Forty Lashes Less One

5

A work detail was making adobe bricks over by the south wall, inside the yard. They mixed mud and water and straw, stirred it into a heavy wet paste and poured it into wooden forms. There were bricks drying all along the base of the wall and scrap lumber from the forms and stacks of finished bricks, ready to be used here or sold in town.

Harold Jackson and Raymond San Carlos had to come across the yard with their wheelbarrows to pick up bricks and haul them back to the TB cellblock that was like a prison within a prison: a walled-off area with its own exercise yard. There were eight cells here, in a row facing the yard, half of them empty. The four tubercular convicts stayed in their cells most of the time or sat in the shade and watched Harold and Raymond work, giving them advice and telling them when a line of bricks wasn’t straight. They were working on the face wall of the empty cells, tearing out the weathered, crumbling adobe and putting in new bricks; repairing cells that would probably never again be occupied. This was their main job. They worked at it side by side without saying a word to each other. They also had to bring the tubercular convicts their meals, and sometimes get cough medicine from the sick ward. A guard gave them white cotton doctor masks they could put on over their nose and mouth for whenever they went into the TB cells; but the masks were hot and hard to breathe through, so they didn’t wear them after the first day. They used the masks, and a few rags they found, to pad the leg-irons where the metal dug into their ankles.

The third day out of the snake den Raymond began talking to the convicts on the brick detail. He recognized Joe Dean in the group, but didn’t speak to him directly. He said, man alive, it was good to breathe fresh air again and feel the sun. He took off his hat and looked up at the sky. All the convicts except Joe Dean went on working. Raymond said, even being over with the lungers was better than the snake den. He said somebody must have made a mistake, he was supposed to be in thirty days for trying to escape, but they let him out after ten. Raymond smiled; he said he wasn’t going to mention it to them, though.

Joe Dean was watching him, leaning on his shovel. “You take care of him yet?”

“Take care of who?” Raymond asked him.

“The nigger boy. I hear he stomped you.”

“Nobody stomped me. Where’d you hear that?”

“Had to chain him up.”

“They chained us both.”

“Looks like you’re partners now,” Joe Dean said.

“I’m not partners with him. They make us work together, that’s all.”

“You going to fight him?”

“Sure, when I get a chance.”

“He don’t look too anxious,” another convict said. “That nigger’s a big old boy.”

“I got to wait for the right time,” Raymond said. “That’s all.”

He came back later for another wheelbarrow load of bricks and stood watching them as they worked the mud and mixed in straw. Finally he asked if anybody had seen Frank around.

“Frank who you talking about?” Joe Dean asked.

“Frank Shelby.”

“Listen to him,” Joe Dean said. “He wants to know has anybody seen Frank.”

“I got to talk to him,” Raymond said. “See if he can get me out of there.”

“Scared of TB, huh?”

“I mean being with the black boy. I got enough of him.”

“I thought you wanted to fight him.”

“I don’t know,” Joe Dean said. “It sounds to me like you’re scared to start it.”

“I don’t want no more of the snake den. That’s the only thing stopping me.”

“You want to see Frank Shelby,” one of the other convicts said, “there he is.” The man nodded and Raymond looked around.

Shelby must have just come out of the mess hall. He stood by the end-gate of a freight wagon that Junior and Soonzy and a couple of other convicts were unloading. There was no guard with them, unless he was inside. Raymond looked up at the guard on the south wall.

“I’ll tell you something,” Joe Dean said. “You can forget about Frank helping you.”

Raymond was watching the guard. “You know, uh? You know him so good he’s got you working in this adobe slop.”

“Sometimes we take bricks to town,” Joe Dean said. “You think on it if you don’t understand what I mean.”

“I got other things to think on.”

As the guard on the south wall turned and started for the tower at the far end of the yard, Raymond picked up his wheelbarrow and headed for the mess hall.

Shelby didn’t look up right away. He was studying a bill of lading attached to a clipboard, checking things off. He said to Junior, “The case right by your foot, that should be one of ours.”

“Says twenty-four jars of Louisiana cane syrup.”

“It’s corn whiskey.” Shelby still didn’t look up, but he said then, “What do you want?”

“They let me out of the snake den,” Raymond said. “I was suppose to be in thirty days, they let me out.”

Shelby looked at him now. “Yeah?”

“I wondered if you fixed it.”

“Not me.”

