Demon Box

D TANK KICKOUT

I check in at the SM County facilities dressed in my usual leather jacket, striped pants and shoes, silver whistle hanging around my neck. They allow you to wear street business up at camp. The bulls here at County Slam hate the policy. Lt. Gerder looks up from his typewriter sees my outfit and his already stone-cold face freezes even harder.

"All right, Deboree. Give me everything."

"Everything?" Usually they let the Honor Camp prisoners check through, trust them to give up their watches, pocketknives, etc.

"Everything. We don't want you blowing your whistle at midnight."

"Make me out a complete property slip, then."

He gives me an unwavering stare through the mesh as he takes a triplicate form from a waiting stack and rolls it into the typewriter.

"One whistle," I say, pulling the chain over my head. "With a silver crucifix soldered to the side."

He doesn't type.

"One blues harp, E flat."

He continues to look at me over the keys.

"Come on, Gerder; you want everything, I want a property slip for everything – whistles, harps, and all."

We both know what I'm really worried about are my two Honor Camp notebooks.

"You just slide everything into the trough," he says. "In fact, I want you out of that Davy Crockett costume, Jackoff. Peel it."

He comes out of the cage while I take off the fringed jacket Behema made me from the hide we skinned off the cow elk Houlihan ran over coming down off Seven Devils Pass that All Souls' Eve with the brakes gone and the headlights blown.

"Stuff it in the trough. Now, hands on the wall feet on the line. Spread 'em." He gives the inside of my ankle a kick. "Deputy Rhack, back me while I examine this prisoner."

They frisk me. The whole shot, flashlight and all. Taking sunglasses, handkerchief, fingernail clippers, ballpoint pens and everything. My two notebooks are wrapped in the big farewell card Fastinaux drew for me on butcher paper. Gerder rips it off and stuffs it in the wastebasket. He tosses the notebooks on top of the other stuff.

"I get a property slip for this stuff, Gerder. That's the law."

"While you're in my tanks," Lt. Gerder lets me know, "you go by my law."

No malice in his voice. No anger. Just information.

"Okay then" – I take my two notebooks out of the trough and hold them up – "witness these." Showing them to Deputy Rhack and the rest of the men waiting in the receiving room. "Everybody? Two notebooks."

Then hand them to Gerder. He carries them around into his cage and sets them next to his typewriter. He hammers at the keys, ignoring the roomful of rancor across the counter from him. Rhack isn't so cool; a lot of these guys will be back up at camp with him for many months yet, where he's a guard without a gun. First he tries to oil us all with a wink, then he turns to me, smiling his sincerest man-to-man smile.

"So, Devlin… you think you got a book outta these six months with us?"

"I think so."

"How do you think it'll come out; in weekly installments in the Chronicle?"

"I hope not." Bonehead move, giving those three pages of notes to that Sunday supplement reporter – pulled my own covers. "It should make a book on its own."

"You'll have to change a lot, I'll bet… like the names."

"I'll bet a carton I don't. Sergeant Rhack? Lieutenant Gerder? Where can you come up with better names than those?"

Before Rhack can think up an answer Gerder jerks the papers out and slides them under the mesh. "Sign all three, Deputy."

Rhack has to use one of the pens from my pile. When Gerder gets the signed forms back he scoops all the little stuff out of the trough into a pasteboard property box with a numbered lid. He puts my wadded jacket on top.

"Okay, Deboree." He swivels to the panel of remote switches. "Zip up your pants and step to the gate."

"What about my notebooks?"

"You'll find stationery in Detain. Next."

Rhack hands me my ballpoint as I pass, and Gerder's right: there is paper in D Tank. Sixo is still here, too, after coming down for his kickout more than a week ago. In blues now instead of the flashy slacks and sportjacket, but still trying to keep up the cocky front, combing his greasy pomp, talking tough: "Good deal! The pussy wagon has arrived."

One by one the other guys that rode down on Rhack's shuttle show up. Gerder has had to give them each the same treatment, taking cigarettes, paperbacks, everything.

"Sorry about that," I tell them.

"Steer clear of Deboree," Sixo advises them. "He's a heat magnet."

Just then keys jangle. "Deboree! Duggs is here to see you."

Door slides open. I follow the turnkey down the row of cells to a room with a desk. Probation Officer Duggs is sitting behind it. My two notebooks are on the desk beside my rapsheets. Duggs looks up from the records.

"I see you made it without getting any more Bad Time tacked on," Duggs says.

"I was good."

Duggs closes the folder. "Think anybody'll be here for you at midnight?"

"One of my family, probably."

"Down all the way from Oregon?"

