“That’s what I came out here to talk to you about. I need to know if Johnson worked for you and what kind of worker he was?”
“He worked for me on paper, but that’s all. He was assigned to me, but he never came to work. Every month I get a note from Captain Skipper that he was using Johnson other places. Said I should go ahead and give him credit for working out here.”
“And you did it?” I asked, a little surprised.
“Captain say do it, I do it. I not smart enough to think for myself. I a machine. They program me, I work. I don’t ask no questions,” he said, falling back into his favorite dialect for expressing his frustration.
Merrill thought for himself all right. However, his life would have been easier if he were a machine. He was as smart as any man I had ever met, but was unable to go to college until recently because of family and money problems. He had, however, spent much of his time at the public library and already had a much better education than most college graduates.
“Did he ever come out here for work?” I asked.
“When he was first assigned here, he came about three times. Didn’t do a damn thing. Worried about his fingernails and hair too much. He should have been a woman. . . . From what I hear, sometimes he was.”
“What have you heard?” I asked.
“Some of the inmates called him ‘Godown-’ “ he said with a broad smile that showed off every one of his snow-white teeth again.
“Godown?” I asked.
“Yeah, because he would go down on anybody.”
“Do you think that had something to do with his death?” I asked, trying not to smile too big.
“It sure as hell a possibility, now ain’t it, Sherlock? Since your man David offed Uriah to have Bathsheba, people been getting dead over the nasty.”
“What can you tell me about Officer Hardy, who works midnights in the infirmary?”
“Ex-military, still in the reserves, I think,” he said. “One hell of a good officer. Smart. Tough. Fair. He’s righteous.”
“How did you know I was playing Sherlock?” I asked.
“I know things.” He smiled.
“Do a lot of people know?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but it’s just a matter of time. They’s very few secrets when everybody lives this close together.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So,” he said, “you better watch your back, Jack. Sooner or later, the wrong person’s going to know. And . . .”
“And?”
“Just watch your back,” he said, tilting his head forward so that I saw his eyes above his shades. They were serious.
“How about you watching my back?” I asked.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said.
“Which is more than most.”
“Which is more than most.”
“You’re pretty confident for a black man named after a dead white woman.”
He ran his hand across his short hair and then started patting it. “I’m named after a beautiful white woman. And she was almost as pretty as me. You know Mama swore that we were kin to her somehow.”
“You probably are,” I said. “For her sake, I hope so. Can you tell me anything else about Johnson?”
“No, I really didn’t know him that well. I’ll tell you who can. There is an inmate named Willie Baker. He’s probably the oldest homosexual alive on the compound, maybe even in the world.”
“The one they call Grandma?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said with surprise and amusement. “You chaplains know the four-one-one, don’t you?”
“That’s me, Mr. Information. It’s not the four-one-one, but the nine-one-one that has me concerned.”
“Well, if it come to that,” he said smiling, “I be happy to make the call.”
“Thanks,” I said, “that’s very reassuring.”
I turned to leave and then turned back and said, “Oh, yeah, could you recognize a request that Johnson typed if you saw it?”
“No, and neither would you,” he said.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because Johnson couldn’t read or write. Just another dumb nigga’,” he said smiling, “like all us darkies.”
“You sure he couldn’t write?” I asked.
“As sure as I am that desegregation didn’t end racism in the South.”
That was as positive as Merrill could get. Walking back toward the institution, I wondered who wrote the request for Ike Johnson and if they knew anything about the trouble that Ike was in or maybe who killed him. Maybe he’ll come and see me before the day is over. And, maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and racism will be over, too.
Chapter 14
The compound was alive with the noise of a crowd, distinct voices only heard occasionally-laughter, yelling, religious talk, and profanity, all whirling around together like a brackish whirlpool of sound. Blue movement was everywhere. The activity was astounding; the inmates were in perpetual motion. They buzzed around like bees going from one flower to the next, many of them spreading poison rather than pollen. In the distance I could hear shots being fired on the range, and I wondered if it registered with the inmates that the officers were preparing for the eventuality that they might have to shoot them.
The sun beat down with a vengeance. The only shade was provided by four pavilions that were constructed for just that purpose. Like everything else in the institution, they were uniformly gray. Perhaps they blocked the sun, but they were impotent against the heat. The heat was stifling. Breathing the hot, thick air in and out took extra effort. The breeze that was present at the end of spring had finally given up and left town about a week before. The air didn’t move, which is why the constant movement of the inmates looked all the more out of place.
As I walked through the open population, I was again reminded that I was a stranger in a strange land. This was their world, not mine. Many of the inmates treated me as guests at a dinner party would a servant. Some of them didn’t seem to notice me at all. Others spoke, many of them doing so very respectfully.
As I passed through their midst, I heard contrasting discussions, from talk about God on a seminary level-”The concept of the trinity is not the fixed state of God, but an expression of different ways in which God can be experienced”-to the proliferation of scatological language-”That motherfucker even think about fuckin’ with my shit I’a fuckin’ kick his motherfuckin’ ass two times”-quite often from the same mouth. I heard deals being made, political and sports discussions, and what I never failed to hear anywhere in the prison: discussions of all that was wrong with the Department of Corrections.
I walked down to the recreation field where inmates were very seriously playing. Above the field, in the clear, blue sky, a small flock of birds chirped and sang as they flew-surely a sign to anyone looking: beauty was here, God was here. I usually visited the rec field once a week to be available to the inmates who would never consider coming to the chapel. However, I had already done that this week. This visit was to see Willie Baker, who hadn’t shown up after I had him called to the chapel. I could’ve had security pick him up and bring him to me, but I thought that might make him less than cooperative.
I found Willie at the far end of the rec field sitting on the ground leaning up against the back of the softball fence. He looked about a hundred and fifty. His gray hair, what little there was, made a nearly complete circle around the crown of his head. His eyes were hollow, and his eyeballs seemed as if they would have been too small for their sockets if not for the yellow matter in the corners of them. His stubbly gray beard sporadically covered his gaunt face, dipping down in the recesses of his cheeks because he had no teeth. If he were in any way effeminate you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. However, if he were alive, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him either. Men and women look a lot more alike at his age anyway.
He sat with two other men, both in their twenties. I said men because that’s all this institution incarcerates, not because they looked like men. They were as feminine as any girl I had ever dated, and more so than some. They worked their femininity for all it was worth, too. They were gay and proud; they also seemed to be advertising.