“I thought sure.” He waited as Shelby looked in the wagon and at the clipboard again. “Say, what happened at the river? I thought you were going to come right behind me.”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“Man, I thought I had made it. But I couldn’t find no boat over there.”

“I guess you didn’t look in the right place,” Shelby said.

“I looked where you told me. Man, it was work. I don’t like swimming so much.” He watched Shelby studying the clipboard. “I was wondering—you know I’m over in a TB cell now.”

Shelby didn’t say anything.

“I was wondering if you could fix it, get me out of there.”

“Why?”

“I got to be with that nigger all the time.”

“He’s got to be with you,” Shelby said, “so you’re even.”

Raymond grinned. “I never thought of it that way.” He waited again. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About getting me back with everybody.”

Shelby started fooling with his mustache, smoothing it with his fingers. “Why do you think anybody wants you back?”

Raymond didn’t grin this time. “I did what you told me,” he said seriously. “Listen, I’ll work for you any time you want.”

“I’m not hiring today.”

“Well, what about getting me out of the TB yard?”

Shelby looked at him. He said, “Boy, why would I do that? I’m the one had you put there. Now you say one more word Soonzy is going to come down off the wagon and break both your arms.”

Shelby watched Raymond pick up his wheelbarrow and walk away. “Goddamn Indin is no better than a nigger,” he said to Junior. “You treat them nice one time and you got them hanging around the rest of your life.”

When Raymond got back to the brick detail Joe Dean said, “Well, what did he say?”

“He’s going to see what he can do,” Raymond answered. He didn’t feel like talking any more, and was busy loading bricks when Harold Jackson came across the yard with his wheelbarrow. Harold wore his hat pointed low over his eyes. He didn’t have a shirt on and, holding the wheelbarrow handles, his shoulders and arm muscles were bunched and hard-looking. One of the convicts saw him first and said to Raymond, “Here comes your buddy.” The other convicts working the adobe mud looked up and stood leaning on their shovels and hoes as Harold Jackson approached.

Raymond didn’t look at him. He stacked another brick in the wheelbarrow and got set to pick up the handles. He heard one of the convicts say, “This here Indian says you won’t fight him. Says you’re scared. Is that right?”

“I fight him any time he wants.”

Raymond had to look up then. Harold was staring at him.

“Well, I don’t know,” the convict said. “You and him talk about fighting, but nobody’s raised a hand yet.”

“It must be they’re both scared,” Joe Dean said. “Or it’s because they’re buddies. All alone in that snake den they got to liking each other. Guard comes in thinks they’re rassling on the floor—man, they’re not fighting, they’re buggering each other.”

The other convicts grinned and laughed, and one of them said, “Jesus Christ, what they are, they’re sweethearts.”

Raymond saw Harold Jackson take one step and hit the man in the face as hard as he could. Raymond wanted to say no, don’t do it. It was a strange thing and happened quickly as the man spun toward him and Raymond put up his hands. One moment he was going to catch the man, keep him from falling against him. The next moment he balled up a fist and drove it into the man’s face, right out in the open yard, the dumbest thing he had ever done, but doing it now and not stopping or thinking, going for Joe Dean now and busting him hard in the mouth as he tried to bring up his shovel. God, it felt good, a wild hot feeling, letting go and stepping into them and swinging hard at all the faces he had been wanting to smash and pound against a wall.

Harold Jackson held back a moment, staring at the crazy Indian, until somebody was coming at him with a shovel and he had to grab the handle and twist and chop it across the man’s head. If he could get room and swing the shovel—but there were too many of them too close, seven men in the brick detail and a couple more, Junior and Soonzy, who came running over from the supply detail and grabbed hunks of lumber and started clubbing at the two wild men.

By the time the guard on the south wall fired his Winchester in the air and a guard came running over from the mess hall, Harold lay stunned in the adobe muck; Raymond was sprawled next to him and neither of them moved.

“Lord,” Junior said, “we had to take sticks this time to get them apart.”

Soonzy shook his head. “I busted mine on that nigger, he went right on fighting.”

“They’re a scrappy pair,” Junior said, “but they sure are dumb, ain’t they?”

Bob Fisher told the guard to hose them off and throw them in the snake den. He told Soonzy and Junior and the men on the brick detail to get back to work. Chained? the guard wanted to know. Chained, Fisher said, and walked off toward the stairs at the end of the mess hall, noticing the convicts who had come out of the adobe huts and equipment sheds, brought out by the guard’s rifle fire, all of them looking toward the two men lying in the mud. He noticed Frank Shelby and some convicts by the freight wagon. He noticed the cooks in their white aprons, and the two women, Norma and Tacha, over by the tailor shop.

