Gregg Hurwitz: The Tower

In the drawing, an enormous clown loomed over the horizon of what appeared to be a medieval castle on a hill. The clown had dismantled one of the castle's towers and held it menacingly in its spidery fingers. Its long fingernails were wrapped around the tower, and a small maiden, hanging from a window, shrieked for help. The clown had a large, painted grin on its face. Its expression was that of a fat child about to indulge in an ice cream cone. The artwork was spectacular; the intricate details betrayed the labored minutes Allander had spent hovering over the paper.

"No," he replied.

Spade drew air in loudly through his teeth. "Clowns to the left of me, rapists to my right, here I am, stuck in the Tower with ya'll." He laughed. "Tell me, my child, why are you too good to talk to the rest of us murderers and molesters?"

Allander did not reply.

"I know your story. We all know your story. You're probably the most famous one in here. All the attention you got in court because of your-what'd the judge call it? — 'environmental conditioning'?" He sounded out the syllables of "environmental," making it sound like en-vi-ron-mental.

"But you proved them wrong, didn't you, child? When you look inside, you know, you know like we all know. You know that even if you missed your childhood"-he paused, searching for the right word-"honeymoon, you know you'd still be a twisted, sick motherfucker. Now don't you?"

"How should I presume?" Allander chuckled softly, as if to himself, running his hands through his hair. He lifted his head, and for the first time, Spade caught a glimpse of what was behind his eyes. It made even him draw back, ever so slightly.

Allander continued quietly, but his voice warbled as if under great strain. "You think you can measure the range, the depth of my sickness?" He shook his head slightly. "I don't think you want to walk that landscape." His eyes darted back and forth, flashing over Spade's face, trying to gain entrance to his mind. He pried at it through Spade's eyes, his nose, his mouth.

"You wish what? You wish to explore the common bonds we share as outsiders in our society?" He waved an arm in the air for emphasis, his voice drenched in sarcasm. "Well, then, that much we have in common. Hooray for your insightfulness. But I'm afraid that's where our similarities end. You're a beast who beats the walls of its prison, but what would you do if you were free? What heights, pray tell, are you just waiting to scale?" Allander shook his head, making sounds of disappointment deep in his throat. "I must confess, darling, I find you a bit tiresome."

Spade's upper lip withdrew disdainfully from his teeth, and he scowled as his fury bubbled to the surface. "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? WHO THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING TO?"

Allander remained completely still. "Evidently not."

Spade inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling like a mountain in an earthquake. "I owned faggots like you on the outside. In the slammer, I bent men twice your size over the bathroom sink and fucked them. Because you're protected from me by this"-he motioned to the bars around him-"you think you can step up to me. You know, you know better."

Allander paused and gestured with his eyes, indicating the space above Spade's head. "I'm afraid I don't have Jonsten's delicate temperament." He thrilled at the "I," as if arriving at it after a long and tedious journey. "And, forgive me if I'm incorrect, but it seems that you can't touch me in here, not even through a ceiling, which makes those muscles of yours about as useless as your sluggish brain."

Allander let his last comment sink in before continuing. He spoke clearly and firmly, pausing dramatically between each word. "I can and will talk to you however I want, whenever I want. Remember, we're.. locked in." He moaned the last words, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his fingers in mock horror.

He laughed once, sharply. "You pose no threat to me standing safely under lock and key across the way." He crossed to the front of his cell and slid his arm slowly through the bars in Spade's direction. "At arm's length, if you will."

Spade exploded in rage, his magnificent roars shaking the Tower. Backing up, he threw his full weight against the unit door, banging the bars with his shoulder. He continued to hurl himself against the steel bars, reaching through and straining to reach Allander's extended hand.

Acknowledging at last the futility of his efforts, Spade overturned his bed, hurling it against the wall with one arm. He sank angrily to his haunches, glaring across the Hole at Allander.

"Keep it the fuck down down there!" one of the guards shouted into the Hole.

"Yeah, you shut the fuck up, nigger," Cyprus added from below.

Spade threw water from the toilet over his head, then sat on the cell floor as his breathing slowed to normal. There was a long silence.

"Perhaps you would have had more luck had you used your head as a battering ram." Allander smiled, then walked to his bed and peeled the blanket back neatly. "Now, if you could please restrain your impotent rage…" He motioned majestically around his unit and climbed into bed. Rolling over, he turned his back to Spade.

Spade's hands clenched and unclenched in the darkness. After several hours, to make himself feel better, he loosened his pants and pissed on Cyprus again.

The guards patrolled the top of the Tower, circling endlessly with their guns and cigarettes. Tom Hackett was Maingate's senior guard; he'd been selected because of his CIA training, and his experience in transporting and subduing prisoners. There are two types of enforcers-those who catch people, and those who keep and control them. Hackett was definitely one of the latter. When the Tower had first gone up, there were few who didn't suspect he would be called in to run security.

Toughness was written in every line on Hackett's face. The ruddy, tan skin of his cheeks drooped into jowls. Along with his pug nose, they gave him the appearance of a kind, but disgruntled bulldog.

The two guards talked as they circled, sometimes shouting above the roar of the waves, and bits and pieces of their conversation wafted down to the inmates.

Justin Greener pulled out a cigarette. "Got a light?" he asked.

"Of course," Hackett said, reaching for the toolbox. He removed a small cup of yogurt and placed it on the deck, then dug through a pile of tools to find the matches.

"You eat that shit?" Greener asked, pointing to the yogurt and trying not to smile.

Hackett stood up, straightening his green slicker indignantly. "Wait till you get a few more years on you and your doctor starts riding you like a bronco, we'll see what you're eating." He lit a match off his thumbnail and held it out unceremoniously.

Greener surveyed the darkening clouds as he cupped his hands around the small flame. "Looks like rain," he said, the cigarette jiggling slightly with his words.

"I told you. Better grab your jacket."

Greener crossed over to the small guard station and took a tightly rolled slicker from the wall. The jacket was packed into itself and tied with a cord; he flipped it once in the air casually and caught it.

"That new kid's a sick bastard," he said as he walked back to Hackett, the end of his cigarette glowing in the dusk.

"They all are," Hackett replied.

"No, I mean he's really psycho. He's calm as shit, all the time. I guess over at Maingate all he did was read all day and draw pictures."

"And kill five people in his two-year vacation over there. That's why we get him."

"What'd he kill, the shrink and some nurses?" Greener tapped the roll of the slicker against his thigh as he leaned back against the railing.

"No. Try his lawyer, two inmates, and two guards."