American rust (28 page)

“You really think it'll be okay,” said Ray.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “Somehow.”

3. Poe

H
e was lying in his bunk, thinking about what he would have to do to the guard, thinking about his lawyer coming and what he would have to say to the lawyer, when the cell door clattered open and a young inmate appeared, escorted by a CO. The inmate was about twenty, a sandy- haired country- boy type, a hucklebuck, despite being in the hole six months the kid still had freckles around his nose. He was much smaller than Poe, thin and good- looking in an almost girlish way but his arms were covered with tattoos the same as the others, a green shamrock prominent on one arm, the letters
AB
on the other, spiderwebs around each elbow. The CO closed the cell door and walked off down the tier.

Poe sat up in his bunk.

“I'm Tucker,” said the inmate. “They told me about you.”

Poe introduced himself and they bumped fists.

“Heard you're gonna take care of that piece of shit Fisher tomorrow.”

Poe didn't say anything.

“You got something to get him with?”

“Yeah, but I'm not sure about any of it, to be honest.”

Tucker got a confused look.

“I'm still waitin for my trial.”

“Well did you tell them that? ’Cause they told me you was a definite.”

Poe shrugged.

Tucker said, “I know you just got in and all, but these ain't a bunch of people you want to fuck with. You gotta put your mind to this shit. I'll go along and keep lookout if you want, but you got to be the one doing the hitting.”

“I want to get out of here,” said Poe.

“Well you fuckin won't,” said his cellmate. “If they even overheard us having this conversation they'd cut you into fuckin pieces. Larry and Dwayne got about a half dozen life sentences between them.”

“I'm more worried about Clovis.”

“Clovis is just muscle. Fuck Clovis.”

“I dunno,” said Poe.

“I'm telling you don't go back on your word. I'll fuckin forget we had this talk. Knowin how they work they'll stick me on the other end of the knife that goes in your fuckin neck.”

“Whatever.”

“You don't do it,” said his cellmate. “You might as well just fuckin hang yourself. This is a bad place for a young white man to go walkin around without friends.”

Poe went back to staring at the ceiling and Tucker took out his foot-locker and began to arrange his things.

“You touch any of this shit?”

“I didn't even see it. They must have just brought it today.”

“I'll know if you did.”

“Don't worry yourself,” Poe said.

That night when all the lights were shut off there was a tapping at the bars and Poe woke up. He looked out and saw a guard standing there. The guard looked up and down the cellblock, then unbuttoned the front of her pants so her pubic hair was visible. He heard a rustling in the bunk underneath. That fuckin pervert is jerkin off, Poe thought. To that fat fuckin guard. He watched the guard for a time, out of curiosity more than anything else, and then lay back on the bed until it was over.

After some time he heard: “Don't look at her again. I been down six fuckin months and I paid for that shit.”

“I wasn't looking,” said Poe.

“I heard you looking. I know you were looking.”

“I got no interest in your friend,” he said. “I didn't know what was happening.”

Tucker grunted and didn't say anything further. Poe tried to fall back asleep but he was thinking about the guard. It was maybe a setup. They jerk off to one guard but want me to flatback the other one. He couldn't make sense of it. He wondered if they were all working for the DA, trying to trap him further. Except he doubted the DA had any idea what went on here, he doubted anyone did, they wouldn't allow it, it was gladiators every day. It was Roman times. Except maybe he had been sent here on purpose. They acted one way, they wanted the law served, but they didn't mind if you got raped in the shower or your skull cracked by a combination lock. Really, there was no such thing as the law. There was only what people wanted to do to you.

He lay still for a while and he was shaking, fear or anger he didn't know. He thought if I don't beat that guard I got all of them after me, the whites and the blacks both, and the guards won't care. If I do hit the guard I got the guards and the blacks after me. Except certain guards had side deals. Invisible webs. There were deals going down everywhere, only not with him.

He thought about it more and more and he wanted to punch something, he slammed his palm into the wall and rocked the bed, the wall didn't move it would never move, his cellmate punched his mattress from the bottom. He would ignore the cellmate. But still he had just been punched. Though no one had seen it he would let it pass.

He wished Isaac was in front of him, he would knock the shit out of Isaac. All he'd done was get his throat cut and his balls nearly yanked off. He'd paid enough. He'd paid enough that night for anything he'd done. Isaac hadn't paid at all, not a fucking thing.

