The Big Gold Dream

16

At ten o'clock, Alberta was arraigned before the Municipal Court and bound over to the Grand Jury. Her bail was set at $2,500. No one was there to go her bail.

She was transferred downstairs from the city prison to the county prison. They are both in the same building, because Manhattan is a county as well as one of the boroughs of New York City.

She was mugged and fingerprinted, and her Bertillon measurements were taken. Then she was put in a cell with a light yellow sloppy-looking woman serving a year and a day for shoplifting.

"The top bunk, dearie," the yellow woman said.

Alberta climbed up into the top bunk and lay down.

"What's your rap, dearie?" the yellow woman asked.

"I ain't got any rap," Alberta muttered.

"What are you down for, then?"

"I ain't down for nothing."

"That ain't going to get you nowhere, dearie, acting like that. You've got your mouth stuck out a country mile."

"What if I is," Alberta said.

The yellow woman laughed maliciously. "You'll get used to it, dearie. I've been down so long that down don't worry me."

"I want to see my preacher," Alberta said.

"Who is your preacher, dearie?"

"Sweet Prophet."

"That old hustler."

"Don't talk like that about my preacher," Alberta said.

"He ain't no preacher," the yellow woman said. "He's a pimp."

Alberta got down from her bunk and stood over the yellow woman. Her face was puffed up, and she looked threatening.

"You take that back," she demanded.

The yellow woman sized her up. "All right, dearie, I was wrong," she said. "Have you got any money?"

"I got fifty dollars," Alberta said.

"You have, honey!" the yellow woman exclaimed in a sugary voice. "You got fifty bucks. Why, honey, you just give me half of it and I'll get word to your preacher."

"How are you going to do that?" Alberta asked suspiciously.

"It's easy. You just got to grease the right palm. What's the old-er-prophet's phone number?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it don't make any difference, if he's in the book. You just give me the money and relax."

"I ain't got nothing but ten-dollar bills," Alberta said.

"Well, just give me thirty dollars," the yellow woman said. "It ain't going to break you."

Alberta fished three ten-dollar bills from her brassiere and handed them to the yellow woman.

"If he don't come, I want my money back," she said.

"I can't do no business like that, honey," the yellow woman said as she stuffed the bills into the toe of her shoe. "Use your head. All I can do is to get word to him; if he don't come, it won't be my fault."

Alberta gave in. "All right. Maybe he won't have time to come, but just tell him to get me out of here."

"I'll sure tell him that, honey," the yellow woman promised.

She raked her tin cup across the bars, then lay on the floor and writhed and screamed.

Shortly, a big Irish matron appeared.

"I got the cramps," the yellow woman gasped. "I feel like I'm dying."

"All right, just relax," the Irish matron said. "If you ain't died yet from the cramps, you won't die now. I'll call Mrs. Ball to take you to surgery."

When the matron left, the yellow woman winked at Alberta and said, "You got to learn that if you're in here for any length of time. The only thing they'll take you to surgery for right away is the cramps. After you get there, then you can make any connections you want."

"I just want to see my preacher," Alberta said. "He'll tell me what to do."