Felony Tank Page 3

  “Go ahead. I’ve got more.”

  “No, I don’t smoke. Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re lucky,” Carl remarked. “Smokes are damn scarce in here.” He lit the cigarette himself, snapping the match at the can. “Unless you got money. You got any money?”

  “Sure,” Doug lied. He didn’t trust Carl, and he wasn’t going to show him any weakness.

  “That’s good,” Carl approved, but he didn’t look very happy. He made a sucking sound, cleaning his teeth with his tongue.

  An electric babble of Spanish sounded in the tank. Even though he couldn’t understand a word of the language, Doug knew something serious was happening. Carl padded out, still barefooted, and Doug followed him.

  A man was backing towards them and a young Mexican with a smooth face was stalking him, crouched over, holding a jagged piece of metal, slowly twisting it as he moved forward.

  It was a cup, Doug realized with an unpleasant shock, a cup that had been bent and smashed until it had split open forming a primitive knife.

  The man on the defensive turned a little and Doug saw that he was an older Mexican with a thin, ragged beard.

  “Te rajastes,” the young Mexican said, shaking the cup at the older man’s face. The young Mexican’s face was completely blank and his eyes were half closed.

  A tall man in an undershirt stepped out and put his hand on the young Mexican’s arm. He started to say something but the boy whirled and slashed at him before he could get his mouth open. He jumped back, staring at the red line across the back of his hand as if he couldn’t believe it was there. He didn’t move again.

  Doug watched the older Mexican, wondering if he would fight, but Doug could smell his fear and that bothered him. He was a man. He should fight, but Doug sensed he wasn’t going to.

  The man inched back, watching the cup. He bumped against one of the tables. Apparently it unnerved him when he found his retreat cut off, because he turned away and backed up against the bars. Realizing he was trapped, he held his hands out, fingers spread.

  “No lo hice aldrede, Armando, me maderiaron.” His face was yellowish and his eyes moved up and down with the cup.

  “¡Hijo de puta!” the young Mexican swore softly. “Aldrede o no….” He stepped in and brought the cup up in a swift arc.

  “Por Diosito,” the older Mexican begged, and turning, he tried to climb the bars.

  The cup caught him on the edge of the jaw and tore up into his cheek. He began to fall off the bars and the backhand slash that followed tore across his forehead, grating against the bone. “¡Madre!” He screamed and dropped to the floor, with his arms covering his head.

  The young Mexican jumped in and kicked him twice, deliberately aiming for the groin. Then he stood back and said, “Por mi hermano,” and walked quickly away. The crowd moved aside for him.

  The tank was full of men who had rushed out to watch, shocked into silence by the swiftness and violence of the attack. Now they turned away in a rising sound of comment. No one went near the man on the floor.

  Doug relaxed his hands. He’d had them clenched so tightly they ached. His palms were sweaty and he wiped them on his pants. The man on the floor began to make a bubbling noise.

  “Shouldn’t we help him?” Doug asked Carl.

  “Do your own time,” Carl told him shortly.

  Carl went back to his bunk and started putting on his socks, but Doug paused in the cell door looking back. He still felt he should try to do something, but he couldn’t walk through the circle of silence around the wounded Mexican.

  As Doug watched, the man lifted his head and stared at the blood on his hands. It seemed to horrify him. He made a hollow gulping sound. He got up and shuffled to the door at the end of the tank and rattled it, calling in English, “Doctor! Doctor!”

  The tank was suddenly empty and the men were quiet in their cells. Doug climbed into his bunk and turned to the wall. Wrapping his arms around his head, he tried to control his trembling.

  He heard Billy above him. “What’s all the racket?”

  “Someone got cut,” Carl said. He was stomping his heel down into a cowboy boot.

  “Who?”

  “Some wetback. Your little buddy Armando cut him.”

  “You mean Agnes’s buddy.” Billy’s voice grew cautious, and he added quietly, “He ain’t no buddy of mine.”

