Philipp Meyer - American Rust

He heard Tucker say, “You're wakin me up when you do that. Once you're up there you need to stay there for the night.”

“You woke me up jerkin off and now you're telling me when I can piss.”

“That's right,” said Tucker. “I ain't gonna tell you again, neither.”

“You can talk all you want,” said Poe. “I don't give a fuck what you say.”

He was about to get back into his bunk when he heard Tucker's weight shift, he swung hard and hit Tucker in the face just as he was standing up, Tucker fell back to his bunk but then seemed to rebound off it, he was on top of Poe, he was very fast. They throttled around like that, they were rolling around in the tiny space between the wall and the bunkbeds, grunting, it was a slow fight it was a wrestle for leverage, to get a chokehold, only Poe was much stronger. He got a few hits in and soon enough he had Tucker's head in both hands and was knocking it against the floor.

Then he realized that Tucker had stopped hitting back and that the lights had come on. The guards were already outside the cage. He put his hands up but they peppersprayed him anyway and cracked him in the back and legs with their batons, it wasn't like getting hit with a fist, he could feel the damage it was doing. He covered up and finally they stopped hitting, he couldn't see a thing, his eyes were burning, he was shouting for water. He let himself be cuffed and lifted to his feet, he was dragged down the tier, the inmates were all shouting things, everyone was awake and watching, he was blind, he was choking and crying, wet everywhere, he couldn't tell if it was water or spit or tears or blood. He stumbled into someone, a guard, they thought he was trying to break loose and they were hitting him again, he went down. Then they were dragging him again, it must have been a lot of them. They dragged him down a flight of stairs, he pulled his head up so it wouldn't hit the cement, they threw a bucket of water into his face, his eyes felt better, they hoisted him up and bent him over something, this is where it comes, he thought, this is where they take that from you. But then there was more water on his face, a hose, they were squirting it right into his eyes. It was just a sink. They were washing his face. He was taken to another part of the prison, it was the basement, he was in a cell the same size as his old one only there was one bunk. He was on his back on the thin mattress, feeling the relief of his eyes not burning anymore.

Poe could hear that one of the guards was still there. He heard the guard light a cigarette and he smelled it.

“You got any money,” he said.

“No,” Poe said. His nose was still running profusely from the pepper-spray and he had to sit up to blow it on the floor.

“Must have someone you can call.”

“Not really.”

“Well,” said the guard. He looked thoughtful. He offered Poe the remainder of the cigarette and Poe got up from his bed to take it.

“For reasons you may or may not know,” said the guard, “we're all glad to see that particular white nigger get beat. But that was real dumb on your part. They ain't gonna let you walk away from that.”

Of course he wanted to see Grace tonight but Even Keel knew it was better to wait. Take things a little easy. He was halfway to the compound when the idea of being home all night with the dog seemed more lonely than he could handle. He pulled over and went through his cellphone and found Riley Coyle's number.

“I'm out with the regular crowd of pricks,” said Riley. “If you want to meet us at the Dead End.”

Harris went home and changed out of his uniform and headed back toward town. Of course half the reason, no, not half, maybe slightly less, twenty percent, was that if he had a few drinks he would call Grace. And she would answer, and then …

The Dead End was one of the few bars that had remained open the entire time since the mill had closed, and the joke was it hadn't been cleaned since before the mill had opened. It was a long wood- paneled room, dim and comfortable, with a view from the back deck over the water. Riley, Chester, and Frank had worked at the mill before it closed. Eventually Frank had gotten rehired at U.S. Steel in Irvin, Riley had opened a small machine shop, and Chester had gotten an MBA. He now ran with a slightly different crowd, consulting work for drug companies. When Harris got to the bar, all three of them were sitting at a table, flirting with the owner's wife.

“Boys.”

“Mr. Johnny Law,” said Riley He turned to the owner's wife, a pretty brunette about Grace's age. She'd stiffened noticeably since Harris's arrival. “He says he's thirsty.”

“I'm fine,” said Harris.

“He's thirsty,” Riley insisted. The woman smiled at Harris and went back to the bar. It was hard to believe she was married to Fat Stan, the owner. Pickins in the Valley must be slim. Obviously, he thought. Look at you. A woman like Grace … He decided to sit down.

“How's everyone?”

“Doing great,” said Frank. “Best day of my life.”

“Frankie just got a new toy,” said Chester. “Would have driven it here if the wife let him.”

“You finally get that ’Vette?”

“Nah,” said Frank. “It's just a four- wheeler. But a 660 Yamaha, four-wheel drive, automatic, snowplow, winch, the works. Cart that hooks up behind it.”

“Probably cost more than your truck,” Riley added.

“There's skateboards that cost more than my truck,” said Harris. He nodded to Frank. “Company looking after you?”

“Yep. Got us on this profit- sharing plan, stock's up a hundred percent. We just hired Benny Garnic's son, matter of fact.”

“I thought he was a computer programmer.”

“Shipped his job to India,” said Riley. “Kid goes to school so he wouldn't get laid off like his dad did, but then …”

Harris shook his head.

“It does make you feel better about things,” said Frank, “in a purely cynical way. Those kinds of people didn't have much sympathy for us twenty years ago, I can remember it was asshole after asshole going on TV and saying it was our faults not going to college.”

“Benny Garnic's son probably doesn't feel better.”

“I got him started at nineteen- sixty an hour,” said Frank. “He won't lose his house the way we all did.”

The owner's wife reappeared with a tray of drinks. “These are from Fat Stan. On the house.” From the other side of the bar, Fat Stan waved and Harris waved back. Fat Stan's wife set a glass of beer and a shot of whiskey in front of each of them but only glanced briefly at Harris. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff.”

“I'm just a policeman,” said Harris. “And I'm off the clock.”

“Well, nice to meet you anyway.” She smiled but then walked away quickly.

“Mista Sheriff,” said Riley “you're not going to use those handcuffs on me, are you? I been so bad …”

Harris looked into his whiskey and tried to remember. Had he ever arrested her? It could have been a brother or something. Or her father, or her boyfriend, really, it could have been anything. Some people were just nervous around cops.

“Careful if you drink that. Fat boy over there probably needs help collecting money.”

“Or he's got a growroom in the basement.”

Harris sipped the drink. “Least he knows I don't come cheap.”

“Quality costs.”

“Tell by his wife.”

“Word is she came mail- order.”

“No. Serious?” The woman was dark- haired but Harris hadn't noticed an accent. She might have been eastern European, but so was half the Valley.

Riley burst out laughing.

“She's from goddamn Uniontown,” Chester said, “she used to dance at that place he had over there.”