No Beast So Fierce (12 page)

“Horse just got out last month. What happened?”

“Hot burglary. There's four ex-cons in our tank, all of us drove tight.”

“Damn, baby, you're looking hard about the mug. You used to be a halfass pretty kid. You won't be able to catch yourself a man when you get back.”

Stan laughed. Prison's ubiquitous homosexual banter gave a touch of humor to his grim situation. “Shit,” he said, “I might turn jocker if I can't get a man to take care of me.”

“They say all jockers are punks lookin' for revenge.”

“Are you coppin' out?”

“Man, we're not discussing my sophisticated sexual habits.”

Laughter flashed color to his sallowness.

“How you doin' otherwise?” I asked. “How's the jail?”

“About jails, I'm Duncan Hines—and this is the shiniest fuckin' jail in the world.”

“I heard it was a motherfucker.”

“These deputies must've been trained in Auschwitz. Even without the head thumpin', the place is a nightmare. Just going to court. They roust you up at 3:30, run you down to the bullpens, and put you in chairs, six dudes to a set. Each bullpen is eight by twelve, and each one is for a different court. So if there's fifty dudes going to Pasadena or Long Beach, there's fifty men in an eight-by-twelve cage, in chains—and they leave you like that until eight or nine in the morning. If you gotta piss, you drag five dudes with you. If you don't like it, they'll rattle your head. If I wasn't facing a life sentence I'd plead guilty just to get back to the pen away from this stinkin' motherfucker.”

“You'll make it.”

“I'll make it—but goddam! I ain't been convicted yet.”

“Quit arguin' ethics. You know white folks don't care about that shit. What's your beef look like?”

“Routine supermarket heist.”

Routine heist, I thought, but with two prior convictions it meant the habitual criminal sentence. And a supermarket! So many had been robbed in the early '50s (when supermarkets became abundant) that most of them now had elaborate security.

Stan gave the details. He'd used a stolen car, and someone had taken the license number, which didn't matter except that when the police found it they also found a single fingerprint on the rear view mirror. A single print was insufficient to pick him from the FBI fingerprint file (which is classified by ten fingers), but if there is a particular suspect the single print is positive identification. Eight months later someone had whispered his name to the police. His prints on file compared with the one from the car got him arrested. In a line-up one witness was “pretty sure” it was Stan who had the gun. “Might beat it with a good mouthpiece,” he said. “But with the public defender …” He shook his head and turned a thumb down. “I can get some alibi witnesses, but with my record I can't get on the stand.”

Stan was right about public defenders. He had no hope if that was his representation. Most were callow youths, totally inexperienced, or incompetents, and even if there was a budding Clarence Darrow among them, his hands would be tied by having sixty or seventy cases. No attorney can keep track of that many cases, much less represent each one individually. All a public defender could do was go through the ritual of “so stipulated … waive reading of the information,” and try to keep the mill turning. And if most criminals' lawyers were equally incompetent, they could at least stall. From what Stan said, he wouldn't be acquitted without a miracle. But a decent lawyer might intimidate the prosecution, not to the point that Stan would win, but to the extent that he would stall for months, draw things out, jam up courtrooms, and cost money. The prosecution might well deal for a guilty plea to a lesser charge, or drop the habitual criminal complaint. What remained of Stan's life was in the balance. No wonder he'd aged. I felt sorry for him.

Woven into my compassion was disgust at Stan's incompetence. A squarejohn watching Dragnet would avoid Stan's blunders. Without a witness able to say, “That's the man,” it was virtually impossible to get a robbery conviction. Yet Stan had gone bare-faced and he'd left a fingerprint.

Abe came into the momentary silence. Stan looked at him, the grin he'd worn talking to me was now turned cold. The outstanding accusations against Abe were enough to justify coldness. “How're things going?” Stan asked.

“Pretty good. Been planning to get down to see you—find out what I could do. When I ran into Max I figured you'd like to see him too.”

Stan nodded, but he was scarcely listening. His mind had returned to viewing the gray hopelessness of his position. He sagged within himself.

“And I wanted to talk to you about Bulldog, get that business straight.”