  The yelling and the rattling went on, and Billy jumped down from his bunk and sat on the can. “I wish they’d get him out of here so he’d stop that goddam banging. That Agnes could sleep through anything. Look at him.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Carl replied dryly. He pulled a battered magazine from under his mattress and settled down with it, ignoring Billy. There was a slamming noise, followed by shuffling. Then it was quiet.

  Billy said, “I bet those bulls tear this tank apart.”

  Carl grunted and said, “Not for a wetback.”

  After awhile Billy asked, “What they got you for?”

  It was a moment before Doug realized Billy was talking to him. He rolled over, surprised.

  “They caught me in a store.”

  “Yeah? What were you doing in there?”

  Carl broke in, “Buying a posey.”

  “Shit,” Billy said. “You act like we was all here for a bank robbery.”

  “I don’t care if you’re here for carrying a concealed sandwich. What’s the sense of talking about it?”

  Billy put on his pants and wandered out into the tank. Doug tapped his foot against the wall and wished that he’d never come anywhere near Ardilla. Time passed, and he thought about the same things over and over again. He began to wonder what was going to happen to him, but he didn’t want to think about that. He pulled his watch out of his pocket, holding it cupped in his hand. It surprised him that it was after ten already. Turned to the wall he began to wind the watch. Something made him look up, and he saw Billy watching him through the bars. When their eyes met Billy turned and entered the cell. Doug heard him climbing into his own bunk.

  Carl sat up and took a flat box from under his mattress. Doug saw that there was candy in it, and realized how hungry he was. Carl threw him a bar.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t eat candy.”

  It was an Oh Henry bar. Doug could feel it through the stiff wrapper.

  “Go on, eat it,” Carl urged him. He said it almost harshly, but he had a funny, tentative look on his face. There was something young and uncertain within the creased red skin, and Doug saw that Carl probably wasn’t as old as he seemed, maybe only in his forties.

  Billy’s head appeared over the edge of the bunk. He looked at the candy and grinned. “Better be careful of this old man. I never thought I’d see him throwing candy bars around.”

  “I ain’t throwing it around,” Carl said suddenly. He turned away and picked up his magazine. Doug knew the joke Billy was trying to make, and he didn’t like it, but he didn’t say anything. He ate the candy and threw the wrapper in the toilet.

  Sitting on the end of his bunk, he looked out one of the windows. He could see the roof of a building and part of a sign. The sky was as empty as a blue wall.

  He kept thinking about Agnes, wondering when he was going to wake up. He was afraid that whatever happened he wouldn’t handle himself well. He didn’t think he wanted to be tough, or important, or anything like that. He just wanted people to know he was all right.

  “Severson.” A loudspeaker was blasting.

  He heard it twice before he realized it was his name. Turning to Carl, he asked, “What’s that?”

  “Probably questioning,” Carl told him.

  Carl didn’t look up from his magazine, so Doug quickly hid his watch under his mattress.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They took him into a small room. It was empty except for a table and three chairs. The table had a scarred linoleum top and the walls were the color of custard.

  Through a barred window Doug saw the top of a palm tree.

  The smaller plainclothesman threw a folder on the table. He gave Doug a brief sizing-up, as if he were measuring a job. Then he smiled and indicated one of the chairs. “This is Bailey Johnson, and I’m Bob Terrel. There’s a few things we want to find out.”

  They both wore hats. Terrel was a bland, quiet-speaking man, dressed like a cop would dress in Portland or Sacramento. Bailey Johnson was something else. He wore green whipcord pants held by a three-inch black belt. The belt was fastened with a large silver buckle, elaborately mounted with turquoise and abalone. His tie clasp was a replica of a handgun, and his hatband was woven of rawhide. His face was bent on the awkward bones of his skull, and in the taut hollows below the ridge of his cheeks, the flesh was pitted with old acne scars. His eyes were indifferent.

  He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. His hands were large, the knuckles swollen. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

  After one look at Bailey Johnson, Doug kept his eyes on Terrel.

