Eureka Man: A Novel (10 page)

I saw the psychiatrist today and the first
thing he said to me was I don't give out valium if that's what you
have in mind. I told him I was there because my mother asked me to
see a shrink. He wanted to know why I caved in “that boy's” skull.
First of all, “that boy” was as big as King Kong. Second, my lawyer
told me I can't talk about it while my appeals are waiting to be
heard. He asked if I was interested in attending weekly sessions
with the psychologist. I said my mother thinks I should so I guess
I am.

This joint is crawling with booty bandits and
they're sizing me up already. I don't want any trouble and I'm
doing my best to ignore them, but I sure hope they leave me the
hell alone.

This morning when I was returning from the
commissary, I found a ten-penny nail in the alley beside the
building. Now all I need is some kind of handle to make the perfect
ice pick.

Fat Daddy stared at the pages and thought,
I'll bet he got fucked. I'll bet King Kong popped his young-ass
cherry! He was excited now and flipped to another entry.

After six months, a fractured arm and three
ass whippings, I'm finally out of the hole! That lieutenant with
the blue eyes came to my cell this morning to let me know they were
letting me out 30 days early for good behavior. I thought he was
messing with me so I kept right on reading Moby Dick like he wasn't
even standing there. But then he said good luck to me and an hour
later they were springing my door.

I'm back in the same cell on the little St.
Regis. B-49. All my belongings are here except for my two throw
rugs. Some thief stole them while I was gone. The first thing I did
when I got here this morning was check my stash. My ten-penny nail
was still there and I took it everywhere I went today. First, I got
a haircut from a barber named Chinaman. Nicknames kill me. The
barber wasn't any more Chinese than I am. He was a chubby,
high-yellow, hip-talking black dude from North Philly. I liked the
scene down there in the barbershop and was glad I had to wait an
hour before I got in the chair. I read a couple of magazines and
listened to the radio they had tuned to a soul station. They played
Marvin and the O'Jays back to back. And there was that familiar
smell of talcum powder and sea breeze and hair after it's been
shaved off with electric clippers. It reminded me of Charlie
Spalding's barbershop back home.

Tonight I called home. Momma was ecstatic to
hear my voice but hounded me because I hadn't called in six months.
She knew even before I told her that I had gotten in trouble and
couldn't call. I told her this place isn't that bad at all. I
didn't tell her I was ready to run a ten-penny nail through the
neck of this nasty freak who's been following me around ever since
I got here, watching me as if I were his next goddamn meal. The
same freak who knocked me down in the yard last summer. Momma's
been through enough and I don't want her worrying about me any more
than she already is.

Tomorrow I'm going to the gym to join the
boxing team and in the evening I'm going to sit out in the yard
with my neighbor who I just met, a fellow named Albert DiNapoli.
He's a real intelligent guy and he goes to college. He's got more
books in his cell than I've ever seen except maybe in a library. I
think I'll ask him to let me read a few of them. It's been a long
day and I'm tired, so that's all for tonight.

Fat Daddy closed the book and set it back on
the pillow. A nasty freak, he thought. I'll show this bitch what a
nasty freak is.

What Fat Daddy was planning to do to Oliver
other men had done worse to him. The bedroom where his Too Tall
Uncle Paul had kept him for two days and nights when he was eleven
had smelled worse than nasty. “Cee-lo or straight?” They all said
straight at the same time and laughed like a bunch of corner boys
over their unanimity. Four corner boys and one Big Momma who went
out for fish sandwiches and more Boone's Farm. Too Tall Uncle Paul
came in the bedroom first. What you doing, boy? Nuttin'. Come here.
Why you crying? I'm thirsty. Drink this. He drank the whole glass
of strawberry wine, then Too Tall Uncle Paul said now come a little
bit closer. His beard tickled little Winfield's neck. He pulled the
child's underpants down and sniffed his hind quarters before he
dry-humped him and filled the crack of his ass with warm sticky
cream. After Too Tall Uncle Paul walked out, Spook the trash man
walked in saying over his shoulder, the next time you stick the
dice, niggah! He spooned up beside the child and nuzzled his neck
before he dug into his behind. When he pulled out, he said, got to
get back to them bones. Kiss me for good luck. Then the nasty
niggah slid his tongue inside Winnie's mouth for good luck just as
the door flew open. You'd better eat this fast, young'un! Them boys
is hungry! Come here to your Aunt Gwendolyn. He devoured the
sandwich while she played with him. Lord, child. Yes, indeed. She
had him martial and interested when the door flew open again.
Where's the food, Big Momma? It's all gone and so are you! Get out!
That boy finger fucking you? Get out! Go finger fuck the dice!