“That's none of my business,” Stan said, again cold. “It's between you and him.”

“The 'Dog's kid brother, your brother-in-law, is trying to put weight on me. Maybe you can talk to him.”

“I haven't seen him since he was thirteen.” Stan wasn't really listening. He was hardened against Abe.

“Maybe your wife knows where to get in touch with him.”

“What!” Stan flushed. “I'm not gonna help set him up for you.” Stan's eyes burned me—accused me of being Abe's hatchet man.

“Nobody's gonna hurt him,” I said. “We just want him to lighten up. If you can help, it's to everybody's benefit, including yours.”

“How's it to my benefit?”

I raised a hand to quiet Abe. “Look, homeboy, talk to him, or have him get in touch with me. I won't cross you. But put yourself in Abe's shoes. What would you do if some gunsel was talking about blowing you up? You'd get him first. Abe's trying to be sensible.”

“What if it's true? What Bulldog says?”

“You know what. He's got it coming. But the thing is—” I purred like a used car salesman, and was ashamed of myself—“we don't know if it's true. You've been in the game long enough to know how quick dudes cry stool pigeon when somebody's fucked 'em out of some bread. I heard the story and I'm not sure. I wouldn't call 'em liars, but I wouldn't judge it on the evidence I have. You don't know anything more than I do. The kid knows less than either of us. Anyway, it's 'Dog's business. Say the kid gets hurt—or gets busted for hurting Abe. How will 'Dog feel about that? Now Abe wants to help you—get you a lip—but how can he do that when your kid brother is threatening to blow him up?” I stopped, looked into Stan's eyes and winked, and his eyes narrowed as he understood the situation.

“I guess I could have him visit me and get him to cool it. He used to listen to me. Why don't you guys come back next week?”

“What day?” Abe asked.

“Wednesday or Thursday. I won't see my old lady until Monday.”

“Are you sure you can handle him?”

“He respects me. He'll listen.”

“That's appreciated,” Abe said. “Now you need a lawyer. I'll loan you the money. You can pay me back when you get out.”

“If I get out. I'll be happy to squeeze from under the life jolt.”

“What about Allen here?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Stan started to elucidate; it was unnecessary.

“Fine lawyer,” Allen said, and nobody gave him any notice.

“Who've you got in mind?”

“Richard Barton.”

“Barton's expensive,” Abe said.

I interrupted: “If you're gonna do something, do it. Don't fake.”

Momentarily, Abe looked hostile, then nodded acquiescence.

“I talked to Barton already,” Stan said, “and the tab isn't all that heavy. Fifteen hundred, maybe less if it doesn't go to trial. He already knows I'll plead guilty to a second degree. I'm going back as a parole violator if a jury said I was Jesus on the cross. With a second degree I'll have a chance for another parole in six or seven. Barton won't fight it like a murder beef for fifteen hundred, but he'll do what he can—and I think he can make a deal. I'm just another case, nothing special.”

“Okay,” Abe said, “you can get Barton. But we can have Allen here check on the prosecution's attitude toward a deal. That won't hurt.”

Allen McArthur had mysteriously produced a note pad and silver ballpoint. “I'll call the first thing Monday,” he said. “What's your case number and what department are you in?”

Stan hesitated, then apparently decided that what he said now wasn't a commitment to Allen McArthur as his attorney. “I don't remember the case number. It's up in the tank. But I'm still in Master Calendar, Department 100. I've been getting postponements for three months on the basis that I want to get my own lawyer. Judge Keene is getting pretty shitty about it. He's about ready to jam the public defender down my throat.”

“I know the deputy district attorney assigned to that court,” Allen said. “We get along okay. If he'll deal with anyone, he'll deal with me. If not—Barton can get it transferred to another court when they set a trial date. You can dicker when you get there.”

“Maybe this'll be better,” Abe said. “Why put out fifteen hundred if we don't have to?”

I asked Stan: “Have you got any money on the books?”

“Not a sou. I keep up my candy and cigarette habit by trimming suckers playing poker. You know how that goes.”

“I'll leave fifty for you,” Abe said.