  Terrel sat down across from him and pushed his hat back with the heel of his palm. His hair was curly and it dropped over his forehead. With his brown eyes it made him look like he might be part Italian or maybe Spanish. “It doesn’t look like you’re from around here,” he said.

  It was a statement, but Doug answered, “Yes, sir.” His voice sounded low and meek. He heard Johnson moving around behind him. Then he heard him speak.

  “Just dropped in to do a little stealing?”

  Johnson sounded mad. Doug didn’t answer. There wasn’t any right answer.

  Terrel took a square tan card out of the folder. He read, tapping the card gently with his index finger. He nodded as if he agreed with what was on the card.

  Doug was uncomfortably aware of the other cop behind him. H
is nose must have been obstructed in some way because Doug could hear him breathing.

  Terrel looked up. “You say you’re from Sacramento, California? What’re you doing down here?”

  “Just looking around.”

  “Looking for work?”

  Doug heard a snort behind him. He flinched.

  “How long you been in town?” Terrel asked.

  “I just got here last night—”

  “Bullshit!”

  That was Johnson. Doug felt his face growing hot.

  Terrel snapped the card in his hands and tossed it on the table. “We had a report on you a week ago. Prowling. A young kid. Red plaid jacket, white shoes. It seems to fit.”

  “It fits all right,” Johnson said from behind him.

  Doug was bewildered. He was ready to admit breaking into the feed store. What difference did it make whether he admitted it? They’d caught him at it. He couldn’t understand what they were getting at.

  “Look,” he began anxiously, “I came on the bus from Phoenix. Last night. I—”

  A stunning pain caught him behind his ears. Not a blow, just a steady pressure. His mouth was open and he was aware that he was trying to make some kind of a noise, but he couldn’t hear anything.

  Then it stopped suddenly, and he was all right.

  Terrel looked grave. “Don’t do that, Bailey,” he said mildly. “He doesn’t mean to lie.”

  “There was a cop!” The words jumped out of his mouth. “Right by the depot. He saw me get off the bus. Honest. You can ask him.”

  “We happen to know better,” Bailey said.

  “But he saw me,” Doug insisted, turning to look up at the cop behind him. He saw the big hand, and then his head was wrenched to the front. The pain seemed to last longer. When it was over he was bitterly surprised to find his eyes wet.

  “That’s enough of that,” Terrel said sharply. “Can’t you see he’s just a kid? Let me try and talk to him.”

  Johnson made a disgusted noise, but he moved around and took the third chair. He stretched out, crossing his ankles, and started rolling a Bull Durham cigarette. “I don’t know why you want to baby these little snakes.”

  “Cigarette?”

  Terrel was offering him a red pack. “No... thanks.”

  “How old are you really?”

  That was his out. But he couldn’t take it. “Eighteen,” he said as firmly as he could.

  Terrel lit up. He started to talk quietly, gesturing with his cigarette.

  “We know you’ve been in town for at least a week, so let’s just pass that for awhile. OK? Now, here’s what you look like to us. We know you didn’t start pulling burglaries last night. You knew what you were doing. You almost had the cash drawer pried open—pretty good job too.”

  Terrel smiled at that, showing he wasn’t stuffy, that it was all open between them like friends talking about something that wasn’t very important, but Doug was too confused to respond. He heard a clicking noise and jerked to the side.

  Johnson was using a Zippo lighter on his brown-paper cigarette. In his hand the lighter seemed half size. He snapped it shut and looked up, blowing smoke through his nose.

  Terrel went on explaining earnestly, and Doug began to understand. They wanted him to admit some other jobs, things that had happened before he came to town. Terrel described the jobs briefly, told him they knew they were his work, but that it didn’t matter to them as long as he helped clean them up, and what difference did it make to him since he was already caught?

  That was right. What difference did it make? They could only send him to prison once. It all seemed very logical, but he didn’t like it. He stole, sure, but he wasn’t that kind of a thief, breaking into places night after night. That there was difference seemed obvious to him.

  Terrel paused and leaned across the table. “You understand? It isn’t going to make any difference in the way the judge handles you, because we won’t even file these as charges. All we want to do is clear our books. OK?”