Two days later his mother came for him and
cursed her former brother-in-law out because the boy smelled so
nasty. Stink nasty. They wasn't nice to me, he said. He didn't let
his tears or his pain show, but he knew right then at the age of
eleven what he wanted to do. He started with a mongrel bitch he
found in heat inside an abandoned house at the end of Oxford
Street. From there he learned the fine art of becoming as invisible
as God hiding behind trees and in them, crouched in the weeds,
standing around corners, patrolling school lavatories and public
rest rooms. The prey, the predator. He was stalking boys half his
size and some twice as big.

“Come on, Fat Daddy! You've been in there
long enough.” Donnie Blossom's voice startled Fat Daddy. He walked
to the door, drew the curtain back and reached through the bars. He
squeezed Donnie's buttocks and said, “Shut up, bitch! I'll be out
when I'm ready.”

Fat Daddy closed the curtain again and took
one last look around the room before it occurred to him that he had
one more thing to do. He laid on the floor and slid under the bed,
moving around until he decided there was plenty of room for what he
had in mind. When he got to his feet, he rearranged the marble
composition book on the pillow and walked out of the cell.

Early the next morning he got out his trick
bag, a baby blue pillowcase, and loaded it with a tube of petroleum
jelly, a roll of adhesive tape, a red rayon kimono belt, a yellow
cassette boom box, and a homemade shiv. After breakfast he went
over the plan with Donnie Blossom. “When they call work-lines, you
follow him to work,” Fat Daddy said. “After you see him walk down
Turk's Street go to the yard and hang out until he leaves work.
Then follow his ass right back to his cell. You got all that?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

“You better. Now as soon as he steps in the
cell and closes the door, you drop this bolt down through the pin
hole. I'll be on him by then.”

“Well, what if somebody comes looking for him
while-”

“Tell 'em he's using the bathroom. They can't
see through the curtain.”

“How long are you going to be?”

“As long as it takes to make him mine. Now
stop asking me all these dumb ass questions.”

Donnie was nervous and his fingernails were
bleeding to the quick. “I thought I was yours.”

“You are, bitch. I told you. I'm a
polygamist.”

“You're so bad, Fat Daddy.”

“I know it and don't you forget it.”

Five minutes later the work-line bell rang.
Fat Daddy walked down the back stairwell to B-tier and all the way
to the front of the block where he reversed directions. When he
reached Oliver's cell he went in and closed the door and pulled the
curtain. The cell was much darker than he recalled it being the day
before. The lighting was just right. He emptied his rape kit on the
bed and went to work. First, he cut a long piece of adhesive tape
from the roll and tacked it to the side of Oliver's footlocker for
quick access. Then he slid the red cord, pillowcase and yellow boom
box under the bed. He stuck the tube of Vaseline down his sock and
held on to the knife. Before he slid under the bed, he pulled the
curtain open and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.

Shifting to get comfortable under Oliver's
bed, he hit play on his yellow boom box and cued up his favorite
Marvin Gaye song. “Stubborn Kind of Fellow.” He didn't move for an
hour and thirty minutes. When he finally heard the door open, he
smiled and grew hard in the groin.

“Fat Daddy! Fat Daddy! Come on out! Come on
out!” Donnie Blossom shouted. “He's gone! Meet me upstairs!” Donnie
slammed Oliver's door and walked away.

Fat Daddy got to his feet and quickly
gathered his tools. He slung the baby blue pillowcase over his
shoulder and hurried out of the cell, cursing under his breath all
the way to the fifth tier.

Donnie was sitting on Fat Daddy's bed.

“What the hell happened?” Fat Daddy asked.
“Where'd that motherfucker go?”

“What happened was he came out of school
early and I followed him just like you told me to. When he got to
the rotunda he stopped and told this guy he was walking with that
he had a visitor. Then he showed his pass to the guard and they let
him through the gate.”