“Who's gonna let me know what happens Monday with the D.A.?”

“Max can tell you Wednesday when he comes about the other,” Abe said.

“I might be working next week,” I said, thinking of the office job.

“Well, somebody'll be here.”

“Man, not that long!” Stan said. “Put yourself in my jock strap. You'd wanna know what's being decided about your life.”

Abe paused, obviously pondering what a premature disclosure of the legal situation would do to his lever on Stan. It was playing games with misery. I spoke up: “I'll let you know Monday afternoon, in person or by telegram.”

“I doubt if the prosecution will make a definite commitment by then,” Allen McArthur said. “They'll want to check the matter first.”

“You'll know what their attitude is,” Stan said. “Send me any kind of word. Shit, send word about the weather. When they bury you in here you can't even see if it's raining outside.”

We agreed. Once the matter was decided, a chasm opened between the two sides of the table. One side was going into the city's twilight and night's myriad possibilities. I was going to the club with Abe, gulp down good Scotch, and try to pull a sweet-smelling broad into bed. Stan was going back to the jail tank where the fluorescent glare endlessly burned the eyes and where he had the choice of playing poker for nickels or reading lurid paperbacks—or he could stare at the ceiling, thinking of fifteen years served in prison with life to go.

Abe glanced at his wristwatch. “We've gotta go, Stan.” He stood up and slapped me on the shoulder. “I'll keep Max out of trouble.”

Stan wished me good luck and told me to have a drink for him. The waste and defeat of his life sorrowed me. I asked if he wanted me to call anyone.

“Everybody I know is in jail. The bitch I had blew me off in the sub-station. Just be cool.” He got up and went up the aisle toward the deputy. We went toward the exit gate. I turned to watch Stan. He paused in the door and gave me a clenched fist salute.

The electric gate buzzed, unlocked. I turned to follow Abe.

And saw Rosenthal three feet away. The parole officer was at the deputy's booth, profile toward me, jowls drooping over wilted collar. He had obviously come to visit a jailed parolee, a routine trek for parole officers. His presence was against the odds, but far from incredible.

My heart pounded. I moved right and forward, squeezed in behind Abe's bulk. His shoulder was inches from the wall. If I could ease him between myself and Rosenthal and pass around his right while he turned left …

I grabbed Abe's arm. “Cool it,” I said, moving him from the wall. Abe was startled. He stepped to the left to give me room, and bumped into Rosenthal. The parole officer reflexively turned. And we stared into each other's face. I flushed. His eyes widened slightly. The jowls changed color, first paling with blotches of red, then flaming but speckled with blotches of white. It was quite a display.

“What, pray tell, are you doing here?” he asked in too calm a voice.

My mind burned with awareness of the locked gate. I was in custody. “These men were visiting someone and I came with them,” I said. “Mr Meyers here is giving me a job. He's a bondsman. This other gentleman is an attorney.”

“So you came in rather than wait in the parking lot.” His voice had an edge of shrillness. He glared at Abe and Allen McAthur, jerked his thumb toward the latter. “I've seen you before. Are you on parole?”

“I said he was a lawyer.” The direness of the situation was spreading through my stomach.

“Here's my bar membership card,” Allen said, bringing out his ascot. He started to offer it, then pulled it back. “You'd better show me your credentials, too.”

Rosenthal colored again.

“Who is this guy?” Abe asked me.

“My parole officer.”

“Oh.”

“And who is he?” Rosenthal demanded, not to be outdone.

“He's giving me a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“In a nightclub in Hollywood.”

“Who'd you visit?”

Nobody answered. Rosenthal glared at me. Allen McArthur interrupted in his best courtroom baritone. “I came to interview a client. Mr Meyers is considering taking him out on bail. This gendeman—I don't recall his name—was with us, as it was rather warm outdoors.” Allen smiled, shrugged, and conveyed that everything was natural and above suspicion.

The deputy sheriff in the booth buzzed the lock into the attorney room. People were waiting on both sides of the gates. Rosenthal had to decide now whether or not to arrest me. “Wait outside,” he said. “I'll see you when I'm through here.”