Fisher went up the stairs and down the hall to the superintendent’s office. As he walked in, Mr. Manly turned from the window.

“The same two,” Fisher said.

“It looked like they were all fighting.” Mr. Manly glanced at the window again.

“You want a written report?”

“I’d like to know what happened.”

“Those two start fighting. The other boys try to pull them apart and the two start swinging at everybody. Got to hit ’em with shovels to put ’em down.”

“I didn’t see them fighting each other.”

“Then you must have missed that part.” Past Mr. Manly’s thoughtful expression—through the window and down in the yard—he saw a convict walking toward the tailor shop with a bundle under his arm. Frank Shelby. This far away he knew it was Shelby. Norma Davis stood in the door waiting for him.

“Soon as I heard the shots,” Mr. Manly said, “I looked out. They were separated, like two groups fighting. They didn’t look close enough to have been fighting each other.”

Bob Fisher waited. “You want a written report?”

“What’re you going to do to them?”

“I told them before, they start fighting they go back in the snake den. Twenty days. They know it, so it won’t be any surprise.”

“Twenty days in there seems like a long time.”

“I hope to tell you it is,” Fisher said.

“I was going to talk to them when they got out the other day. I meant to—I don’t know, I put it off and then I guess some other things came up.”

Fisher could see Shelby at the tailor shop now, close to the woman, talking to her. She turned and they both went inside.

“I’m not saying I could have prevented their fighting, but you never know, do you? Maybe if I had spoken to them, got them to shake hands—you understand what I mean, Bob?”

Fisher pulled his gaze away from the tailor shop to the little man by the window. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

“It could have made a difference.”

“I never seen talking work much on anybody.”

“But twenty days in there,” Mr. Manly said, “and it could be my fault, because I didn’t talk to them.” He paused. “Don’t you think, Bob, in this case, you ought to give them no more than ten days? You said yourself ten days was a long time. Then soon as they come out I’ll talk to them.”

“That Indian was supposed to be in thirty days,” Fisher said, “and you changed it to ten. Now I’ve already told them twenty and you want to cut it down again. I tell a convict one thing and you say something else and we begin to have problems.”

“I’m only asking,” Mr. Manly said, “because if I could have done something, if I’m the one to blame, then it wouldn’t be fair to those two boys.”

“Mister, they’re convicts. They do what we tell them. Anything.”

Mr. Manly agreed, nodding. “That’s true, we give the orders and they have to obey. But we still have to be fair, no matter who we’re dealing with.”

Bob Fisher wondered what the hell he was doing here arguing with this little four-eyed squirt. He said, “They don’t know anything about this. They don’t know you meant to talk to them.”

“But I know it,” Mr. Manly said, “and the more I think about it the more I know I got to talk to them.” He paused. “Soon.”

Fisher saw it coming, happening right before his eyes, the little squirt’s mind working behind his gold-frame glasses.

“Yes, maybe you ought to bring them in tomorrow.”

“Just a minute ago you said ten days—”

“Do you have any children, Bob?”

The question stopped Fisher. He shook his head slowly, watching Mr. Manly.

“Well, I’m sure you know anyway you got to have patience with children. Sure, you got to punish them sometimes, but first you got to teach them right from wrong and be certain they understand it.”

“I guess my wife’s got something wrong with her. She never had any kids.”

“That’s God’s will, Bob. What I’m getting at, these two boys here, Harold and Raymond, they’re just like children.” Mr. Manly held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say, these boys wasn’t caught stealing candy, they took a life. And I say that’s true. But still they’re like little children. They’re grown in body but not in mind. They got the appetites and temptations of grown men. They fight and carry on and, Lord knows, they have committed murder, for which they are now paying the price. But we don’t want no more murders around here, do we, Bob? No, sir. Nor do we want to punish anybody for something that isn’t their fault. We got two murderers wanting to kill each other. Two mean-looking boys we chain up in a dungeon. But Bob, tell me something. Has anybody ever spoke kindly to them? I mean has anybody ever helped them overcome the hold the devil’s got on them? Has anybody ever showed them the path of righteousness, or explained to them Almighty God’s justice and the meaning of everlasting salvation?”