There was the same din going on outside, the same pointless shouting and music, underneath him his cellmate moving around on his mattress, trying to get comfortable. Isaac would get massacred. The whole hundred ten pounds of him. He would be a snack for these people. That was why he, Poe, was here. He was doing the right thing. He was being a hero. He would act like other people were watching—it would keep his thoughts and actions pure. That was the key to anything: pretend others are watching. It was just like the field, a bunch of big guys wanting to knock the shit out of you, it was your choice. Wolf or sheep, if you didn't choose it was chosen for you. Hunter or hunted, predator or prey, everyone knew it was the ancient relationship.

But it was not just that. It was not just pure nobility. In simple truth this place had been waiting for him. There were those who had capabilities and those who didn't and even in his glory days he had known it, known they would figure it out one day, a bullet he would never dodge. His mother she'd had her hopes but he had known. It was his own in-sides. He'd run out his luck and was living his fate and things considered, he'd been lucky.

He would knock the shit out of the guard. And whoever else. He would treat it like a game he had to play He would go down to the hallway early and run it through his head, visualize the other guy already on the ground. He would take the guard from behind so his face wouldn't be seen. All that mattered here was your deeds, your acts as others saw them, he hadn't known it that morning in the cafeteria but now he did. Then he thought: no. He could not do it. He could not hit the guard. His legs were shaking again and he had to piss and he got down from the bunk and afterward he ran the water in the sink and washed his face.

He heard Tucker say, “You're wakin me up when you do that. Once you're up there you need to stay there for the night.”

“You woke me up jerkin off and now you're telling me when I can piss.”

“That's right,” said Tucker. “I ain't gonna tell you again, neither.”

“You can talk all you want,” said Poe. “I don't give a fuck what you say.”

He was about to get back into his bunk when he heard Tucker's weight shift, he swung hard and hit Tucker in the face just as he was standing up, Tucker fell back to his bunk but then seemed to rebound off it, he was on top of Poe, he was very fast. They throttled around like that, they were rolling around in the tiny space between the wall and the bunkbeds, grunting, it was a slow fight it was a wrestle for leverage, to get a chokehold, only Poe was much stronger. He got a few hits in and soon enough he had Tucker's head in both hands and was knocking it against the floor.

Then he realized that Tucker had stopped hitting back and that the lights had come on. The guards were already outside the cage. He put his hands up but they peppersprayed him anyway and cracked him in the back and legs with their batons, it wasn't like getting hit with a fist, he could feel the damage it was doing. He covered up and finally they stopped hitting, he couldn't see a thing, his eyes were burning, he was shouting for water. He let himself be cuffed and lifted to his feet, he was dragged down the tier, the inmates were all shouting things, everyone was awake and watching, he was blind, he was choking and crying, wet everywhere, he couldn't tell if it was water or spit or tears or blood. He stumbled into someone, a guard, they thought he was trying to break loose and they were hitting him again, he went down. Then they were dragging him again, it must have been a lot of them. They dragged him down a flight of stairs, he pulled his head up so it wouldn't hit the cement, they threw a bucket of water into his face, his eyes felt better, they hoisted him up and bent him over something, this is where it comes, he thought, this is where they take that from you. But then there was more water on his face, a hose, they were squirting it right into his eyes. It was just a sink. They were washing his face. He was taken to another part of the prison, it was the basement, he was in a cell the same size as his old one only there was one bunk. He was on his back on the thin mattress, feeling the relief of his eyes not burning anymore.

Poe could hear that one of the guards was still there. He heard the guard light a cigarette and he smelled it.

“You got any money,” he said.

“No,” Poe said. His nose was still running profusely from the pepper-spray and he had to sit up to blow it on the floor.

“Must have someone you can call.”

“Not really.”

“Well,” said the guard. He looked thoughtful. He offered Poe the remainder of the cigarette and Poe got up from his bed to take it.

“For reasons you may or may not know,” said the guard, “we're all glad to see that particular white nigger get beat. But that was real dumb on your part. They ain't gonna let you walk away from that.”

4. Harris

O
f course he wanted to see Grace tonight but Even Keel knew it was better to wait. Take things a little easy. He was halfway to the compound when the idea of being home all night with the dog seemed more lonely than he could handle. He pulled over and went through his cellphone and found Riley Coyle's number.

