David Corbett - The Devil’s Redhead

Reaching the gate, the guard murmured, “Watch yourself, now,” through clenched teeth. Abatangelo thanked him, lowered his head and stepped through the opening. The guard locked the gate behind him, spun around and hustled back up the walkway to the warmth of the prison.

Abatangelo headed down the long walkway for the parking lot, carrying a brown paper sack filled with the few belongings he’d decided to bring with him.

First and foremost was the old Bell & Howell 35 mm SLR the prison chaplain had given him, fitted with a Canon lens. Abatangelo had used the camera working on the prison newsletter, taking portraits of the men up for parole hearings, or the recent high school graduates he’d tutored for the GED. It had felt good, felt right, having a camera in his hands again.

As for books, he’d donated his to the prison library; only a handful were coming with him: Kierkegaard’s Works of Love , and five collections of photographs: one by Ben Shahn from the Depression; one by Henri Cartier-Bresson; two by Susan Meiselas, one titled Carnival Strippers , the other Nicaragua ; and the last by James Nachtwey, Deeds of War . Six books, one philosopher, four photographers: his heroes, his hope.

There were letters in the sack, too, though not many, a sort of greatest hits collection. Only Eddy Igo had kept up the pace beginning to end. Shel had written at least once a week for the first five years, then it tapered off a little for the next two. Abatangelo had detected an encroaching depression in what she’d written. He’d urged her to see a doctor. Then, at year seven, the letters stopped.

After that, he had his own bouts of depression to deal with. The sickness unto death, Kierkegaard called it. Overall, he supposed he’d been lucky to have the newsletter to work on, the young mutts to tutor, the chaplain to argue with. Funny what passed for luck inside a prison.

Then, two weeks ago, a letter appeared. For the first time in three years she’d written. The sight of her handwriting, it felt like mercy. He’d read and reread the letter over and over- it was so worn from handling, he’d taped the creases so it wouldn’t come apart in his hands. This letter did not get carried in the sack. It remained in its original envelope, tucked inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He felt the pressure of it against his chest, just over his heart.

Reaching the edge of the parking lot, he spotted the man with whom he’d made arrangements for transport to Tucson. Leaning against a mud-caked Checker, the man had long black hair combed straight back, revealing a dark, pockmarked face and an oft-broken nose. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. Abatangelo stepped forward and said, “Man of the hour.”

The driver smiled through his cigarette smoke and opened the cab door. Abatangelo ducked inside. The interior reeked of tobacco and hair oil, the heater blasted foul hot air. A necklace fashioned of wolves’ teeth and hawk feathers hung from the rearview mirror.

The driver put the cab in gear and circled away from the prison. Reaching his hand across the front seat, he said, “Got your kickout?”

Abatangelo reached into his pant pocket, withdrew his federal release check and asked for a pen. He endorsed the check and slipped it into the waiting hand. “Thank you,” he said.

The driver pocketed the check then handed back a plain white envelope. Inside, Abatangelo found a budget fare one-way air ticket from Tucson to San Francisco, plus cash.

“You’re an honest man,” he said after counting the money.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Abatangelo met the man’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Nothing,” he said, pocketing the envelope. “It’s all here, I’ll need it. Thanks.”

The driver coughed and shook his head. “How far you think that mouth will get you?”

Not free ten minutes, Abatangelo thought. Already this. “Look,” he said, “it was a poor choice of words, I admit. If it’ll help, I apologize.”

The driver tapped his temple with his forefinger. “The prison’s up here, my man. You ain’t out till you’re out up here.”

They drove in silence to the federal highway junction, then south between Coronado Forest and the Peloncillos. The oncoming storm struck in time over Greasewood Mountain to the west, and with typical desert swiftness surged overhead within minutes, showering the highway with hail and rain before journeying east, accompanied by a ghostly wind. Abatangelo rolled down the window, put his face in the storm like a little kid. The worst of it passed as suddenly as it had come. In the ensuing calm he asked if they could pull over.

“Don’t tell me you gotta pee.”

“This won’t take long,” Abatangelo assured him.

The driver sighed and slowed the car onto the berm. Abatangelo opened the door, collected the 35 mm and got out. Hiking his collar about his neck, he crossed the wet slick highway at a trot. Twenty yards beyond the asphalt he stopped, lowered his collar and idly chafed his hands. He studied the desert plain, stubbled by frost-blackened cacti and easing into low chaparral. Mt. Rayburne stood in the distance, snowcapped and shrouded in a filmy haze. To the south, the Dos Cabezas Mountains lay misted in faraway rain. The desert floor wallowed in storm shadow, with tails of sand kicked up by crosswinds.

The mere fact the view spread wide before him, unbroken by walls, free of razor wire, it shuddered up a profound relief and he found himself taking slow, smiling breaths. Lifting the Bell & Howell to his eye, he set the focus on infinity and snapped three frames, to remind himself forever of this moment. Turning left and right, he shot the rest of the roll impulsively, focusing on anything and everything that loomed suddenly before him, letting it clarify in the hot spot, triggering the shutter. Lowering the camera finally, he took a long, deep breath of the rain-tinged air, then capped his lens and turned back toward the highway.

Once he was back inside the cab, the driver turned around. The man’s eyes were a vivid blue, deep set in a way that enhanced the pockmarks on his cheeks.

“Listen,” he said, “I came on a little rough back there. You know, it’s just… not every guy I pick up at that place has a brain in his head.”

“It’s not a problem,” Abatangelo said, putting the camera away. He turned to peer out across the desert again.

“I’m not a young man anymore,” the driver said.

“Me neither.”

The driver took a moment to study him. “You been in what? Time, I mean.”

“A hard ten.”

The man whistled. “Well, now.” He regarded Abatangelo a bit more mindfully. “That’s a heavy beef. What they tag you for?”

“Pot,” Abatangelo said. Sensing this explained too little, he added, “We brought it in from Thailand.”

The driver put the cab in gear. “Bring it in from the moon for all I care.” He checked his mirror and eased back onto the highway. “What happened, you take the fall so your crew could skate?”

Smart man, Abatangelo thought. “Nobody got to skate,” he advised.

Shel and the others had served three and a half in exchange for his ten. It was his choice. His plea. The feds jumped at the chance to claim they’d taken down the main man. Their case had developed evidence problems, they’d gotten arrogant and sloppy. Not so sloppy they’d lose, but bad enough Abatangelo’s offer sounded like a bargain. Their snitch- neither the odious private investigator Blatt nor the wanna-be biker Chaney, as it turned out, but one of the Beaverton pillheads- was working a second grand jury out of Portland. The agents tried to hide that fact, and got caught in the snare of their own lies. It was fun to watch them squirm on the stand. Pity it provided no more leverage than it had.