Green River Rising

  ‘Klein?’

  Klein showed them he was unarmed. He wondered if they’d seen Galindez. ‘It’s okay boys.’ He indicated the bloodstains Crawford had left down the front of his clothes. ‘Nev sent me to check out a couple guys got shot by the screws.’

  A grunt, then the flash beam left his face and fell on Henry Abbott and his bloodstained hammer.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  The flash backed off a pace. With the light out of his eyes Klein now recognised Ted Spriggs. Spriggs was a tanned, crewcut professional criminal who was an enforcer for Larry DuBois. Klein knew him well enough to exchange nods in the muscle yard. Behind him were half a dozen others. Some of them carried bulging plastic garbage bags. They were all looking apprehensively at Abbott. It was to Klein’s advantage that none of them had ever spoken to the mad giant but that all of them remembered the sight of half a dozen screws trying to subdue him.

  ‘Abbott’s been watching my back,’ explained Klein. ‘Killed three jigs tried to jump us in the yard. One blow each with that hammer and man that was all she wrote.’

  Abbott listened to the further amplification of his homicidal reputation with a laconic blink. Klein dearly hoped Abbott would not be called on to defend it. Spriggs nodded. He kept his eyes and the beam on Abbott.

  ‘I got some guys hurt bad on A, you got the time.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Klein. ‘I’m just going down below to my office, grab some first aid stuff.’

  ‘Place is crawlin’ with niggers down there, Doc,’ said Spriggs. ‘Come daylight we gonna flush ’em out but tonight you oughta stay close to our people.’

  ‘Without my gear I can’t do much good,’ said Klein. ‘It’s not far to go.’

  ‘You want some of my guys with you?’

  ‘Thanks, Ted, but Henry’s all I need. And it’s easier for two of us to move without getting noticed.’

  ‘I guess, but be careful, the coons’re mean as snakes. Was that crazy black fuck Johnson started this whole mess, killed Larry DuBois at a parley.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Klein. He wondered how many knew the truth about Agry. Shockner? Grauerholz? Grauerholz wouldn’t care.

  ‘You know niggers,’ said Spriggs. ‘Prob’ly doin’ our job for us right now, killin’ each other. Lucky we got a bunch of ’em still locked down in C.’ He rattled a bunch of keys. ‘We just got finished shakin’ ’em down, one cell at a time. Wouldn’t reckon on niggers havin’ so much cash. Drugs and shit, yeah, that’s how they live with themselves, but cash? We reckon their bitches smuggle it in on visits, you know how niggers treat their women. Stay at home on welfare and let them bring in the bacon.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe we got somethin’ to learn from ’em there. White gals it’s th’ other way round.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Klein.

  He refrained from asking Spriggs how they planned to spend the cash they’d taken. Spriggs was normally a reasonably intelligent guy but he was caught up in the insanity with the rest of them. Then Klein thought about the blacks in the labyrinth below his feet and pondered the intelligence he himself had displayed in abandoning the safety of his cell.

  ‘I’d best get on,’ he said.

  Spriggs nodded. ‘You take care of him, big guy,’ he said to Abbott.

  Abbott didn’t react.

  Spriggs smiled at Klein. ‘You got the balls to hang out with this guy, the jigs’re a Sunday-school social. See you round.’

  Spriggs moved off with his men, giving Abbott a wide berth. When the light of Spriggs’s torch had faded Galindez reemerged from the dark and joined them.

  ‘Can we open the cells in C block?’ said Klein.

  ‘Not with the power down,’ said Galindez. ‘Even if we had a set of keys there’s a hundred and eighty doors. We’d never make it.’

  At three doors a minute that was sixty minutes’ work. Agry’s crew would kill them in five. Klein scrubbed sweat from his eyes.

  ‘Why?’ asked Galindez.

  ‘Something Spriggs said. If we could release six hundred men against Agry, maybe he’d have to pull Grauerholz back from the infirmary.’