“I'm out with the regular crowd of pricks,” said Riley. “If you want to meet us at the Dead End.”

Harris went home and changed out of his uniform and headed back toward town. Of course half the reason, no, not half, maybe slightly less, twenty percent, was that if he had a few drinks he would call Grace. And she would answer, and then …

The Dead End was one of the few bars that had remained open the entire time since the mill had closed, and the joke was it hadn't been cleaned since before the mill had opened. It was a long wood- paneled room, dim and comfortable, with a view from the back deck over the water. Riley, Chester, and Frank had worked at the mill before it closed. Eventually Frank had gotten rehired at U.S. Steel in Irvin, Riley had opened a small machine shop, and Chester had gotten an MBA. He now ran with a slightly different crowd, consulting work for drug companies. When Harris got to the bar, all three of them were sitting at a table, flirting with the owner's wife.

“Boys.”

“Mr. Johnny Law,” said Riley He turned to the owner's wife, a pretty brunette about Grace's age. She'd stiffened noticeably since Harris's arrival. “He says he's thirsty.”

“I'm fine,” said Harris.

“He's thirsty,” Riley insisted. The woman smiled at Harris and went back to the bar. It was hard to believe she was married to Fat Stan, the owner. Pickins in the Valley must be slim. Obviously, he thought. Look at you. A woman like Grace … He decided to sit down.

“How's everyone?”

“Doing great,” said Frank. “Best day of my life.”

“Frankie just got a new toy,” said Chester. “Would have driven it here if the wife let him.”

“You finally get that ’Vette?”

“Nah,” said Frank. “It's just a four- wheeler. But a 660 Yamaha, four-wheel drive, automatic, snowplow, winch, the works. Cart that hooks up behind it.”

“Probably cost more than your truck,” Riley added.

“There's skateboards that cost more than my truck,” said Harris. He nodded to Frank. “Company looking after you?”

“Yep. Got us on this profit- sharing plan, stock's up a hundred percent. We just hired Benny Garnic's son, matter of fact.”

“I thought he was a computer programmer.”

“Shipped his job to India,” said Riley. “Kid goes to school so he wouldn't get laid off like his dad did, but then …”

Harris shook his head.

“It does make you feel better about things,” said Frank, “in a purely cynical way. Those kinds of people didn't have much sympathy for us twenty years ago, I can remember it was asshole after asshole going on TV and saying it was our faults not going to college.”

“Benny Garnic's son probably doesn't feel better.”

“I got him started at nineteen- sixty an hour,” said Frank. “He won't lose his house the way we all did.”

The owner's wife reappeared with a tray of drinks. “These are from Fat Stan. On the house.” From the other side of the bar, Fat Stan waved and Harris waved back. Fat Stan's wife set a glass of beer and a shot of whiskey in front of each of them but only glanced briefly at Harris. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff.”

“I'm just a policeman,” said Harris. “And I'm off the clock.”

“Well, nice to meet you anyway.” She smiled but then walked away quickly.

“Mista Sheriff,” said Riley “you're not going to use those handcuffs on me, are you? I been so bad …”

Harris looked into his whiskey and tried to remember. Had he ever arrested her? It could have been a brother or something. Or her father, or her boyfriend, really, it could have been anything. Some people were just nervous around cops.

“Careful if you drink that. Fat boy over there probably needs help collecting money.”

“Or he's got a growroom in the basement.”

Harris sipped the drink. “Least he knows I don't come cheap.”

“Quality costs.”

“Tell by his wife.”

“Word is she came mail- order.”

“No. Serious?” The woman was dark- haired but Harris hadn't noticed an accent. She might have been eastern European, but so was half the Valley.

Riley burst out laughing.

“She's from goddamn Uniontown,” Chester said, “she used to dance at that place he had over there.”

“Speaking of,” said Riley, “how's
your
squeeze, Johnny Law?”

“Which one?”

“Grace Poe. Or just plain Grace, if that's now how she goes.”

“No idea,” said Harris. “That fizzled out a long time ago.”

The table was quiet for a few seconds and all four men looked in different directions.

Chester turned his glass in his hands. “Well, you know we all sympathize with what happened to her son.”

“Get your waders on. It's about to rain horseshit.”

“Be serious a minute, Riley,” said Frank.

