"One of my family, probably."
"Down all the way from Oregon?"
"I hope so."
"Some family." He looks at me: caseworker look, conditioned sincere. Sympathetic. "Sorry about the report on your father."
"Thanks."
"That's why Judge Rilling waived that Bad Time, you know?"
"I know."
He lectures me awhile on the evils of blah blah blah. I let him run out his string. Finally he stands up, comes round the desk, sticks out his hand. "Okay, Short-timer. But don't miss the ten-thirty hearing Monday morning if you want to get released to an Oregon PO."
"I'll be here."
"I'll walk you back."
On the walk back to D Tank he asks what about this Jail Book; when will it be coming out? When it's over, I tell him. When might that be? When it stops happening. Will this talk tonight be in it? Yes… tonight, Monday morning, last week – everything will be in it.
"Deboree!" Sixo calls through the bars. "Put this in your fucking book: a guy – me – a guy shuns his comrades, plays pinochle five months with the motherfucking brass up there – five and a half months! When he musters down, one of those bulls misses a pack of Winstons and calls down and asks, 'What brand of cigarettes did Sixo check in with? Winstons? Slap a hold on him!' I mean is that cold or what, man? Is that a ballbusting bitch? But, what the fuck; Sixo will survive," he crows. "Angelo Sixo is Sir Vivor!"
Some dudes can snivel so it sounds like they're crowing.
They lock me in and Duggs leaves. Sixo sits back down. He's doing Double Time, on hold like this – Now Time along with Street-to-come Time. You can even be made to serve Triple Time, which adds on Street-gone-by Time and that is called Guilt. A man waiting for his kickout is on what's called Short Time. Short Time is known for being Hard Time. Lots of Short-timers go nuts or fuck up or try a run. Short is often harder than Long.
The best is Straight Time. That's what the notebooks are about.
More guys check in. Weekenders. D-Tankers. Some Blood hollers from the shadows, "Mercy, Deputy Dawg… we done already got motherfuckers wall to wall…"
Eleven forty they take me out give me my clothes, whistle and harp put me in this room with a bench and one other Short-timer, gray-pated mahogany-hued old dude of sixty years or so.
"Oh, am I one Ready Freddy. Am I ever!"
He's pacing around the little room picking up and putting back down and picking back up one of those old-fashioned footrest shoeshine kits, full of personals. He has on a worn black suit, maroon tie and white shirt. His shoes have a sensational shine.
"What you in for, Home?"
"Weed. What about you?"
"I pull a knife on my brother-in-law… my old woman call the cops. Wasn't no actual goddamn fight whatsoever. But I don't care. Just let me on my mother way!"
Putting down his kit sipping his coffee picking his kit back up.
"Yessir, on my way!"
"Good luck on it," I say.
"Same to you. Ah, I don't care. I even lost some weight in here. Met some nice folks, too…"
A young black trusty stops in and gives him a number on a slip of paper.
"I hope you writ where I can read it," the old man says.
"Plenty big, Pop. Don't forget. Call soon as you hit a phone, tell her her Sugardog still be barkin'."
"I'll do it, I sure will!"
"Thanks, Pop. Be cool."
As soon as the kid is gone the old man wads the paper and drops it in the pisser.
"Damn fool tramp. Met some real motherfuckers, too, as you can see." He puts the kit down so he can rub his hands as he paces. "Oh, that ol' city be just right, Saturday night still cookin'. If I can get me to a bus, that is. What's the time?"