He left Camp?s office swallowing back a cough, hating modern prison ways. He?d rather take a beating than be forced into their fancy headshrinking show. Why couldn?t they leave him alone? They?d locked him up, they had him where they wanted, so why couldn?t they leave him be?
As he headed for the dispensary beyond the officers? mess, the thirty-foot concrete wall loomed over him and over the big exercise yard. He could see two tennis courts laid out, where six inmates in cutoffs were batting the little white balls. Two more guys were playing handball, and beyond the empty baseball diamond, on the oval track, several men were jogging laps?the place was a regular country club. His own first time behind bars, when he was eighteen, he?d had a rock pile to exercise on. Did the guards here in the South spoon-feed these punks and wipe their runny noses before they sent them out to play?
The dispensary waiting room was painted pale green like most government offices he?d seen, a color that was supposed to be restful. He wondered how many billions of gallons of that stuff the government had bought, allowing some big company to make a killing. Half a dozen inmates sat on folding metal chairs waiting to be seen by the duty doctor. Lee took a chair. He?d waited maybe twenty minutes when he got a shock that spun him around, looking.
?Lee Fontana?? a woman?s voice called out. A woman? In a men?s prison?
A young woman stood in the doorway holding a clipboard, and she was some classy lady. Dark, wavy hair cut short and neat, curled softly around her smooth face, dark eyes smiling at him through large oval glasses. The skirt of her short white uniform hit her just at the knee, the uniform accenting the curve of her hips, and was zipped down the front low enough to show the soft curve of her tanned breasts. He stared at the nametag on her lapel, but taking in a lot more. Karen Turner. Every male in the room was staring, their expressions just short of a drool. She smiled and motioned to Lee. Rising, he followed her as eagerly as a hungry pup. When he glanced back, the men were still looking. She led him into an office, handed his file to the thin-faced doctor, smiled at Lee again and left, brushing past him. She smelled good, a clean soap-and-water scent. He stood looking after her, then turned to the drawn, tired-looking doctor. His nametag read JAMES FLOYD, M.D.
Lee took off his shirt as Dr. Floyd directed, trying not to flinch as the icy stethoscope pressed against his bare chest. The doctor listened to his heart and chest as Lee breathed deeply, in and out, taking in as much air as he could manage. He took Lee?s blood pressure, looked down his throat, thumped his back. While Lee pulled on his shirt again, Floyd made a number of notations in Lee?s file.
?Everything?s as fine as it can be, Fontana. You had excellent treatment at Springfield.? Floyd handed him a slip of paper. ?Give this to your counselor. I want you back here in three days. After that, once a week.?
?Will I be allowed to work??
?I think you could take a job, something that won?t stress the breathing.? He filled out a release-to-work form and handed it to Lee.
Lee said,?I?ve never seen a woman working in a men?s prison.?
?Karen Turner?? Floyd smiled. ?It?s good for the men?s morale to see a woman once in a while. She?s a premed student at the university, works for me part-time. She cheers the place up considerably; I think it?s a good change in the system.?
Sure it is, Lee thought. Until you get her hurt.
He doubled back to Paul Camp?s office, where he dropped off the medical form and the work form. Camp handed him a slip for his custodian that would let him move around the area more freely. When Lee asked about the jobs available, Camp said, ?I?ll let you know later, Fontana. I?ll see what?s open in industries.?
Outside again, as Lee cut across the yard from classifications, Gimpy turned away from a group of men and limped to join him.?They getting you squared away, Boxcar??
?Camp put me in one of those group counseling sessions,? Lee said sourly. ?I start this afternoon,?
Gimpy chuckled, and scratched his bald spot.?They had me in there for a while. Guess they gave up on me. But hell, Boxcar, it passes the time.?
?I?d rather pass it somewhere else.?
?Maybe you could work in the cotton mill with me. Noisier than hell, but I like it. I like the clatter and activity.?
Lee nodded, interested. He?d feel better when he was doing something. ?Let me know if they could use another hand.? He wondered if the doctor would allow it. Maybe, if he promised to wear a mask or kerchief, something to catch the lint, he could get permission.
?I?ll talk to the foreman,? Gimpy said, and swung away with his uneven, rolling gait. Lee stood looking after him; a lot of years had gone by, but Gimpy was still the same. Lee turned away, smiling, heading back to his cell, thinking about the old days.
He was moving along the narrow third-tier catwalk when a man came out of a cell walking slowly, his eyes fixed on the pages of an open book. He was heavy boned, prison pale but built like a barrel, was dressed not in prison blue but in the white pants and white shirt worn in the kitchen, the whiteness stark against the thick black hair on his arms. Lee stepped to one side to let him pass.?I guess we?re neighbors.?
The dark-eyed man smiled.?Al Bronski. I saw you come in last night.?
?Lee Fontana.?
?You looked bushed yesterday. Still feel a little pale??
?It?s a long pull from Springfield. What are we having for the noon meal??
?Beef stew and French bread.?
?Sounds good. If I get bored with the routine, are there any jobs in the kitchen??
?Always use help in the kitchen,? Bronski said. ?See me when you?re ready.?
Lee thought he might like the relative quiet of the kitchen better than the noise of the cotton mill, but he?d like to work with Gimpy. Behind Bronski, coming along the catwalk headed for the stairs, were the two men from breakfast this morning, the dark-haired one in the lead, his face frozen in the same pinched scowl, his black eyes fixed on Lee. Behind him, the blond man?s masklike face and pale eyes telegraphed a malice that Lee knew too well. They didn?t move over for Lee and Bronski. When Lee stepped aside on the narrow catwalk to let them pass, the dark man elbowed him against the rail. ?Ain?t no place for a gab fest.?
Bronski stiffened and reached for him. The man sidestepped, rounding on Bronski. Bronski crouched, waiting?but a guard shouted from the main floor, and he drew back. The two men pushed on past, pressing them both to the rail and giving them the finger.
?Their cells are down beyond yours,? Bronski said, watching the two swagger away along the catwalk. ?The dark one?s Fred Coker. The blond is Sam Delone. There?s been more than one knifing involving those two.?
Lee kept the two in sight until they disappeared down the stairs and outside. He watched Bronski amble along behind them, reading again, then Lee moved on to his cell. Swept by a wave of exhaustion, he lay down on his bunk. Nobody had to spell it out for him. He was back in a big joint, crazy hotheads around him. And more than hotheads, too, with the shadow that fit so easily among Coker and his kind. As much as he?d admired his grandpappy, he wished Russell had never bargained with the devil, wished that in that one instance Russell had backed off and turned away.
The position he was in now, Lee thought, it was time to get himself a weapon. It was one thing to be threatened by prison scum when you were young and strong, when you could handle a battle bare-handed. It was different this late in life, when every move was an effort, when in every threat you saw the face of defeat. Suddenly cold, pulling the blanket over him, bleak and alone, he felt the weight of the ghost cat hit the bed, crowding against him purring like a small engine. He almost laughed when the ghost cat clawed the mattress, licked Lee?s hand with his rough tongue, and said softly, ?Screw Coker. Screw Delone. There?s more to this prison, Lee, than you yet know.?