Jesus Christ, Bob Fisher said—not to Mr. Manly, to himself. He had to get out of here; he didn’t need any sermons today. He nodded thoughtfully and said to Mr. Manly, “I’ll bring them in here whenever you want.”

When Junior and Soonzy came back from clubbing the Indian and the colored boy, Frank Shelby told them to get finished with the unloading. He told them to leave a bottle of whiskey in the wagon for the freight driver and take the rest of it to his cell. Soonzy said Jesus, that nigger had a hard head, and showed everybody around how the hunk of wood was splintered. Junior said my, but they were dumb to start a fight out in the yard. This old boy over there called them sweethearts and that had started them swinging. If they wanted to fight, they should have it out in a cell some night. A convict standing there said, boy, he’d like to see that. It would be a good fight.

Shelby was looking at Norma Davis outside the tailor shop. He knew she was waiting for him, but what the convict said caught in his mind and he looked at the man.

“Which one would you bet on?”

“I think I’d have to pick the nigger,” the convict said. “The way he’s built.”

Shelby looked around at Soonzy. “Who’d you pick?”

“I don’t think neither of them look like much.”

“I said who’d you pick.”

“I don’t know. I guess the nigger.”

“How about in the mess hall,” Shelby said. “The Indin showed he’s got nerve. Pretty quick, too, the way he laid that plate across the boy’s eyes.”

“He’s quick,” Junior said.

“Quick and stronger than he looks,” Shelby said. “You saw him swimming against the river current.”

“Well, he’s big for an Indin,” Junior said. “Big and quick and, as Frank says, he’s got some nerve. Another thing, you don’t see no marks on him from their fighting in the snake den. He might be more’n the nigger can handle.”

“I’d say you could bet either way on that fight,” Shelby said. He told Junior to hand him the bundle for the tailor shop—a bolt of prison cloth wrapped in brown paper—and walked off with it.

Most of them, Shelby was thinking, would bet on the nigger. Get enough cons to bet on the Indin and it could be a pretty good pot. If he organized the betting, handled the whole thing, he could take about ten percent for the house. Offer some long-shot side bets and cover those himself. First, though, he’d have to present the idea to Bob Fisher. A prize fight. Fisher would ask what for and he’d say two reasons. Entertain the cons and settle the problem of the two boys fighting. Decide a winner and the matter would be ended. Once he worked out the side bets and the odds.

“Bringing me a present?” Norma asked him.

Shelby reached the shade of the building and looked up at her in the doorway. “I got a present for you, but it ain’t in this bundle.”

“I bet I know what it is.”

“I bet you ought to. Who’s inside?”

“Just Tacha and the old man.”

“Well, you better invite me in,” Shelby said, “before I start stripping you right here.”

“Little anxious today?”

“I believe it’s been over a week.”

“Almost two weeks,” Norma said. “Is there somebody else?”

“Two times I was on my way here,” Shelby said, “Fisher stopped me and sent me on a work detail.”

“I thought you got along with him.”

“It’s the first time he’s pulled anything like that.”

“You think he knows about us?”

“I imagine he does.”

“He watches me and Tacha take a bath.”

“He comes in?”

“No, there’s a loose brick in the wall he pulls out. One time, after I was through, I peeked out the door and saw him sneaking off.”

Shelby grinned. “Dirty old bastard.”

“Maybe he doesn’t feel so old.”

“I bet he’d like to have some at that.” Shelby nodded slowly. “I just bet he would.”

Norma was watching him. “Now what are you thinking?”

“But he wouldn’t want anybody to know about it. That’s why he don’t come in when you’re taking a bath. Tacha’s there.”

Norma smiled. “I can see your evil mind working. If Tacha wasn’t there—”

“Yes, sir, then he’d come in.”

“Ask if I wanted him to soap my back.”

“Front and back. I can see him,” Shelby said. “One thing leads to another. After the first time, he don’t soap you. No, sir, he gets right to it.”

“Then one night you come in”—Norma giggled—“and catch the head guard molesting a woman convict.”

Shelby shook his head, grinning.

“He’s trying to pull his pants on in a hurry and you say, Good evening, Mr. Fisher. How are tricks?”

“God damn,” Shelby said. “that’s good.”

“He’s trying to button his pants and stick his shirt in and thinking as hard as he can for something to say.” Norma kept giggling and trying not to. “He says, uh—”

“What does he say?”

