A Walk on the Wild Side (44 page)

‘It don’t do no good for a man to rise these days, son,’ was Country Kline’s curious philosophy, ‘for that can’t be done any longer except on the necks of others. And when you make it that way, all the satisfaction is taken out of it. Son, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you got pimp wrote large all over you – but that’s the sorriest way of all to rise, and the reason I’ll tell you why – if God ever made anything better than a hustling girl He’s kept it to Himself. There’s no trick in not going down the drain if you don’t live in the sink. But you take a woman who makes her living where the water is sucking the weaker bugs down and she don’t go down, she’s twice the woman that one who never had to fight for her soul is.’

One day the tank grew strangely still. Murphy came to lean too casually against his door. He and Dove hadn’t been on speaking terms for a week.

‘What’s the extent of
your
education,’ he suddenly demanded of Dove.

‘It don’t extend nowheres, account I got none,’ Dove acknowledged.

‘What’s your excuse for being in here?’ Murphy persisted.

‘I was drinkin’ heavy,’ Dove told him.

‘Most you Injuns do.’

Apparently Murphy had given some thought to this.

‘I aint even part Injun, mister,’ Dove went along.

‘If you aint, what you squattin’ like one for?’

Dove, on his haunches with a blanket about his head, let smoke trail through his nostrils before he answered, knowing any answer had to be wrong.

‘My folks always set this way, mister. I notice sometimes you do yourself.’ And flicked his cigarette through the bars.

That was it.

‘Get up ’n put that snipe out,’ Murphy commanded. ‘You trying to burn the place down with all us white folks inside?’

‘I wouldn’t go throwin’ fire around, mister. That snipe is put out.’

‘Put it out again.’

‘Mister,’ Dove called to the African-violet fiend lounging in the run-around pretending he had been promoted to trusty, ‘Would you mind puttin’ out that put-out snipe for me?’

‘I didn’t give him the order,’ Murphy interrupted, ‘I give it to you.’

‘Then put it out yourself, mister.’

‘Deputy!’ Murphy called parties unseen, ‘bring in the prisoner of the court!’

Somebody spun Dove about, shoved him through the open door and down the run-around into a cell full of prisoners. He had never seen all the tenants of Tank Ten assembled, and now he wished he hadn’t till he felt stronger.

They looked like bulldogs, they looked like coyotes, they looked like real hard cases. The human dishrag with hair and brows so colorless he seemed more like something hung out to dry than anything actually living. His faithful timberwolf beside him, holding a spoon in event the rag should want it washed, shined or dipped in gravy. Wayback without a tooth in his head, standing beside Out-Front who had enough teeth for two. Wren, holding Dundee’s lunch bucket to keep Feathers from laying an egg in it, and Chicken Spanker himself, looking as though he’d like to peck somebody. And Gonzales, without his shovel. But who was ready to go all the same.

Even Murphy was dismayed. ‘Just look at the material they’re sending me. Who can do anything with material like that? Sec Fiend!’

Raincoat was late, he hadn’t known court was convening. He hurried in apologizing for the way he was dressed. Only Cross-Country Kline was missing and Dove was grateful for that.

‘Sec Fiend!’ Murphy demanded. ‘Who’s the judge of this here court?’

Several gave dull unseeing glances about: at walls, at bars, at windows, at doors, at faces in the winding air, for they didn’t know which sec fiend was meant.

‘
Raincoat
Sec Fiend!’ Judge Murphy made it plain as possible, ‘the court asked you a question!’

‘What was the question, Hon’r?’

His Honor had forgotten the question himself.

‘It don’t matter,’ he improvised cleverly, ‘Just tell the court who was it said he could whup you if he wanted and you
admitted
he could
if
he wanted.’

‘You could whup
me
any old time your Honor you wanted to whup me, your Honor.’ Timberwolf always wanted to be first.

‘You whup me too!’ They all got the idea at once, with envy, some even pretending that Murphy actually had so favored them.

‘You whup me somethin’ terrible,’ the Dishrag lied.

‘You whup me even worse,’ the Wolf just wouldn’t be outdone.

‘Whup even worse,’ the Bug began his echoing.

‘Get
that
one out of here,’ Judge Murphy decided.