“I am being serious. If we brought all those boys back from the sandbox, gave them blue uniforms and let them keep their M16's, pretty soon we'd have a crime- free society. Stop wasting money on Arabs and put it to work right here.”

“What are you talking about,” said Chester.

“We could walk three blocks in any direction and score whatever we wanted. That's what I'm talking about. No offense to Johnny Law, he'd need about three hundred guys to get this place under control. So you can't expect kids to grow up here and not do dumb- ass shit.”

“We aren't quite there yet. It isn't quite anarchy yet, is it, Bud?” said Chester.

“No,” said Harris. “Far from.”

“Well, there's a lot of loose talk about what it would mean if a person was literally allowed to get away with murder.”

“I have no idea about that.” But he was thinking about the jacket.

“The rumor mill is in high gear right now, is what Chester's getting at.”

“I don't give a fuck, Bud,” said Riley “Just for the record.”

“This could still be a good place. It's just that the laws have to be enforced and people are worried about that you know, crime stats get up too high, no one wants to move here, gets hard to attract business, et cetera.”

“Chester,” said Riley, “that kid isn't even a goddamn blip on the kind of radar you're talking about. It was a goddamn derelict, even if he did do it and it wasn't self- defense or something. Probably the same piece of shit that stole the camper shell off my truck.”

“I don't know about that,” said Chester.

“Well you do know there was ten, fifteen smaller plants that closed around here just in the past year or so. I mean, you can't smell it from your place in Seven Springs, but it's still happening. Our time might have been the big bloodbath, but they're still shooting the survivors. There's gonna be fallout to it, just like there was in our time and hangin some kid out to dry doesn't do shit for anyone.”

“Aside from all the HUD people,” said Chester, “this is still a good place to live.”

“I need a drink,” said Riley.

Harris pushed his untouched beer over.

“Listen, Bud, we all know it seemed like the right thing to do when you got Billy a slap on the wrist last year.”

“Only now,” said Frank, “from certain people's point of view, I'm not saying my own, but from certain people's viewpoint, Billy Poe should have been locked up and then this other thing wouldn't have happened.”

“None of us knows what happened there,” said Harris. “There's no one who knows.”

“Well, we all hear he's not talking. Which might make him smart, but it doesn't make him innocent.”

“I'm not involved.”

Riley was halfway through Harris's beer. Fat Stan and his wife were both watching from the bar. Harris wondered how much they could hear.

“There's people out there who want you to be involved,” said Chester. “It would make them happier than pigs in shit if they were to hear you're still messing around in Billy Poe's business.”

“That's right.”

“There are people who think that boy is a bad seed, and that the reason he was on the loose is you.”

Harris shifted in his chair. He could feel that his ears were warm. Well, he thought, what did you expect. Better to know it.

“Keep your sails trimmed,” said Chester, “that's all we're saying.”

“Yeah, right,” said Riley. He glanced at Harris. “What I hear, they're looking to hang you on the cross along with Cunko.” He tossed down the rest of the beer. “Think of it as a reward for a lifetime of service.”

“Who is it?” said Harris. Then he said: “Actually you guys don't have to answer that.”

“It's a lot of people, Bud.”

Riley smirked. “It ain't that many. It's Howard Peele of Peele Supply and Tony DiPietro. And Joey Roskins along with them. Basically your whole cocaine- snorting, wife- swapping chamber of commerce.”

Chester gave Riley a look.

“Fuck those people,” said Riley.

“It's not just them.”

“Buddy,” said Riley. He leaned in close to Harris. “I know for a fact that Howie Peele gets his nose powder dropped off once a week by a guy from Clairton. You get in a jam, you got that in your back pocket.”

Chester's face had become very stiff and Harris was feeling worse and worse. He'd let Howie Peele off for a DUI a year ago, made him call his wife for a ride home. Wrong message, he thought. It had seemed like a mistake at the time, but he hadn't known why. No, he thought, that's the wrong way to think about things. He wondered if he should talk to Glen Patacki again. He needed to get somewhere he could think about this.

Riley interrupted: “I can see you too, Chester. I ain't afraid of that prick and I don't care who you tell.”

“Settle down,” said Harris.

“A murder is a serious thing,” Frank said quietly. “No one would deny that.”

“That depends,” said Riley, coming back to the conversation.

“People are worried it might be time for new blood.”

“Well,” said Harris. “They're probably right.”