“He says, ‘I just come in for some coffee. Can I get you a cup, Mr. Shelby?’ And you say, ‘No, thank you. I was just on my way to see the superintendent.’ He says, ‘About what, Mr. Shelby?’ And you say, ‘About how some of the guards have been messing with the women convicts.’ ”

“It’s an idea,” Shelby said, “but I don’t know of anything he can do for me except open the gate and he ain’t going to do that, no matter what I get on him. No, I was wondering—if you and him got to be good friends—what he might tell you if you were to ask him.”

Norma raised her arm and used the sleeve to wipe the wetness from her eyes. “What might he tell me?”

“Like what day we’re supposed to move out of here. If we’re going by train. If we’re all going at once, or in groups.” Shelby spoke quietly and watched her begin to nod her head as she thought about it. “Once we know when we’re moving we can begin to make plans. I can talk to my brother Virgil, when he comes to visit, get him working on the outside. But we got to know when.”

Norma was picturing herself in the cook shack with Fisher. “It would have to be the way I asked him. So he wouldn’t suspect anything.”

“Honey, you’d know better than I could tell you.”

“I suppose once I got him comfortable with me.”

“You won’t have any trouble at all.”

“It’ll probably be a few times before he relaxes.”

“Get him to think you like him. A man will believe anything when he’s got his pants off.”

“We might be having a cup of coffee after and I’ll make a little face and look around the kitchen and say, ‘Gee, honey, I wish there was some place else we could go.’ ”

“Ask him about the new prison.”

“That’s what I’m leading to,” Norma said. “I’ll tell him I hope we’ll have a better place than this. Then I’ll say, like I just thought of it, ‘By the way, honey, when are we going to this new prison?’ ”

“Ask him if he’s ever done it on a train?”

“I’ll think of a way. I bet he’s a horny old bastard.”

“So much the better. He’s probably never got it off a good-looking woman before in his life.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“The only thing is what to do about Tacha.”

“I’ll have to think on that,” Shelby said.

“Maybe he’d like both of us.”

“Honey, he don’t even have dreams like that anymore.”

Tacha Reyes looked up from her sewing machine as they came into the shop and Shelby dropped the bundle on the work table. The old man, who had been a tailor here for twenty-six years since murdering his wife, continued working. He sat hunched over with his legs crossed, sewing a button to a striped convict coat.

Norma didn’t say anything to them. She followed Shelby into the back room where the supplies and bolts of material were kept. The first few times they went back there together she said they were going to inventory the material or look over the thread supply or count buttons. Now she didn’t bother. They went into the room and closed the door.

Tacha sat quietly, not moving. She told herself she shouldn’t listen, but she always did. Sometimes she heard Norma, the faint sound of her laughing in there; she never heard Frank Shelby. He was always quiet.

Like the man who owned the café in St. David. He would come up behind her when she was working in the kitchen and almost before she heard him he would be touching her, putting his hands on her hips and bringing them up under her arms, pretending to be counting her ribs and asking how come she was so skinny, how come, huh, didn’t she like the cooking here? And when she twisted away from him—what was the matter, didn’t she like working here?

“How can he come in,” Tacha said, “do whatever he wants?”

The tailor glanced over at the stock-room door. He didn’t look at Tacha. “Norma isn’t complaining.”

“She’s as bad as he is.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“She does whatever he wants. But he’s a convict, like any of them.”

“I’ll agree he’s a convict,” the tailor said.

“You’re afraid to even talk about him.”

“I’ll agree to that too,” the tailor said.

“Some people can do whatever they want. Other people have to let them.” Tacha was silent again. What good was talking about it?

The owner of the café in St. David thought he could do whatever he wanted because he paid her seven dollars a week and said she didn’t have to stay if she didn’t want to. He would kiss her and she would have to close her eyes hard and hold her breath and feel his hand coming up over her breast. Her sister had said so what, he touches you a little. Where else are you going to make seven dollars a week? But I don’t want him to, Tacha had said. I don’t love him. And her sister had told her she was crazy. You don’t have to love a man even to marry him. This man was providing for her and she should look at it that way. He gave her something, she should give him something.

She gave him the blade of a butcher knife late one afternoon when no one was in the café and the cook had gone to the outhouse. She jabbed the knife into him because he was hurting her, forcing her back over the kitchen table, smothering her with his weight and not giving her a chance to speak, to tell him she wanted to quit. Her fingers touched the knife on the table and, in that little moment of panic, as his hand went under her skirt and up between her legs, she pushed the knife into his stomach. She would remember his funny, surprised expression and remember him pushing away from her again with his weight, and looking down at the knife handle, touching it gently with both hands then, standing still, as if afraid to move, and looking down at the knife. She remembered saying, “I didn’t mean to—” and thinking, Take it out, you can do whatever you want to me, I didn’t mean to do this.

