up and formed them into a
mouthpiece. It wasn't much protection--a toilet-paper mouthpiece. But
it was better than nothing at all.
I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the
graffiti on the wall: naked women with huge breasts and ash marks,
where cigarettes had been stubbed out, for vaginas; a dagger with the
slogan "Born to lose" bannered above it; a motorcycle wheel
pouring smoke; a skull. A couple of the other inmates walked past the
cell and tried to bum cigarettes from me. I didn't even have to
ignore them. My mind, my whole being, was centered on one thing. It
wasn't long in coming.
About five minutes after Lewis had booked me, I heard
the jailer call out my name. I fitted the toilet-paper mouthpiece
around my teeth, stepped out of the cell, and walked slowly up to the
holding-tank bars. Just a little piece of me was hoping that it was
Laurel and her photographer. The rest knew better. And the rest was
right.
I could see Jordan plainly as I rounded the
cell-block. He smiled at me as I walked toward him, crooking a finger
and making a come-hither gesture. The jailer opened the barred doors
and I walked out. A desk sergeant came out of the jailer's cage and
cuffed my hands behind me, while Jordan looked on.
"We've got some unfinished business, Harry,"
Jordan said, giving me his graveyard stare.
I
didn't say anything. I didn't want him to see the mouthpiece I'd
fashioned from the tissue.
Jordan grabbed my arm and
pulled me toward an elevator. I looked around to see if his partner
was coming with us. But Lewis wasn't there, and the desk sergeant had
already returned to his cage. It was just Jordan and I. Just the way
he wanted it.
***
He took me down to the subbasement. There were a
couple of unused cells down there--dark, empty holes lit by hanging
lamps and full of old, dusty office furniture. Jordan pushed me into
a cell that was filled with ancient wooden chairs. He pulled one of
the chairs from a pile and plunked it down in the middle of the room.
"Sit down," he said casually.
I sat on the chair and watched Jordan as he took off
his coat and rolled up his sleeves. "You shouldn't have
sucker-punched me, Harry," he said, turning to me with a
pleasant smile on his mouth. There was a half-dollar-size bruise on
his chin where I'd clipped him. The rest of his face was as dead as
his eyes.
Jordan stared at me for a long moment, then reached
behind him and pulled a four-ounce leaded sap from his back pocket.
He slapped it against his palm. It made a full, rich sound in his
hand, as if he'd slapped a loaf of fresh dough.
"I'm going to give you a good beating, Harry,"
he said. "Then we're going to talk about the crack. Okay?"
He looked at me as if he expected me to agree with
him.
Jordan started toward me, waving the sap in his fist.
As soon as he got close, I kicked at him. But Jordan was prepared for
me this time. He juked to his right and brought the sap down hard
against my upraised leg. It caught me on the left shin.
The pain was excruciating. I doubled over on the
chair; and he brought the sap down even harder--on my spine. I
snapped upright, throwing myself backward with so much force that I
cracked the back of the chair and went sprawling onto the floor-my
legs still crooked over the broken chair seat.
"Get up!" Jordan roared, yanking me to my
feet by my shirtfront and throwing me against the bars of the cell.
I kicked at him again, with my right leg, missing
badly. He countered by driving the sap deep into my belly. I doubled
over again and sank to my knees with a groan. My face turned red and
sweat poured out of me. I could feel it running down my cheeks, down
my arms, as if I'd been doused with water.
Jordan stood over me for a moment, breathing hard.
"Tell me how you're connected, Harry," he
said. "Save yourself some pain."
I looked up at him from where I was kneeling. The
pain in my gut was intense. But I could feel the indignity just as
intensely. My face started to burn with shame. The toilet
mouthpiece. It wasn't much protection--a toilet-paper mouthpiece. But
it was better than nothing at all.
I sat there for a few minutes, staring at the
graffiti on the wall: naked women with huge breasts and ash marks,
where cigarettes had been stubbed out, for vaginas; a dagger with the
slogan "Born to lose" bannered above it; a motorcycle wheel
pouring smoke; a skull. A couple of the other inmates walked past the
cell and tried to bum cigarettes from me. I didn't even have to
ignore them. My mind, my whole being, was centered on one thing. It
wasn't long in coming.
About five minutes after Lewis had booked me, I heard
the jailer call out my name. I fitted the toilet-paper mouthpiece
around my teeth, stepped out of the cell, and walked slowly up to the
holding-tank bars. Just a little piece of me was hoping that it was
Laurel and her photographer. The rest knew better. And the rest was
right.
I could see Jordan plainly as I rounded the
cell-block. He smiled at me as I walked toward him, crooking a finger
and making a come-hither gesture. The jailer opened the barred doors
and I walked out. A desk sergeant came out of the jailer's cage and
cuffed my hands behind me, while Jordan looked on.
"We've got some unfinished business, Harry,"
Jordan said, giving me his graveyard stare.
I
didn't say anything. I didn't want him to see the mouthpiece I'd
fashioned from the tissue.
Jordan grabbed my arm and
pulled me toward an elevator. I looked around to see if his partner
was coming with us. But Lewis wasn't there, and the desk sergeant had
already returned to his cage. It was just Jordan and I. Just the way
he wanted it.
***
He took me down to the subbasement. There were a
couple of unused cells down there--dark, empty holes lit by hanging
lamps and full of old, dusty office furniture. Jordan pushed me into
a cell that was filled with ancient wooden chairs. He pulled one of
the chairs from a pile and plunked it down in the middle of the room.
"Sit down," he said casually.
I sat on the chair and watched Jordan as he took off
his coat and rolled up his sleeves. "You shouldn't have
sucker-punched me, Harry," he said, turning to me with a
pleasant smile on his mouth. There was a half-dollar-size bruise on
his chin where I'd clipped him. The rest of his face was as dead as
his eyes.
Jordan stared at me for a long moment, then reached
behind him and pulled a four-ounce leaded sap from his back pocket.
He slapped it against his palm. It made a full, rich sound in his
hand, as if he'd slapped a loaf of fresh dough.
"I'm going to give you a good beating, Harry,"
he said. "Then we're going to talk about the crack. Okay?"
He looked at me as if he expected me to agree with
him.
Jordan started toward me, waving the sap in his fist.
As soon as he got close, I kicked at him. But Jordan was prepared for
me this time. He juked to his right and brought the sap down hard
against my upraised leg. It caught me on the left shin.
The pain was excruciating. I doubled over on the
chair; and he brought the sap down even harder--on my spine. I
snapped upright, throwing myself backward with so much force that I
cracked the back of the chair and went sprawling onto the floor-my
legs still crooked over the broken chair seat.
"Get up!" Jordan roared, yanking me to my
feet by my shirtfront and throwing me against the bars of the cell.
I kicked at him again, with my right leg, missing
badly. He countered by driving the sap deep into my belly. I doubled
over again and sank to my knees with a groan. My face turned red and
sweat poured out of me. I could feel it running down my cheeks, down
my arms, as if I'd been doused with water.
Jordan stood over me for a moment, breathing hard.
"Tell me how you're connected, Harry," he
said. "Save yourself some pain."
I looked up at him from where I was kneeling. The
pain in my gut was intense. But I could feel the indignity just as
intensely. My face started to burn with shame. The toilet
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