to pay a large sum to keep this quiet?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mathew.
“Blackmail.”
“That's impossible!”
“My organization was approached by an anonymous source who knew there was going to be a large shipment delivered to the United States. We had to buy their silence. We worked behind the scenes to find out who was in charge of the blackmail. Fortunately, that person has been taken care of. But you must understand that we are nervous about going forward, for fear that other things may pop up.”