“Some people lead,” the tailor said, “some follow.”

Tacha looked over at him, hunched over his sewing. “Why can Frank Shelby do whatever he wants?”

“Not everything, he can’t.”

“Why can he go in there with her?”

“Ask him when he’s through.”

“Do you know something?” Tacha said. “You never answer a question.”

“I’ve been here—” the tailor began, and stopped as the outside door opened.

Bob Fisher stepped inside. He closed the door quietly behind him, his gaze going to the stock room, then to Tacha and past her to the tailor.

“Where’s Norma at?”

Tacha waited. When she knew the tailor wasn’t going to answer she said, “Don’t you know where she is?”

Fisher’s dull expression returned to Tacha. “I ask a question, I don’t need a question back.”

“She’s in there,” Tacha said.

“I thought I saw a convict come in here.”

“He’s in there with her.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing it,” Tacha said. “What do you think?”

Bob Fisher took time to give her a look before he walked over to the stock room. Then he didn’t hesitate: he pushed the door and let it bang wide open and stood looking at them on the flat bolts of striped prison material they had spread on the floor, at the two of them lying close and pulling apart, at their upturned faces that were momentarily startled.

“You through?” Fisher said.

Shelby started to grin and shake his head. “I guess you caught us, boss.”

Tacha could see Norma’s skirt pulled up and her bare thighs. She saw Shelby, behind Fisher, getting to his feet. He was buttoning the top of his pants now. Norma was sitting up, slowly buttoning her blouse, then touching her hair, brushing it away from her face.

Tacha and the tailor began working again as Fisher looked around at them. He motioned Norma to get up. “You go on to your cell till I’m ready for you.”

Shelby waited, while Norma gave Fisher a look and a shrug and walked out. He said then, “Were me and her doing something wrong? Against regulations?”

“You come with me,” Fisher said.

Once outside, they moved off across the yard, toward the far end of the mess hall. Fisher held his set expression as his gaze moved about the yard. Shelby couldn’t figure him out.

“Where we going?”

“I want to tell the new superintendent what you were doing.”

“I didn’t know of any law against it.”

Fisher kept walking.

“What’s going on?” Shelby said. Christ, the man was actually taking him in. Before they got to the latrine adobe Shelby said, “Well, I wanted to talk to him anyway.” He paused. “About this guard that watches the girls take their bath. Pulls loose a brick and peeks in at them.”

Fisher took six strides before saying, “She know who this guard is?”

“You bet,” Shelby said.

“Then tell the sup’rintendent.”

Son of a bitch. He was bluffing. Shelby glanced at him, but couldn’t tell a thing from the man’s expression.

Just past the latrine Shelby said, “I imagine this guard has got a real eyeful, oh man, but looking ain’t near anything like doing, I’ll tell you, ’cause I’ve done both. That Norma has got a natural-born instinct for pleasing a man. You know what she does?”

Fisher didn’t answer.

Shelby waited, but not too long. “She knows secret things I bet there ain’t ten women in the world can do. I been to Memphis, I been to Tulsa, to Nogales, I know what I’m talking about. You feel her mouth brushing your face and whispering dirty things in your ear—you know something? Once a man’s had some of that woman—I mean somebody outside—he’d allow himself to be locked up in this place the rest of his life if he thought he could get some every other night. Get her right after she comes out of the bath.”

Shelby paused to let Fisher think about it. As they were nearing the outside stairs he said, “Man, I tell you, anybody seen her bare-ass naked knows that’s got to be a woman built for pleasure.”

“Upstairs,” Fisher said.

Shelby went up two steps and paused, looking around over his shoulder. “The thing is, though. She don’t give it out to nobody but me. Less I say it’s all right.” Shelby looked right at his eyes. “You understand me, boss?”

Mr. Manly heard them coming down the hall. He swiveled around from the window and moved the two file folders to one side of the desk, covering the Bible. He picked up a pencil. On his note pad were written the names Harold Jackson and Raymond San Carlos, both underlined, and the notations: Ten days will be Feb. 23, 1909. Talk to both at same time. Ref. to St. Paul to the Corinthians 11:19–33 and 12:1–9.

