“They talk to other bums,” Macalay said.
“Hmph.” The Inspector’s grunt belittled Macalay’s confidence. “And there’s another thing to remember. We go on working on this case on the outside. We crack it before you, the deal’s over. You understand?”
“I still like the sound of that big lump of dough.”
Inspector Strane nodded. “I just hope you’re tough enough. Once you start on this, you know, there’s no out?” He spotted another cockroach; his foot went for it and got it. “Write when you’ve got something to tell me. My first two names, William Martin. On second thought, make it Miss Billie Martin. Tell her you miss her. The box number is 1151, here at the Central Post Office. The bum you’re to get close to is a loft-man by the name of Russell. He’s the brother of that safecracker who died right alongside of Gresham. That’s about it.”
4.
Macalay was four weeks in the Hole this time. But even in there, he could sense that his position in the prison had changed. The first time he’d gone to the Hole for not squealing, he hadn’t known whether a prisoner or a screw brought his food; this time when he was in for not squealing under the toughest circumstances, he was sure it was a con.
Because in his very first tray there was a salve of burn ointment. And on the second tray there was a candle and a dozen matches.
After that there was a little something on nearly every tray; a few slices of bacon, a buttered roll, an orange even. Sometimes there was nothing, and that undoubtedly meant that a guard was looking over the trays. But that didn’t happen very often, so probably the P.K. had gone back to sitting in his office, and the Warden was still working on his book and the Deputy Warden was still making speeches, and the screws were still doping off in the shade.
It was funny, now. Even in the Hole Macalay felt in touch with the whole prison, perhaps as a man giving a transfusion to a patient on the operating table feels in touch with the operation; it is passing through his veins and arteries. He never heard a word from Jock or anyone else, but he could feel himself in touch with Jock, in some other Hole.
Macalay was really part of the prison now, and the Hole wasn’t so bad. And best of all there was Hanning, Russ’ sidekick. Hanning who probably knew what Russ knew.
His burns healed, and the broken skin on his wrist healed, though his wrist bones ached for quite a while, and there were permanent scars there and on his knees and on one shoulder that must have gone against the boiler when he didn’t know it.
Instead of fighting the Hole this time, he looked on it as a rest from chipping boilers or scrubbing greasy pans in the kitchen. Maybe it would have been better in the infirmary, but it was all right.
And so he got a little better all the time. He began exercising, doing knee-bends and push-ups. He told himself he was doing this to keep his health; then, when that self-lie stopped fooling him, he said he was doing it because you didn’t dare go out in the yard weak.
And then he stripped away all self-pretense. He faced himself: Hanning squealed on Jock and me; Jock and me have to get him. And we will. So I got to be strong.
The next meal he kept his spoon out, hoping it wouldn’t get the trusty who’d been feeding him into trouble. He hid the spoon by putting it behind some loose mortar in the wall, and waited two full meals. When there was a cold chunk of stew meat — good lamb shank with marrow in it — on his tray, he knew the same trusty was still on duty, and had covered up about the spoon, some way.
So he took the spoon out of hiding and began sharpening it on the rough concrete floor.
You can kill a man with a spoon. The way you do it is, you sharpen the bowl down to an arrowhead; then you bend the handle like a finger ring, only you leave an inch and a half at the back to lie flat along your palm.
Slip that on, and one punch will do the job.
Now his time was pretty full. He had his exercise; he had his sharpening; he had his thoughts. He thought of the hundred thousand. He thought he would get the dope for Strane from Hanning and then kill Hanning.
After awhile he got out. His cellmate this time was a fresh fish, just out of the quarantine block, guy named Leon something or other. Just a punk. Looked like he didn’t even have to shave every day. A punk with light fuzz on his chin.
As soon as Macalay was shoved into his cell, this Leon volunteered his name and said: “I’m doing two to ten for grand larceny, automobile. How about you?”
“I’m a chicken thief,” Macalay said. “I took three hundred to five hundred for habitual chicken theft.”
Leon looked at him. “Aw,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m always doin’ something wrong. Isn’t it right to ask the guys what they’re in for?”
“No, fish. It ain’t right. You can accumulate a mouthful of floating teeth asking questions. It isn’t ethical.”
“I didn’t know,” Leon said, gloomily. “I never do anything right. Like the car I took. It was already hot, and on the police radio, was why the guy had left it there with the keys in it... I thought the law was it wasn’t stealing if the keys were in it, but that ain’t the law.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Macalay said. “I knew the P.K. had it in for me, but I didn’t know he’d go this far, putting you in my cell.”
“Who’s the P.K.?” The kid had thick black hair and pink cheeks, and his eyes shone. He’d last about two hours in the yard.
“The P.K. is a kind of chewing gum they give us,” Macalay said. He stripped off his shirt and went over to the washstand. He knew the kid’s eyes must be coming out on his cheekbones when he saw the still-fresh scars, but he didn’t hear any questions.
Fresh water played across his face, he rubbed it in well, rubbing the Hole out, getting clean again. He started to shave, and then, not suddenly, but rolling hard at him, as a steam-roller goes at a pile of rubble, some sort of sanity returned.
I was going to kill Hanning, he thought. Kill Hanning, take a chance on the big rap, on throwing away everything that maybe can get me out of here.
He shaved slower, pausing every now and then. To live like a con, and yet not to become one. That, he told himself, was what he had to fight against — that was the big danger. To keep my eye on the outside, on the free world, on a hundred thousand bucks, to remember that stir is only a small part of the world. To think of it as prison, not stir, the men prisoners, not cons, the officers guards and not screws; to live penned up, but think free.
He turned, reached for his shirt, and said: “Leon, the P.K. is the Principal Keeper. He runs this place. He’s the man to fear.”
A smile broke across Leon’s face. His eyes got shiny. He said: “Thanks, mister.”
“The name’s Macalay. Just Mac.” Macalay returned the smile, wondering fleetingly if he could in some way use this young squirt to get to Hanning. “There goes the supper bell. We line up here, I’ll show you how, and do a snake dance to the mess hall... Keep your lip buttoned up, there are swagger-stick screws all along the way.”
It was still hot weather, but there was just the smell of fall coming in the air. It was good to be walking along to the mess hall, out in the sun and the cool air.
Good just to drift along with the other cons, but it was time for Macalay to think. He had accomplished only one thing so far: he had established himself as a real con. Hardly anybody would remember now that he’d once been a cop; two sessions of the Hole had taken care of that.
And now — suddenly, not like the steam-roller, but like a bulldozer hitting something hard, and pushing it, all at once into something new, he understood why there had been no outside trial, no investigation of Russ’ murder.
The P.K. That snake brain, sitting in his twin offices, one blood-proof, and one carpeted, planning. It would be easy for the P.K. to see to it that the state cops would find no evidence to take into court, and an officer won’t push a case that he’s going to lose.