was
moving back toward the cellblocks.
Inside the little St. Regis, he took the
front stairwell all the way to the fifth tier and started down
E-tier, walking slowly and reading each name tag as he went along.
When he reached the divide, he stopped and draped his arms over the
railing to watch a speedboat racing down the river. Behind him, two
prisoners were emptying their trash into fifty-five gallon barrels;
another was washing clothes in the deep sink. There was only one
other prisoner on the tier at the far end, but there were several
men moving up and down the four stairwells at the divide, so he
waited. After a while he realized no one was paying any attention
to him and headed down the back half of the tier.
He only had four cells to go when he noticed
that the prisoner who was hanging out on the tier was now watching
him curiously. Oliver read him fast. He was dressed in tight white
shorts and a tank top and he had shoulder length hair that looked
as if it had just been brushed a thousand times. His eyebrows were
plucked and shaped in a high arch, his legs were tan and hairless.
Except for the protruding knot in his throat, he could have passed
for a girl. His cell door was open and Oliver read his name on the
door card. Blossom, Donald, E-63 .
“Hello,” Donnie Blossom said, leaning against
the black iron railing with his slender arms spread out.
Oliver nodded as he passed by.
At the next cell Oliver found what he was
looking for. Petaway, Winfield, E-64 . He turned the corner
and hurried down the back steps all the way to the flats. An
excellent arrival and escape route, he thought. And right there was
the shower room. He could go right in, strip down, wash the blood
off his body and out of his clothes, wipe his prints off the nail
and drop it down the drain. He would chuck the wooden handle in one
of the trash barrels at the divide. He returned to his cell and
started to put on his water stinger for a cup of coffee but stopped
short and squeezed his balls with his right hand in anticipation of
the relief he would feel once he annihilated Fat Daddy. When Early
had first told him about Fat Daddy's success rate in turning out
white boys, Oliver had taken little heed to the warning. After all
he had dealt with this kind of threat before and he was confident
his reputation would work to his advantage now. It wasn't until his
new neighbor told him he'd seen a “skinny yellow coon” coming out
of his cell two mornings in a row last week that fear had run
through him like an Indy car race. He knew then that only a
preemptive strike would quell his fear.
Excited and restless now, he walked out on
the tier and watched more speedboats go by while he tried to
imagine how it would feel when the ten-penny nail entered the side
of Fat Daddy's neck for the first time. The second time. He
pictured the purple-red blood gushing out of the holes and wondered
if the nail punctures would distort Fat Daddy's voice when he
called out for help or to say you white motherfucker. His
imagination was suddenly interrupted by the flip-flop of sandals on
the stone floor down on the flats. He looked down and saw Donnie
Blossom walking at a fast pace to the front of the cellblock.
Oliver leaned over the railing and watched as Donnie pulled up at
the end of the phone line and folded his arms. Oliver quickly
closed his cell door and hustled to the back of the tier and up the
three flights of stairs. He eased around the corner of E-tier,
pulled open Fat Daddy's door and stepped into his cell.
The first thing he noticed was the squadron
of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling by various lengths of
thread. Each one was beautifully painted with a decal tag affixed
above it that identified the kind of plane it was. A B-17, a P-51
Mustang, an F-86 Sabre, an F-4 Phantom II. The only one Oliver
recognized was the F-4 Phantom II that had been so superior against
the Soviet Mig-17s in the Vietnam War. There were stars and a half
moon covered in
moving back toward the cellblocks.
Inside the little St. Regis, he took the
front stairwell all the way to the fifth tier and started down
E-tier, walking slowly and reading each name tag as he went along.
When he reached the divide, he stopped and draped his arms over the
railing to watch a speedboat racing down the river. Behind him, two
prisoners were emptying their trash into fifty-five gallon barrels;
another was washing clothes in the deep sink. There was only one
other prisoner on the tier at the far end, but there were several
men moving up and down the four stairwells at the divide, so he
waited. After a while he realized no one was paying any attention
to him and headed down the back half of the tier.
He only had four cells to go when he noticed
that the prisoner who was hanging out on the tier was now watching
him curiously. Oliver read him fast. He was dressed in tight white
shorts and a tank top and he had shoulder length hair that looked
as if it had just been brushed a thousand times. His eyebrows were
plucked and shaped in a high arch, his legs were tan and hairless.
Except for the protruding knot in his throat, he could have passed
for a girl. His cell door was open and Oliver read his name on the
door card. Blossom, Donald, E-63 .
“Hello,” Donnie Blossom said, leaning against
the black iron railing with his slender arms spread out.
Oliver nodded as he passed by.
At the next cell Oliver found what he was
looking for. Petaway, Winfield, E-64 . He turned the corner
and hurried down the back steps all the way to the flats. An
excellent arrival and escape route, he thought. And right there was
the shower room. He could go right in, strip down, wash the blood
off his body and out of his clothes, wipe his prints off the nail
and drop it down the drain. He would chuck the wooden handle in one
of the trash barrels at the divide. He returned to his cell and
started to put on his water stinger for a cup of coffee but stopped
short and squeezed his balls with his right hand in anticipation of
the relief he would feel once he annihilated Fat Daddy. When Early
had first told him about Fat Daddy's success rate in turning out
white boys, Oliver had taken little heed to the warning. After all
he had dealt with this kind of threat before and he was confident
his reputation would work to his advantage now. It wasn't until his
new neighbor told him he'd seen a “skinny yellow coon” coming out
of his cell two mornings in a row last week that fear had run
through him like an Indy car race. He knew then that only a
preemptive strike would quell his fear.
Excited and restless now, he walked out on
the tier and watched more speedboats go by while he tried to
imagine how it would feel when the ten-penny nail entered the side
of Fat Daddy's neck for the first time. The second time. He
pictured the purple-red blood gushing out of the holes and wondered
if the nail punctures would distort Fat Daddy's voice when he
called out for help or to say you white motherfucker. His
imagination was suddenly interrupted by the flip-flop of sandals on
the stone floor down on the flats. He looked down and saw Donnie
Blossom walking at a fast pace to the front of the cellblock.
Oliver leaned over the railing and watched as Donnie pulled up at
the end of the phone line and folded his arms. Oliver quickly
closed his cell door and hustled to the back of the tier and up the
three flights of stairs. He eased around the corner of E-tier,
pulled open Fat Daddy's door and stepped into his cell.
The first thing he noticed was the squadron
of model airplanes hanging from the ceiling by various lengths of
thread. Each one was beautifully painted with a decal tag affixed
above it that identified the kind of plane it was. A B-17, a P-51
Mustang, an F-86 Sabre, an F-4 Phantom II. The only one Oliver
recognized was the F-4 Phantom II that had been so superior against
the Soviet Mig-17s in the Vietnam War. There were stars and a half
moon covered in
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