"I hope so."

"Some family." He looks at me: caseworker look, conditioned sincere. Sympathetic. "Sorry about the report on your father."

"Thanks."

"That's why Judge Rilling waived that Bad Time, you know?"

"I know."

He lectures me awhile on the evils of blah blah blah. I let him run out his string. Finally he stands up, comes round the desk, sticks out his hand. "Okay, Short-timer. But don't miss the ten-thirty hearing Monday morning if you want to get released to an Oregon PO."

"I'll be here."

"I'll walk you back."

On the walk back to D Tank he asks what about this Jail Book; when will it be coming out? When it's over, I tell him. When might that be? When it stops happening. Will this talk tonight be in it? Yes… tonight, Monday morning, last week – everything will be in it.

"Deboree!" Sixo calls through the bars. "Put this in your fucking book: a guy – me – a guy shuns his comrades, plays pinochle five months with the motherfucking brass up there – five and a half months! When he musters down, one of those bulls misses a pack of Winstons and calls down and asks, 'What brand of cigarettes did Sixo check in with? Winstons? Slap a hold on him!' I mean is that cold or what, man? Is that a ballbusting bitch? But, what the fuck; Sixo will survive," he crows. "Angelo Sixo is Sir Vivor!"

Some dudes can snivel so it sounds like they're crowing.

They lock me in and Duggs leaves. Sixo sits back down. He's doing Double Time, on hold like this – Now Time along with Street-to-come Time. You can even be made to serve Triple Time, which adds on Street-gone-by Time and that is called Guilt. A man waiting for his kickout is on what's called Short Time. Short Time is known for being Hard Time. Lots of Short-timers go nuts or fuck up or try a run. Short is often harder than Long.

The best is Straight Time. That's what the notebooks are about.

More guys check in. Weekenders. D-Tankers. Some Blood hollers from the shadows, "Mercy, Deputy Dawg… we done already got motherfuckers wall to wall…"

Eleven forty they take me out give me my clothes, whistle and harp put me in this room with a bench and one other Short-timer, gray-pated mahogany-hued old dude of sixty years or so.

"Oh, am I one Ready Freddy. Am I ever!"

He's pacing around the little room picking up and putting back down and picking back up one of those old-fashioned footrest shoeshine kits, full of personals. He has on a worn black suit, maroon tie and white shirt. His shoes have a sensational shine.

"What you in for, Home?"

"Weed. What about you?"

"I pull a knife on my brother-in-law… my old woman call the cops. Wasn't no actual goddamn fight whatsoever. But I don't care. Just let me on my mother way!"

Putting down his kit sipping his coffee picking his kit back up.

"Yessir, on my way!"

"Good luck on it," I say.

"Same to you. Ah, I don't care. I even lost some weight in here. Met some nice folks, too…"

A young black trusty stops in and gives him a number on a slip of paper.

"I hope you writ where I can read it," the old man says.

"Plenty big, Pop. Don't forget. Call soon as you hit a phone, tell her her Sugardog still be barkin'."

"I'll do it, I sure will!"

"Thanks, Pop. Be cool."

As soon as the kid is gone the old man wads the paper and drops it in the pisser.

"Damn fool tramp. Met some real motherfuckers, too, as you can see." He puts the kit down so he can rub his hands as he paces. "Oh, that ol' city be just right, Saturday night still cookin'. If I can get me to a bus, that is. What's the time?"

"I got twelve straight up. I should have some family waiting; we'll give you a lift."

"Appreciate it," he says. "Straight up you tell me? Ah well, I don't care. We got nothin but time to do, wherever we be. What you say you been in on?"

"Possession and cultivation."

"If that ain't a shame – for the good green gift of the Lord. He hadn't wanted it to grow, there wouldna been seeds. How much they give you?"

"Six months, five-hundred-dollar fine, three-year tail."

"If that ain't the shits."

"It's done."

"I reckon. Nothin but time -" He starts to take a sip of his cold coffee, stops – " 'ceptin, oh, I am ready."

He puts the cup down, picks the kit back up.

"Franklin!" a voice calls. "William O. -"

"In the wind, Boss. On my way!"

I'm alone on the bench, sipping what's left of his cup of coffee, spoon still sticking out. The plastic bag his suit was in hangs from the conduit; his blues are right where he left them, on the floor. Ghost clothes. I'm ready too. This stationery is finished both sides.

"Deboree! Devlin E. -"

"On my way!"

* Red Death. What they call the glop of strawberry jelly comes with breakfast coffee and toast – makes, among other things, quite a powerful glue.

* * Never did get those two notebooks back.