  Doug couldn’t say yes or no. He avoided Terrel’s eyes.

  “You want to tell us about them?” Terrel persisted.

  Johnson walked behind him, and Doug felt his shoulders lifting to protect his neck, but Johnson only went to the window, opened it, and snapped his cigarette butt out. The distant sound of cars came into the room, and down in the street someone was laughing. The laugh seemed incredible.

  Terrel opened the folder and pulled out a sheaf of closely typed forms. “Maybe this will help you remember. What about a garage over on One-sixty Ajo Street? You made entry through a back window the same as you did last night.”

  “I don’t even know where that is.”

  “I’m damned if I know why you’re fooling around with this punk,” Johnson said.

  But Terrel went on patiently: “You could have been over there without knowing where you were, couldn’t you? The safe was tampered with, but it was too much for you so you broke open the cigarette machine. Remember?”

  Doug tried not to answer, but then he heard Johnson close the window, and the silence began pushing him. He started to rub his hands together, harder and harder. He had to say something and he was afraid to say no.

  “Maybe—”

  Terrel smiled. “That’s better.”

  After that it was like he was helping Terrel prove something to Johnson, like they were both against the big bastard. In rapid succession he copped out to three more jobs.

  The last job he admitted was a house burglary. A ring had been stolen. Some other things too, but the ring was important to the houseowner. It was a gift to his wife and he’d made a big point of it during the initial investigation because his wife had died recently. Terrel wanted to know where the ring was because he knew Doug wouldn’t want to keep something so important to this other man.

  Doug saw the trap he was in. He tried to say he hadn’t seen it, but Terrel wouldn’t take that answer. He described the ring in detail, looking earnestly at Doug as if he only needed to be reminded what the ring looked like in order to remember where it was. Terrel’s expression said, Don’t let me down now, I’m trying to help you.

  “I didn’t see it,” Doug repeated miserably. He found himself squeezing his hands together.

  “That doesn’t make sense. It was with some other stuff that’s missing. A watch and some cuff links. Did you sell them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hide them somewhere?”

  “I didn’t take it.” His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “What?”

  “I said I didn’t take it.”

  Terrel slapped the table with his palm, and blew his breath out in exasperation. “Look, Doug, all the guy wants is to get the ring back. He doesn’t care who took it or what happens to them, but the ring is important to him. If you sold it, we’ll get it back.”

  “I didn’t sell it.”

  “Did you throw it somewhere?”

  Suddenly Doug was yelling, “No! No! I didn’t take it! I told you I didn’t take it—”

  “Dammit, that doesn’t make sense. If you were in there, you must have—”

  “I didn’t take it. I didn’t take anything. I didn’t do any of those things.”

  Doug stopped, staring angrily at Terrel, and he saw a funny bored look come into the cop’s eyes. There was a moment of ugly silence. Then Johnson said, “I’ll handle this.”

  He spun Doug around and slapped him.

  Then he balled his fists and said, “Believe me, kid, that’s nothing. I don’t want to hear any more of your crap. You’re not in the Boy Scouts now. If you’re old enough to sneak around in the night and bust into places, you’re goddam well old enough to take your lumps. You admitted them jobs. And you did them. Right?”

  Doug glanced at Terrel, but Terrel wasn’t even looking at him. He was twisting a paper clip and frowning like he was watching a bad movie. Johnson said softly, “You wouldn’t cop to something you didn’t do, would you?”

  Doug shook his head. He couldn’t make his mouth move.

  “Then you did pull those jobs?”

  Numbly Doug nodded, hoping just to buy a few minutes’ peace.

  “Speak up, kid, I want to hear you say something.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “I broke into those places.”

  “All right.”

  That was the end of it. Terrel told him they’d fix up a statement for him to sign, and that they were going to check up on his past. The address he had given in Sacramento was a phony, but he didn’t have to worry about that, because Johnson tapped him on the chest and told him that they’d give him a day or two to remember where the ring was, but that was all.