“Shit! I was ready like Freddie, man!”

“There's always tomorrow, Fat Daddy.”

“Yeah, but my dick's hard now,” Fat Daddy
said. He closed the door and pulled the curtain. “Take off your
clothes and get on the bed.”

OLIVER WAS ON HIS WAY to the yard to look for Albert.
Smoking a joint with Albert would be just the thing he needed.
Albert was going home soon and they hadn't spent much time together
since Albert had moved to the big St. Regis a couple of months ago
because the cells were larger. Oliver had requested to move, too,
but his turn hadn't come yet.

It was springtime and the three concession
stands were roaring with business. Oliver became excited by the
smell of fresh popcorn and fried onions mingling with the fragrance
of the hyacinths blooming along the fence line. As he made his way
through the throng of prisoners, he stopped to gaze first at
Early's flowerbeds that were bursting with color, then at the
pigeons pecking at the crumbs of day-old bread Early had spread out
for them on the chapel lawn. When he noticed several prisoners
heading along Tom's Way for their evening classes, he realized it
was a school night for Albert, too, and he was probably halfway
down Turk's Street by now on his way to class.

Oliver watched the hustlers moving across the
yard, announcing their inventories as they went along.

“Laker's jacket! Ten packs! Get your Laker's
jacket!”

“I've got new Reeboks with the tag still on
them! Size 12! Five packs!”

“Gold Timex! Brand new! Three packs!”

Behind the left field bleachers Melvin was
selling hooch by the Tang jar and it was going fast. Those waiting
in line knew it was good, too, because the ones who had just copped
were coming back for more. “Hey, Priddy. No school tonight,
Jim?”

Oliver waved at his co-worker. “Not tonight,
Mel.”

“You all right? You need anything?”

“I'm good, brother,” Oliver said as he passed
by.

He found Early and his crew sitting in the
bleachers on the first base side of the infield. Oyster, with his
headful of snow white hair and the bushy eyebrows that bore down on
fatigued lids, and brown eyes that worked their way through a
squint, looked down and saw Oliver before the others did.
Round-shouldered and soft looking, Oyster was the one who loved to
argue, Oliver recalled. Beside him was Peabo, the sensible one,
even though he had the face of a man who looked as if he had chosen
argument for a career: Battered like a prizefighter, complete with
scar tissue over both eyes and leather pockets that sagged under
them, he had thick stubby hands and oversized feet. His best
feature was a smile that you couldn't help but return. And then
there was Bell sitting beside Early. Bell, too, had battle scars.
One was a six-inch queue that slanted across his forehead and
through his eyebrow and looked like a piece of fishing line.
Another was in his aqua-blue eyes that were perpetually sad and
distant. Although Oliver had only been around Early's friends a few
times, he was left with the impression that Bell was always
preoccupied.

As he hopped up on the bleacher and Early saw
him, Oliver shouted, “Hey Early! Peabo! Oyster! Mr. Bell!”

Oliver tried to focus on the crisscrossed
conversation but he was distracted by a Bobby Womack song playing
on a passing radio. Early was reading the paper, and he slapped the
pages on his knee when he found the story he was looking for. “You
all remember Maurice Wiley, don't you?”

“Yeah,” said Peabo. “The guy from Homewood.
Killed his wife after he caught her doing the nasty with his dog.
What about him?”

“Well, he got off on third degree. They gave
him ten to twenty. Looks like I lost that bet. You too,
Oyster.”

Early peeked over the top of the newspaper at
Oyster who was mumbling under his breath. Early grinned and elbowed
Oliver in the ribs, then pointed to Oyster. Oliver grinned too.

“You lost too, Oyster,” Early said again.

“Like hell. I didn't bet on that man's
outcome.”

“You sure?”

“I'm damn sure. One thing I'm not is senile.
You say he got ten to twenty?”

“That's what the paper says. He got off on
account of it being a crime of passion.” Before Early could utter
another syllable, Bell went off.

“Ever heard the sound of an M-79 rocket
launcher! Do I have to draw a picture for you? We are all like
lambs in a field, disporting ourselves in the eye of the butcher
who chooses one, then another, for his prey.”