‘One out of here,’ Bug had just time to agree before he was rushed back to his cell and told to stay there, they’d tell him the verdict later.

‘Tell you the verdict later,’ he agreed, being the most agreeable of bugs.

‘What I whup you
with
, mighty fellows?’ Murphy asked.

‘Big fistes!’ Sec Fiend shouted as though only now beginning to feel pain.

‘Big fistes is
right
,’ Murphy agreed and poked his fist right under Dove’s nose – ‘What it look like?’ he demanded to know, ‘Is it look like a man’s fist or don’t it?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if that aint but what it is,’ Dove shrugged indifferently.

Murphy stepped back, pulled a crumpled sheet of notepaper from his pocket and read while all listened reverently:

‘These are the rules of the Kangaroo Court. Any man found guilty of breaking into this jail without consent of the inmates will be fined two dollars or else spend forty days on the floor at rate of five cents per deem. Or else he could carry his Honor three times around the run-around piggyback if the jury recommended mercy.

‘Every man entering this tank must keep cleaned and properly dressed. Each day of the week is wash day except Sunday. Every man must wash his face and hands before handling food even his own. Any man found guilty of spitting in ash tub or through window will voluntarily duck his head in slop bucket, else have it ducked. Each and every man using toilet must flush with bucket immediately afters. Man found guilty by jury of his peers gets head ducked in bucket else he wants to or not.

‘Throw all paper in the coal tub. Don’t draw dirty pictures on wall, somebody’s sister might come visiting. When using dishrag keep it clean. Any man caught stealing off another criminal will have William Makepeace Murphy to reckon with.

‘Every man upon entering this tank with ven’ral disease, lice, buboes, crabs or yellow glanders will report same immediately. Any man found violating any of these rules will be punished according to the justice of the court and the jury of his peers and William Makepeace Murphy. Also Tank Treasurer.’

William Makepeace Murphy batted his eye at Dove, proud as a frog eating fire. ‘Every time you open your mouth from here on out it will be used against you. No mercy is this court’s motto.’

‘Then I won’t talk.’

‘Prisoner in contemp’!’ Dishrag chortled – ‘Boy, did you walk into
that
.’

‘He’s right,’ the judge backed up the peer. ‘You’re now in contemp’ somethin’ awful.’

‘Why?’ Dove asked.

‘Because I contemp’ you,
that’s
why, son.’ Murphy took a sympathetic tone, ‘I want to help you but you’re not helping me. If I were you I’d make a clean breast of all the dirty crimes you done and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. I think you’d feel better spiritually.’

‘But you said the court’s motto is no mercy.’

‘Using a legal loophold like that is even more contempt’ble. Now you’re deeper contempted than before.’

‘Ataboy, Judge!’ the Dishrag cheered, ‘walked right smack-dab into it again! Now he
got
to confess what he done!’

‘Why, I never did
outrightly
crime,’ Dove had to defend himself.

‘Of course not, because you’re a holy angel,’ Murphy congratulated him, ‘only where are your wings?’

This flash of wit literally rocked the cell. ‘Where are your wings, Holy Angel?’ ‘
That’ll
learn
him
to crack wise.’

Dove had to wait a minute before the court grew relatively quiet again.

‘I just meant I weren’t guilty of nothin’ you read in them rules,’ he explained.

‘Guilty of
nothin
’ you say? Why then it naturally follow you’re mighty innocent of
somethin
’. Let’s see you deny
that
one.’

‘Of course I’m innocent of nothin’,’ Dove began to get angry as he grew confused.

‘Then you’re guilty of everythin’, naturally.’

‘Guilty of everythin’!’ the Dishrag bleated, the Timberwolf beetled, Sec Fiend giggled and Feathers crowed, ‘Guilty! Everyone guilty of everythin’!’

‘Looks like you walked smack-dab into it again,’ Murphy mourned for him. ‘If you’d just own up the court
might
go lighter. What we call mightigating circumstance.’

‘I stand mute,’ Dove resolved suddenly.

‘Too late,’ Murphy still sympathized, ‘you’ve already confessed.’

‘Confessed
nothin
’,’ Dove protested. ‘I didn’t confess
nothin’!
’

‘You said you were innocent of nothin’, and if
that
aint confessin’—’

‘Innocent of nothin’! Guilty of everythin’!’

