He forced a smile as he removed the pants. "It's your turn now, Whitey, so make the most of it," he said with all the pride a half-naked man can muster.
"Get the hell in there," the guard snarled, pushing Prince inside the filthy cell. "Don't you be worrying too much, boy, about when your turn is coming. We been handlin' niggers for a lot of years now, so don't you begin to think we don't know how to keep you in your goddamn place."
"You dirty white peckerwood bastard," Prince cursed through the small bars in the door of the cell.
The turnkey only laughed and started towards the stairway. "You remember them names, boy, when you start yelling your black head off for me to come and remove them cuffs, hear?" His laughter drifted back down the stairs.
Prince turned and examined his temporary home. It was just barely long enough for him to lie down in. He paced it off. After six steps, he had to turn around. If it hadn't been for the handcuffs, he could have stretched out his arms and touched both walls at the same time. There was a hole in the corner of the cell that was used for a toilet. Beside it sat a wooden bucket, half full of body waste, giving off a smell so offensive that Prince almost puked. The bed he was supposed to sleep on consisted of eight long iron rails held up by smaller pieces of steel. He sat on the edge of the steel bed, as far away from the obnoxious smells as he could get. It wasn't the first time, Prince thought coldly, that they had tried to break him with this kid shit.
Upstairs, the desk sergeant spoke to Gazier. "Your partner just called in. He says to get prepared for some pickets. It seems that those punks you brought in have a lot of friends worryin' about them."
Gazier sneered and turned to the red-faced, hefty officer who had displayed so much cruelty to the prisoners. "Come on, Fred, let's do some ridin'. Maybe we can be lucky and find some more of these meanass Rulers."
Both men laughed and left the station.
9
SHORTMAN PARKED IN front of a small, unpainted, two-family flat. "Donnie," he said to the husky, light-skinned man next to him, "can you reach that wrench on the backseat?"
The young man reached over and picked up the wrench. He climbed out of the car and met Shortman on the sidewalk. Both men were extremely well dressed. Earlier in the evening they had attended the meeting at the auditorium where Prince had been arrested; now they were worried about the consequences. Both men were known to the police as members of the Rulers.
"You know, Shortman," Donnie began, "it's kind of lucky Prince assigned us to this whiskey thing, man. We ain't up on none of that bullshit that been goin' down, so even if we do get picked up, ain't nothin' the man can hold us on."
They continued up the walk and onto the porch of the unpainted house. The screen door was latched, but they could see people sitting inside in the dark. The sound of loud music filled the air. From where they stood, they could see someone dancing in the living room.
Shortman knocked harder on the screen. "Come on, goddamn it," he yelled through the open doorway.
A girl who looked no older than a teenybopper came to the door. She stared out at Shortman and Donnie, then opened the door quickly.
"Hi there, Shortman. Earl, Earl, here's the big fellows, man," she yelled over her shoulder.
Someone cut on a light as the two men came in the room. The house was scantily furnished. There were two couches along the wall, while the dining room was empty except for a portable record player sitting on the floor. Beside it was a stack of 45 records and two empty album covers. Two young girls were dancing together, or rather practicing dance steps, in the dining room.
Earl came hurrying into the room. "Hey man, I didn't expect you. I been upstairs taking care of business." He was tall and thin and looked to be still in his teens. His voice was shrill.
Shortman nodded in his direction and continued towards the stairway, Donnie
"Get the hell in there," the guard snarled, pushing Prince inside the filthy cell. "Don't you be worrying too much, boy, about when your turn is coming. We been handlin' niggers for a lot of years now, so don't you begin to think we don't know how to keep you in your goddamn place."
"You dirty white peckerwood bastard," Prince cursed through the small bars in the door of the cell.
The turnkey only laughed and started towards the stairway. "You remember them names, boy, when you start yelling your black head off for me to come and remove them cuffs, hear?" His laughter drifted back down the stairs.
Prince turned and examined his temporary home. It was just barely long enough for him to lie down in. He paced it off. After six steps, he had to turn around. If it hadn't been for the handcuffs, he could have stretched out his arms and touched both walls at the same time. There was a hole in the corner of the cell that was used for a toilet. Beside it sat a wooden bucket, half full of body waste, giving off a smell so offensive that Prince almost puked. The bed he was supposed to sleep on consisted of eight long iron rails held up by smaller pieces of steel. He sat on the edge of the steel bed, as far away from the obnoxious smells as he could get. It wasn't the first time, Prince thought coldly, that they had tried to break him with this kid shit.
Upstairs, the desk sergeant spoke to Gazier. "Your partner just called in. He says to get prepared for some pickets. It seems that those punks you brought in have a lot of friends worryin' about them."
Gazier sneered and turned to the red-faced, hefty officer who had displayed so much cruelty to the prisoners. "Come on, Fred, let's do some ridin'. Maybe we can be lucky and find some more of these meanass Rulers."
Both men laughed and left the station.
9
SHORTMAN PARKED IN front of a small, unpainted, two-family flat. "Donnie," he said to the husky, light-skinned man next to him, "can you reach that wrench on the backseat?"
The young man reached over and picked up the wrench. He climbed out of the car and met Shortman on the sidewalk. Both men were extremely well dressed. Earlier in the evening they had attended the meeting at the auditorium where Prince had been arrested; now they were worried about the consequences. Both men were known to the police as members of the Rulers.
"You know, Shortman," Donnie began, "it's kind of lucky Prince assigned us to this whiskey thing, man. We ain't up on none of that bullshit that been goin' down, so even if we do get picked up, ain't nothin' the man can hold us on."
They continued up the walk and onto the porch of the unpainted house. The screen door was latched, but they could see people sitting inside in the dark. The sound of loud music filled the air. From where they stood, they could see someone dancing in the living room.
Shortman knocked harder on the screen. "Come on, goddamn it," he yelled through the open doorway.
A girl who looked no older than a teenybopper came to the door. She stared out at Shortman and Donnie, then opened the door quickly.
"Hi there, Shortman. Earl, Earl, here's the big fellows, man," she yelled over her shoulder.
Someone cut on a light as the two men came in the room. The house was scantily furnished. There were two couches along the wall, while the dining room was empty except for a portable record player sitting on the floor. Beside it was a stack of 45 records and two empty album covers. Two young girls were dancing together, or rather practicing dance steps, in the dining room.
Earl came hurrying into the room. "Hey man, I didn't expect you. I been upstairs taking care of business." He was tall and thin and looked to be still in his teens. His voice was shrill.
Shortman nodded in his direction and continued towards the stairway, Donnie
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