Stephen Hunter - Dirty White Boys

“O’Dell, Lamar needs us. He sent me to get you. Come on, quick.”

“Na kiddy ust dud,” O’Dell said impassively, face slack and dull, as if he hadn't heard what Richard just said. Rich and was beginning to understand O’Dell, which had him worried:

My kitty is dead.

O’Dell held up the tiny cat, limp in his huge hands. The fur between its ears was strangely wet, as if he had been licking it.

Richard thought he'd puke. O’Dell was a squalid mountain of man-child, with the brain of a fish, and the docile demeanor of an old beagle until Lamar told him to act otherwise.

“That's too bad, O’Dell, but Lamar wants us now. It's an emergency.”

“Mergy?” asked O’Dell.

“A hurry-hurry-O’Dell,” said Richard, aping the strange language in which Lamar communicated with O’Dell.

Awareness flickered behind O’Dell's dim eyes.

“Huwwy huwwy,” he said, then made a half smile that increased momentarily the terrible gap in his skull. He tucked the cat in his shirt—Richard wanted to gag—and sped off. The masses parted to let him by. Nobody would dis O’Dell or stand against him. And in the blessed safety of his wake, Richard hurried after, feeling almost heroic.

They didn't even reach the cell but instead were intercepted by Lamar just inside the D block door.

“Okay, boys, time to go,” said Lamar.

“Lamar, I—” began the very nervous Richard.

“Now you just shut up, Richard, and be a good boy.

O’Dell, if Richard talks, you make him no-talk.”

“No-talk, Mar,” said O’Dell, love blooming in his eyes, and he turned toward Richard as if to crush his skull.

“No-talk, Wi-chud,” he said.

“No-talk,” said Richard.

They headed to the lieutenant's office, which was empty:

the lieutenant would be in the guard's lounge having a cup of coffee. Inside, a nervous old Harry Funt waited.

“Lamar, I got the forms, but I don't know if this is going to work. You boys have to put on irons and chains.”

“We'll put them on, goddamn it. Harry.”

“You're going to conk me good?”

“Real good.”

“You want to mess up the office? This'd be where you jump me.”

“You can tell ’em we did it clean. We don't got time for the office.”

“Okay, Lamar, if you say so. And you won't say nothing about my participation if it doesn't work?”

“It's gonna work. Harry. This is Lamar talking. You believe it. Harry. Now here, you take this.”

He handed over the shank, a short, evilly sharpened blade embedded in a plastic haft.

“You don't need no weapons, Lamar,” said Harry.

“You ain't going to hurt nobody, are you?”

“No sir, I am not,” said Lamar.

“But I may have to face somebody down and a goddamn shank gets a man to thinking about what it'd feel like to get cut up bad, it surely does. Now you take it, because nobody's going to throw the metal detector on you. Harry. Hurry now. We got to get moving.”

Harry took the blade with a shudder, sliding it into his hip pocket as if he didn't know what it was for.

Quickly the three prisoners put on leg irons, waist chains, and handcuffs. They were not allowed to move out of the cellblock area without the bondage—it was McAlester's oldest and strictest security arrangement.

“Now Lamar, s'pose I get asked how come I'm bringing all three you boys? Regs say only move one at a time through the choke point into the de secure zone.”

“You just wink, like you got three fish on a goddamn line. You caught three big-uns. We're gonna give something up the warden his self has got to hear. You gonna be a hero, Harry.”

“He-wo,” said O’Dell.

Now Richard was really scared.

Harry sullenly pushed his chained trio down the corridor.

“Take out your club, Harry,” said Lamar.

“It'll look more serious.”

Harry swallowed and did just that, and in a second they came across two hacks heading down to supervise lockdown.

“Harry, what the fuck is this?”

“Uh, you know. Lamar's got a beef with somebody and he wants to sing to the lieutenant. Won't talk to nobody less.”

“You wanna sing to me, Lamar?”

“Bubba, you ain't got the heat to get me no deal. I'm gonna give the warden some names, but I need protection for me and mine and only the warden has the clout.”

“Watch him, Harry. Lamar's too fucking smart to go on the snitch. He's playing some fucking angle, I swear to you.”

“Lamar's a good boy, ain't you, Lamar,” said Harry, through dry lips.

“Lamar's inmate scum, Harry, don't you put your trust in him. It'll come to grief, I swear.”

But the guards slid on down the corridor, heading to the cellblock and to their duties.

The little party reached the stairway that lead up to the cellblock exit, and Harry took out his walkie-talkie.

“Ah, Control, this is Mike-Five, ah, coming through with three inmates, the two Pye boys and their cellmate, ah—”

“Peed,” said Richard.

“Yeah, Peed,” said Harry into the thing.

“What's the dope. Harry?” the radio crackled.

“The lieutenant okay this?”

“Say he did and you can check with him,” said Lamar.

Harry swallowed again, seemed to lose half a shade of color, and then lied badly into the radio, "Yes, he did, Control. You can check. Got me a canary wants to do some singing.”

“You need an escort?”

“No, got me a pussy new boy and two soft old boys, that's all. No sweat.”

“You watch that fucking O’Dell,” said the voice.

“He's as crazy as a goddamned loon.”

“Cleared?”

“Cleared, but you gotta show paperwork.”

Harry led the three men up the catwalk. At the top, they could turn and see the whole cellblock behind them, a cube cut with cells situated inside the larger cube of the housing building, with catwalks called shooting ways strung out parallel to each level, so that the screws could watch or blast away with water, buckshot, or .223s, as it fit their purposes.

Lamar looked at it. His home. Knew every cell, every nook and cranny, every hiding place. Only place he'd ever been happy. Where he belonged, really belonged.

“Mar,” said O’Dell.

“Go home see mamma?”

“That's right, O’Dell. O’Dell go see mamma. You just do what I say, and it'll all be fine.”

O’Dell, Lamar realized, was scared. He was leaving something that he knew. He probably couldn't even remember the outside, so small and cramped was his sad little mind.

With his elbow, he gave O’Dell a little nudge of affection.

“Lamar going to take care of O’Dell, make it all right,” he said.

The main security gate at the highest level opened.

The three inmates stepped into a cocoon of professional attention. Guards flew to them, patted them down. One of them waved a Garrett Super Scanner metal detector up and down in search of the telltale hum that revealed a hidden hat ping or razor; none came. Meanwhile, another man gave Harry's paperwork the once-over.

'-"Harry, this don't look like the goddamn lieutenant's scrawl, though goddammit, the man can hardly write his own name.”

“When he drinks a bit his hand gets scratchy,” Harry said.

“Whyn't you call him for the okay?”

The moment hung in the air. Richard had some trouble breathing, but Lamar was as slick as they come.

“You damn boys are making it so hard on me I just might change my goddamned mind. Don't want to think too long 'bout what I'm set to do. Might change my tune.”

“Lamar, you have more shit in you than a goddamn outhouse,” said the guard.

“Go on. Harry, get ’em out of here.

I can't believe Lamar's turning snitch. Thought you was a tough con, Lamar.”