Дональд Уэстлейк - Help, I Am Being Held Prisoner

None did. However, the prison football team was doing calisthenics on one basketball court, dressed in sweatsuits and helmets, and two intraprison basketball squads were playing a non-league practice game on another. Giffin led me through all this activity, and I spent the time admiring the precision and persistence with which the basketball players fouled one another, tripping and kneeing, hooking fingers in waistbands, rabbit-punching wrists, and still finding time to take an occasional shot at the basket.

The supply area was where we were headed. A doorway with a shelf-top half door blocking it was the entrance, guarded by a sleepy-looking pale giant in prison denim, leaning on the shelf and poking at his teeth with what looked like a blunt needle but turned out to be the pin from a bicycle pump. His flesh was slightly pink, as though just barely sunburned, and his hair and eyebrows were so pale a yellow that they almost disappeared. Him too I had seen with that tough-guy group out on the yard.

The giant nodded at Giffin as we arrived, and pulled the half-door open to let us through. He glanced at me with lazy curiosity, and Giffin jabbed a thumb in my direction, saying, “This is a guy named Kunt. He got assigned here, believe it or not.”

The giant gave me a look of humorous disbelief. “Your name is what?” He had a thin, high voice that reminded me of Peter Corse.

“Künt,” I said. “With an umlaut.”

“He’s working here,” Giffin said, emphasizing the word as though he were saying more to the giant than the simple word would ordinarily allow.

Apparently the giant got the message. He frowned at Giffin and said, “Oh, yeah?” It seemed to me that various non-verbal statements went back and forth between the two of them, little eye movements, head shakings, shoulder shrugs. At the end of them, the giant said, “That’s gonna be a little complicated, Phil.”

“We’ll talk it over later,” Giffin said. “In the meantime, put him to work on something.”

“Right.”

Giffin gave another shrug and head-dip, conveying another message to the giant, and went away. The giant went on studying me for a few seconds, continuing to poke at his teeth, and then took the pump pin out of his mouth to say, “What was that name again?”

“Künt,” I said. “With an umlaut.”

“Koont,” he said, bless him. “Phil must of heard it wrong.”

“I guess so. My first name’s Harry.”

He stuck a big pink hand out. “I’m Jerry Bogentrodder,” he said.

“Glad to meet you,” I said, and as his big hand closed around mine I was willing to bet that no one had ever played with the possibilities of his name.

He turned from me, looking speculatively back into the supply area, a maze of bins, shelves, aisles and storerooms. “Let’s see,” he said. “The football uniforms just come back from the laundry, you could sort them out.”

“Certainly,” I said, demonstrating eagerness to please.

He led the way back past bins of basketballs, shelves of bowling shoes, racks of baseball bats, rooms piled with stacks of bases, hoops, pucks, pins, pads, helmets, sticks, flags, ponchos and cans of white paint, to a small gray concrete room furnished with a large library table, several wooden chairs and a white canvas laundry cart. As with every other room in this area it was windowless, lit by fluorescent ceiling lights. In a way it was much more cell-like than my actual cell, which was furnished with two single Hollywood beds, two small dressers and two wooden chairs, and which had a nice view of the main yard through the iron mesh covering its window.

Jerry Bogentrodder pointed at the laundry cart. “You sort everything by number,” he said. “Fold them all, stack them up nice. When you’re done, come on up front again.”

“Fine,” I said.

He went away, and I went to work.

All football players have numbers, of course, but here at Stonevelt the inmates already had numbers in their roles as prisoners, so the same numbers were carried over to their football function. It was a bit strange to pick up a football jersey and see 7358648 emblazoned across the chest and again across the back. The pants had the number once, across the ass. On the jock it was printed on the waistband, and on each sock it formed a kind of design around the top.

This was a job not unlike the license plate factory, and also involving numbers. The time passed pleasantly enough as I folded and sorted and stacked, and it must have been an hour or more later when a short, skinny, shifty, weasel-eyed fellow in prison denim went by the doorway, paused to look in at me with quick suspicion, and then hurried on. I thought nothing of it, went on working with the laundry, tying an occasional sock in a knot, and five minutes later another one appeared.

This one, however, didn’t just walk on by. He saw me, stopped, frowned, looked down the corridor toward the front of the supply area, looked at me, looked back the way he’d come, looked at me again, stepped into the doorway, and said, “Just who the fuck are you?”

“I work here,” I said.

He didn’t like that at all. “Since when?” he said. He was medium height, stocky, with heavy features and black hair and an aggressive manner. The backs of his hands were covered with rocklike bumps and black fur.

I said, “I just started today.”

“Oh, yeah? Does Phil Giffin know about this?”

“He’s the one who brought me here,” I said.

He gave me a sharp, piercing look. “You sure of that?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. He was a prisoner like me, so there was no reason to say ‘sir’ to him, but something about his manner called forth a respectful response.

With the same sharp piercing look he said, “What’s your name, Jack?”

“Künt,” I said. “With an umlaut.”

“We’ll see about this,” he said, gave me a punching kind of nod as though to say I could consider myself dealt with, and marched away.

That was curious. I sorted and folded and stacked, and thought about things, and the more I thought the more it seemed to me something was going on.

An illicit poker game? That could be it, that would explain why the people in this section of the prison were so jealous of their area, so suspicious of strangers.

Could they have smuggled a woman in somehow? I could suddenly see her, spending her days and nights in a room full of duffel bags, living on food stolen from the mess hall, servicing a select clientele beneath the fluorescent lights. The sports section; yes, indeed.

No. A poker game was likelier, that or something else along the same lines.

All at once I wanted to know. I put down 4263511’s jock, walked over to the doorway, leaned out, and looked up and down the corridor in both directions. Nobody in sight. To my left, the corridor led past several storerooms and locker rooms and a large communal shower to the main area of shelves and bins, and past that to the exit. To my right, the corridor ran perhaps ten feet, and stopped at a closed door.

That’s where they had come from, the two men I’d seen. With another look over my shoulder toward the front, I moved cautiously on the balls of my feet to that door. An ordinary metal door, painted naval gray, with an ordinary brass knob. I pressed my ear to the cold metal, listened, heard nothing, looked back again, and very hesitantly reached out to touch the knob.

The door opened outward. I pulled it toward me an inch at a time, constantly listening ahead and looking back. My heart was thumping so heavily I could feel it in my wrists. I seemed to be blinking without letup.

With the door halfway open, I peeked around it, and saw nothing but the dark green backs of a row of metal stand-up lockers. Seven feet high, they formed a barrier wall that made it impossible to see anything else about the room.