When the knock came he said, “Come in” at once, but didn’t look up until he knew they were in the room, close to the desk, and he had written on the note paper: See Ephesians 4:1–6.

Bob Fisher came right out with it. “He wants to tell you something.”

In that moment Shelby had no idea what he would say; because Fisher wasn’t bluffing and wasn’t afraid of him; because Fisher stood up and was a tough son of a bitch and wasn’t going to lie and lose face in front of any con. Maybe Fisher would deny the accusation, say prove it. Shelby didn’t know what Fisher would do. He needed time to think. The next moment Mr. Manly was smiling up at him.

“I’m sorry I don’t know everybody’s name yet.”

“This is Frank Shelby,” Fisher said. “He wants to tell you something.”

Shelby watched the little man rise and offer his hand and say, “I’m Everett Manly, your new superintendent.” He watched Mr. Manly sit down again and look off somewhere.

“Frank Shelby…Shelby…forty-five years for armed robbery. Is that right?”

Shelby nodded.

“Forty-five years,” Mr. Manly said. “That’s a long time. Are you working to get some time off for good behavior?”

“I sure am,” Shelby said. He didn’t know if the man was serious or not, but he said it.

“How long have you been here at Yuma?”

“Little over a year.”

“Have you got a good record here? Keep out of fights and trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever been in the snake den?”

“No, sir.”

“Got two boys in there now for fighting, you know.”

Shelby smiled a little and shook his head. “It’s funny you should mention them,” he said. “Those two boys are what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Bob Fisher turned to look at him but didn’t say a word.

“I was wondering,” Shelby went on, “what you’d think of us staging a prize fight between those two boys?”

“A prize fight?” Mr. Manly frowned. “Don’t you think they’ve done enough fighting? Lord, it seems all they like to do is fight.”

“They keep fighting,” Shelby said, “because they never get it settled. But, I figure, once they have it out there’ll be peace between them. You see what I mean?”

Mr. Manly began to nod, slowly. “Maybe.”

“We could get them some boxing gloves in town. I don’t mean the prison pay for them. We could take us up a collection among the convicts.”

“I sure never thought of fighting as a way to achieve peace. Bob, have you?”

Fisher said quietly, “No, I haven’t.”

Shelby shrugged. “Well, peace always seems to follow a war.”

“You got a point there, Frank.”

“I know the convicts would enjoy it. I mean it would keep their minds occupied a while. They don’t get much entertainment here.”

“That’s another good point,” Mr. Manly said.

Shelby waited as Mr. Manly nodded, looking as if he was falling asleep. “Well, that’s all I had to say. I sure hope you give it some thought, if just for the sake of those two boys. So they can get it settled.”

“I promise you I will,” Mr. Manly said. “Bob, what do you think about it? Off-hand.”

“I been in prison work a long time,” Fisher said. “I never heard of anything like this.”

“I’ll tell you what, boys. Let me think on it.” Mr. Manly got up out of the chair, extending a hand to Shelby. “It’s nice meeting you, Frank. You keep up the good work and you’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Sir,” Shelby said, “I surely hope so.”

Bob Fisher didn’t say a word until they were down the stairs and Shelby was heading off along the side of the building, in the shade.

“Where you going?”

Shelby turned, a few steps away. “See about some chow.”

“You can lose your privileges,” Fisher said. “All of them inside one minute.”

Go easy, Shelby thought, and said, “It’s up to you.”

“I can give it all to somebody else. The stuff you sell, the booze, the soft jobs. I pick somebody, the tough boys will side with him and once it’s done he’s the man inside and you’re another con on the rock pile.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Shelby said. “I used my head and put together what I got. You allow it because I keep the cons in line and it makes your job easier. You didn’t give me a thing when I started.”

“Maybe not, but I can sure take it all away from you.”

“I know that.”

“I will, less you stay clear of Norma Davis.”

Shelby started to smile—he couldn’t help it—even with Fisher’s grim, serious face staring at him.

“Watch yourself,” Fisher said. “You say the wrong thing, it’s done. I’m telling you to keep away from the women. You don’t, you lose everything you got.”

That was all Bob Fisher had to say. He turned and went back up the stairs. Shelby watched him, feeling better than he’d felt in days. He sure would keep away from the women. He’d give Norma all the room she needed. The state Bob Fisher was in, Norma would have his pants off him before the week was out.