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Authors: Edward Bunker
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over that strike.”
“We’ll get you out if—”
Earl cut him off with an upraised hand. “Uh-huh. I’m a convict. If the joint’s slammed, I’m slammed.”
“I’ll make sure you get something to eat.”
Earl didn’t protest, though for a moment he was surprised. Rand (Seeman, too) could be savage to convicts he disliked, especially blacks. He wore a swastika medallion under his shirt.
Rand signed the pass slowly, making a deliberate childish scrawl, and then handed it to Earl with a grin.
“I should have signed it myself,” Earl said, but he took it and went out, giving it to Ron. “I’ll walk with you. I’ve gotta get some food and dirty magazines in case they have that strike. We’ll be locked down with nothing to do but abuse ourselves, and I’ve forgotten what broads look like.”
Ron laughed, showing good white teeth.
When they reached the big yard, Earl paused long enough to make sure the pass wasn’t questioned; then he went toward the heavy crowd outside the canteen. Others were also stocking up.
Half an hour before the main count lockup, Earl entered the big yard. Half a dozen of the Brotherhood, including Paul, T.J., Bird, and Baby Boy, were gathered in the afternoon sun near the East cellhouse wall. When Earl walked up, T.J. reached out and brushed the slick-shaved skull.
“Where’s Bad Eye?” Earl asked.
“On a visit. You know his folks love their baby boy.” The conversation was about the strike. Nobody thought it would accomplish anything, and Baby Boy was angry because he liked to work and was going to the parole board in two weeks. Yet there was no question of them breaking a strike, even one they disagreed with. “Wha … what we oughta do,” said Bird, a small, tight-muscled man with a big nose and a choleric disposition, “is burn the motherfucker down. I’d go along with the niggers on a riot where we get in some licks. They just talk revolution …”
“Yeah,” Baby Boy said, “they wanna go back to Africa or wherever , send the fuckers.”
“Them people over there don’t want ’em either,” T.J. said. “I was readin’—”
“Fool!” someone said. “Quit lyin’. You know you can’t read.”
Earl scanned the yard. It was becoming crowded with convicts being herded from the lower yard before lockup. Near the edge of the shed he saw Ron Decker talking to a Puerto Rican whose name Earl didn’t know—but who he did know for a glue-sniffer and loudmouth troublemaker. A couple of the Puerto Rican’s clique were hovering nearby. The conversation was heated, with Ron gesticulating , and the Puerto Rican suddenly jabbing a finger at his chest. The good-looking youth spun on his heel and walked away. Earl saw Tony waiting some distance away.
The whistle blew and the swarming convicts began to form lines. Earl headed against the tide toward the yard gate. A closeddoor conference took place during count, and Earl locked the washroom door and listened. The warden had gotten word from the stool pigeons (probably in exchange for a transfer, Earl thought) that several dozen inmates, mostly black, planned to crowd around the big yard gate just before it opened, knowing that even convicts willing to work wouldn’t cross such a line. The lieutenants were being briefed by Stoneface Bradley, the pockmarked associate warden. Extra personnel would be on duty. Those trained for the tactical squad would be held in the plaza until needed, and the highway patrol would lend a dozen sharpshooters to beef up firepower on the wall. But they would try to break the strike before it began by opening the yard gate an hour early and running the cons directly from the mess halls to work, or to the far side of the yard away from the gate so they couldn’t gather and create a bottleneck.
As soon as the count cleared, Earl went to the yard, watched the lines come from the cellhouses to the mess hall until he saw a willowy young black with a café au lait complexion who belonged
“We’ll get you out if—”
Earl cut him off with an upraised hand. “Uh-huh. I’m a convict. If the joint’s slammed, I’m slammed.”
“I’ll make sure you get something to eat.”
Earl didn’t protest, though for a moment he was surprised. Rand (Seeman, too) could be savage to convicts he disliked, especially blacks. He wore a swastika medallion under his shirt.
Rand signed the pass slowly, making a deliberate childish scrawl, and then handed it to Earl with a grin.
“I should have signed it myself,” Earl said, but he took it and went out, giving it to Ron. “I’ll walk with you. I’ve gotta get some food and dirty magazines in case they have that strike. We’ll be locked down with nothing to do but abuse ourselves, and I’ve forgotten what broads look like.”
Ron laughed, showing good white teeth.
When they reached the big yard, Earl paused long enough to make sure the pass wasn’t questioned; then he went toward the heavy crowd outside the canteen. Others were also stocking up.
Half an hour before the main count lockup, Earl entered the big yard. Half a dozen of the Brotherhood, including Paul, T.J., Bird, and Baby Boy, were gathered in the afternoon sun near the East cellhouse wall. When Earl walked up, T.J. reached out and brushed the slick-shaved skull.
“Where’s Bad Eye?” Earl asked.
“On a visit. You know his folks love their baby boy.” The conversation was about the strike. Nobody thought it would accomplish anything, and Baby Boy was angry because he liked to work and was going to the parole board in two weeks. Yet there was no question of them breaking a strike, even one they disagreed with. “Wha … what we oughta do,” said Bird, a small, tight-muscled man with a big nose and a choleric disposition, “is burn the motherfucker down. I’d go along with the niggers on a riot where we get in some licks. They just talk revolution …”
“Yeah,” Baby Boy said, “they wanna go back to Africa or wherever , send the fuckers.”
“Them people over there don’t want ’em either,” T.J. said. “I was readin’—”
“Fool!” someone said. “Quit lyin’. You know you can’t read.”
Earl scanned the yard. It was becoming crowded with convicts being herded from the lower yard before lockup. Near the edge of the shed he saw Ron Decker talking to a Puerto Rican whose name Earl didn’t know—but who he did know for a glue-sniffer and loudmouth troublemaker. A couple of the Puerto Rican’s clique were hovering nearby. The conversation was heated, with Ron gesticulating , and the Puerto Rican suddenly jabbing a finger at his chest. The good-looking youth spun on his heel and walked away. Earl saw Tony waiting some distance away.
The whistle blew and the swarming convicts began to form lines. Earl headed against the tide toward the yard gate. A closeddoor conference took place during count, and Earl locked the washroom door and listened. The warden had gotten word from the stool pigeons (probably in exchange for a transfer, Earl thought) that several dozen inmates, mostly black, planned to crowd around the big yard gate just before it opened, knowing that even convicts willing to work wouldn’t cross such a line. The lieutenants were being briefed by Stoneface Bradley, the pockmarked associate warden. Extra personnel would be on duty. Those trained for the tactical squad would be held in the plaza until needed, and the highway patrol would lend a dozen sharpshooters to beef up firepower on the wall. But they would try to break the strike before it began by opening the yard gate an hour early and running the cons directly from the mess halls to work, or to the far side of the yard away from the gate so they couldn’t gather and create a bottleneck.
As soon as the count cleared, Earl went to the yard, watched the lines come from the cellhouses to the mess hall until he saw a willowy young black with a café au lait complexion who belonged
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