When he got back to cell block No. 9, he had a new bunky. It didn’t matter to Macalay; none of the cons talked to him anyway. He sat down on his bunk, and the thin mattress and chain-link spring felt wonderful after the floor of the Hole. He pulled his feet up, stretched, and slowly, tentatively closed his eyes; the light hurt them.
The body of Gresham came back and lay on the floor of the cell. But in a few minutes it faded, and Macalay let out a long sigh.
The man on the other bunk put down his magazine. “What did you see?” he asked.
“A body,” Macalay said. “He was my sidekick.”
“I saw my mother,” the other man said. “The time I was in the Hole. Everybody sees something, if he stays in the Hole more than three days.”
Macalay said: “Does anybody—” and then stopped. He suddenly realized he was being talked to. He finished the sentence. “Does anybody ever get less than three days in the Hole?”
“Not under this P.K.,” the cellmate said. “If he don’t end up with a shiv in his ribs, the class of prisoners has fallen off in this can... My name’s Mason. Jock Mason.”
“Macalay.”
“Yeah, I know. You were a cop, Mac. We’re willing to forget it. My gang. Jock’s Jockeys. If you’d said somebody lifted your needle, all the guys in the shoe shop woulda gotten hacked. We like a guy who keeps his teeth covered.”
Macalay slowly grinned. It never occurred to him to say he might not like to be one of Jock’s Jockeys. He said: “Hey. What are we doin’ in our cells?”
Jock laughed. “It’s Sunday morning. Church parade’s just gone, an’ lunch’ll be coming up in an hour... A guy loses track of time in the Hole, an’ don’t I know it. There’s a ball game this afternoon, the Stripes against the Stars. Who do you like?” Jock slowly rolled himself a cigarette and tossed the makings over to Macalay.
Macalay built a cigarette carefully. He hadn’t smoked in four years, but he thought he knew how to roll one from when he was a kid. It looked a little like a tamale, but it held together while he lighted it. He said: “I’ll take either side you don’t want, for a pack of tailormades — when I earn them.” The cons got a quarter a day when they worked.
Jock said: “You got the Stars. It’s a sucker bet.”
“Yeah? They’ll lick the numbers off the Stripes.”
Both men laughed.
2.
Life changed after that. A prison is a peculiar place; almost everything happens in one that happens in the outside, free world; but it happens fast, in odd corners, just before a guard walks by, just after one has passed.
So Macalay, as one of Jock’s Jockeys, found he could get drunk if he really wanted to; could get as many uncensored letters out as he wanted to; could even have a love affair — if he cared for it, and with a boy who should have been in a women’s prison — or an asylum — anyway.
He passed up the latter two amusements, but once in a while he took on a skinful. Ten to twenty’s a hard sentence to pass, and he’d done less than six months of it.
So he was in on the drunk in Boiler No. 4, which made prison history.
No. 4 was a power boiler, not a heating one, and it was out of commission while a bunch of cons scaled it. Fitz Llewellen, a lifer, was in on the scaling gang, and he designed a still out of some of the boiler tubes they were cleaning. Since no guard in his right mind would possibly go inside a boiler, the still ran all the time they were chipping No. 4; but Fitz and Jock wouldn’t let anybody touch, the white mule till the day before the boiler was cleaned.
There were six of them in there: Fitz, Jock, Macalay, the Nosy who had been a trusty when Mac was a fresh fish, and two safecrackers named Hanning and Russ, friends Macalay had cultivated with a great show of casualness, and persuaded Jock to take into their gang.
They passed the popskull around gently at first, with a lot of “will-you-please” and “your turn.” It was pretty good jungle juice; made out of oranges and prunes lifted from the mess hall. Jock’s habitual easy gloom lifted, and he began singing, the tenor notes bouncing back off the boiler plate. “Singin’ in the rain, oh singin’ in the rain...”
“Shut up,” Russ said. “A screw’ll hear you.”
Jock said: “A guy can’t shut up forever. I feel good.” He went on singing.
Russ said: “You may want a month in the Hole. I don’t. Shutup.”
“Hole ain’t so bad,” Jock said. “Ask Mac. He was there last.”
Macalay said: “Not so bad. But I don’t want any more of it.”
“You used to be a cop, didn’t you?” Russ asked.
Macalay nodded. It was the first time it had been mentioned.
“I don’t like cops,” Russ said. He drained a big swallow of popskull, and breathed out. “I don’t like cops’ brothers. I don’t like ex-cops, an’ any woman who’d give birth to a cop would sleep with monkeys.” And he took another drink.
“Okay,” Macalay said, telling himself to take it slow and easy, to feel his way along. “Now I’m a con, just like anybody else.” It was hot in the boiler, and the liquor didn’t help any. That stuff must have been a hundred and thirty proof at least, and they were drinking it straight.
“I don’t like drinking with cops,” Russ said monotonously. “I don’t like drinking with cops’ cellmates. I don’t have to listen to cops’ cellmates sing.”
“You’re just beggin’ for a throat full of teeth,” Jock said, still humming.
“Oh, tough guy,” Russ said. His hand flicked, and there was a little round of wood in it; a piece of broomstick, but carved carefully to give it looks. It opened, and one piece had a leather-needle sticking out of it. The other had been the sheath.
“Put it away Russ,” Hanning said. He was a very quiet guy, who had only drifted into buddying with Russ because they’d been in the same trade in the free world, loft-men.
“You turnin’ cop-lover, too?” Russ asked. His speech was getting a little blurred. He turned the bradawl shiv, and it shone in the dim light.
Jock suddenly shot out his foot, trying to kick the shiv out of Russ’ hand. Russ slid away, and stood up, his back against the polished boiler plate. “Now we know,” he said. “Now we know.” He started going for Jock.
Macalay got his feet under him. Why couldn’t it be some con other than Russ? Lousy luck. There was no other way to make the play now. Maybe, with Jock, he could get the shiv away and later, when sober, Russ would appreciate it.
The floor of the boiler was slick from the chipping they had given it. It was going to be a nasty fight; but Macalay needed Russ alive. He must try to keep him alive.
Fitz was gone; Nosy was halfway up the ladder. Before he could disappear through the manhole, Hanning was after him. The light was blocked a second time, and then Jock and Macalay were alone with the safecracker.
Jock said: “Got a shiv, Mac?”
Macalay said: “No. But there’s only one of him. I’ll keep him looking at me, and you get up behind him and mug him.”
Jock said: “Fair enough.”
Russ was bent over, shuffling around the boiler floor, the shiv held out, threateningly and guarding his belly at the same time. He moved into the center of the boiler, and that was a mistake. Jock started to get behind him, he half-turned, and Macalay was on him.
Macalay had had judo training as a rookie cop. He lunged at the knife with his right hand, and as it came up, shifted and came in fast with his left. The knife edge of his palm caught Russ on the side of the neck, and the safecracker went half off his feet.
Then everything turned into slow motion. Russ caromed off the side of the boiler, slid and staggered, and fell. He landed square on the leather needle in his hand. He made a little, quiet noise — almost like a tired man snuggling into bed — and was still.