‘You’ve heard the verdict,’ Murphy informed him. ‘What are you standing
there
for? The slop bucket’s in the corner.’

‘I don’t duck my head in no slop bucket,’ Dove took a firm stand.

Country Kline came to lean in the door. ‘I suggest you recommend mercy, gentlemen,’ he told no particular gentleman.

‘
Six
piggybacks! Call
that
mercy,’ Dishrag decided.

His Honor waited to see whether the prisoner would accept commutation. Dove looked at Country. Country nodded.

Dove stooped, hands on knees as though for leapfrog and His Honor clambered onto his back. Then it was up and down and around, Dove bowed nearly double with the lank youth’s weight, while the jury of his peers raced from cell to cell, keeping count at every turn.

When the punishment was done and Murphy had dismounted he told Dove lightly, ‘It wouldn’t do no great harm to spend a little tobacco on the boys to show you don’t bear them no ill will.’

Dove handed the court his
Picayunes
. His jealousy satisfied, Murphy lit one for Dove.

Peace reigned in Tank Ten once again.

And the bugs were back in their beds.

Early next morning the turnkey came up long before the meat tins were due.

‘Kline! Get dressed! Sheriff ’s waitin’ on you. That’s all I know.’

But the tank knew more than that: the feds had come for Country at last. Yet Country took his own good time in getting ready, as though still unsure about what that judge might throw at him.

‘I need time to think this over,’ he told the waiting turnkey as though he had a choice in the matter.

At last he shook hands all around, and last of all with Dove. ‘See you a hundred stretches hence,’ he promised and Dove was sorry to see him go.

To go in a driving rain, when the Mardi Gras was done, but night bulbs still burned on.

The night bulb that usually dimmed at six was allowed to burn that morning till the courthouse chimes rang at nine. A minute after the bulb began fading. Slowly, as though burning out. And the cells were left shadowed by the night that had passed.

A dark and lost hour, the first Dove had spent in a cell all alone. When a faraway train called like a train going farther and farther from home and he thought, ‘That engineer sounds terrible lonesome.’

Later, by standing at the run-around window, he saw they were at it again in the Animal Kingdom. But he had lost all desire to keep count. Someone was trying to get a spitting contest going for a sack of Bull Durham, but no one wanted to play. A green Lincoln wheeled around the yard, swaying a bit down the unpaved alley, its siren rising as it hit the open street with headlights fighting the fog.

‘There go the nabs!’ he announced to the tier, and everyone came crowding to see, but by then it was gone.

Still its siren rang on the iron faintly and he felt dead sick for home.

All that wintry afternoon the Southern rain never ceased. In the run-around the prisoners gathered together uneasily as dark came on, to read the rules of the Kangaroo Court like men reading Genesis on a raft at sea. Toward evening came a lull in the rain: in the lull they heard boots climbing stairs as though burdened.

It always took the sheriff longer to open the Tank Ten door than the outer doors because it was opened by the brake locked in a box on the outer wall and the key to the box, smaller than his other keys, always eluded him for a minute.

The men listened while he fumbled. ‘Somebody with him,’ everyone sensed.

The sheriff and a deputy with a badge on his cap, and between them Country Kline bent double, and all three soaking wet. He looked somehow smaller and his toes kept scraping the floor as they half-dragged and half-carried him.

Beneath the cocky red cap his face was so drained of blood it held no expression at all. Somebody bundled a blanket and stuffed it through the bars. Country sagged, mouth agape.

When he was stretched out he clutched his cap against his stomach and drank the rain running off his hair. The fingers began searching feebly for the wound.

‘I knew I had him when I seen him vomick,’ the deputy explained. Country’s face was more gray than Dove had ever seen a living face and his eyes kept dilating with shock.

‘Shouldn’t have turned rabbit on us, dad,’ the sheriff reproved him while the doc swabbed the belly with cotton batting.

‘He jumped out of the car,’ the deputy seemed to feel he owed the men peering through the bars an explanation, ‘I hollered, but he just bent over and started zig-zagging. Not sure as I blame him. Ninety-nine years is a mighty long time.’