  Galindez thought about it. ‘The doors are opened by electric motors on each tier, powered by the main supply.’ He frowned. ‘There’s a secondary power supply on a separate circuit. Has its own generator in case of emergencies. Last time they used it was when a hurricane took the lines down outside.’

  ‘Can we switch it on?’

  Galindez shook his head. ‘Has to be done from the admin block. The Warden wouldn’t have any reason to do that. He wants these guys in the dark, getting scared.’

  ‘Where is this generator?’

  Galindez shrugged, ‘It’s out in the yard, by the east wall.’

  ‘Can we plug into it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

  Klein thought: Dennis Terry. The old master of Maintenance would know where the generator was and, if it was possible, how to trip the circuit. Klein started walking as fast as was safe in the darkness, across the atrium and into the mess hall.

  The mess hall floor was slick with garbage and swill. As they trod across the slippery tiles and between the serving counters into the kitchen they saw the results of the first burst of orgiastic destruction. The cooking vats had been tipped over, big cans of oil had been ruptured and spilled, sacks of wheat flour and lima beans slashed and scattered, drums of powdered eggs emptied around. At one end of the kitchens a stairway led to the laundry, at the other another led down to a series of storage rooms. As Klein led the way towards the door to the second stair he heard a groan and stopped. Galindez and Abbott pulled up silently behind him. Off to his left Klein could hear ragged, whistling breathing. He pulled the flash from his belt and snapped it on. At first he saw nothing, dazzled by the light which bounced back from the stainless steel cupboard doors of the serving counter. Then the beam picked out a figure on its hands and knees, caked with kitchen oil and flour. His head hung between his arms and his shoulders trembled with the effort of supporting himself. Klein took two steps towards him and the man raised his head as if a vast weight were strapped to the back of his skull. The side of his face and neck was matted with congealed blood and he wheezed in painful gasps through his gaping mouth. With agonised slowness he turned towards the light. In his eyes was the expectation of death. It was Stokely Johnson, Wilson’s lieutenant. Klein went over. Johnson sagged forward onto his elbows. Galindez helped Klein manhandle Stokely into a sitting position against the stainless steel door. Klein squatted down.

  ‘Johnson,’ said Klein. ‘It’s Klein. You hear me?’

  Stokely looked at him and blinked in recognition. Klein examined his face. Stokely’s nostrils were blocked with clotted blood. The bullet Grauerholz had fired into him had entered two inches below his right temple and left a small, well-circumscribed wound. There was no exit hole. Unlike Crawford’s M16 wound this was of low velocity with minimal shock wave and tissue cavitation. The bullet had probably penetrated the maxillary sinus and shattered several bones in the middle third of the facial skeleton but there were no vital structures in the path the slug had taken. Klein recalled that Agry had stomped on Stokely’s head, in retrospect a more dangerous assault than the gunshot. He checked Stokely’s pupils and found no evidence of intracranial bleeding. He did find intense fear. Reasonably enough, Stokely probably thought himself at death’s door.

  ‘Don’t bother speaking,’ said Klein, ‘but listen. You will not die from the bullet that’s in your face.’

  Stokely’s eyes fluttered shut and his shoulders slumped with relief.

  ‘It looks bad and feels bad,’ went on Klein, ‘but there’s no way it’s going to kill you.’

  Stokely opened his eyes. With relief Klein saw that he believed him.

  ‘There’s no reason you can’t stand up and play a game of basketball if you want to. You don’t have to crawl around like a fucking whipped dog.’

  ‘You muthafucka,’ breathed Johnson and raised his fist. Klein
grabbed his wrist. For a moment Johnson strained against him.

  ‘See?’ said Klein.

  Stokely realised where Klein was coming from. He relaxed and Klein let go.

  ‘Your long distance runners are scattered in the tunnels down below. Agry kicked seven shades of shit out of them. They need you to pull them together and fight back. You understand?’

  ‘Why should you care . . .’ Despite the pain each word cost him Stokely took in the extra breath and added, ‘. . . muthafucka?’

  ‘Because Agry’s sent your pal Grauerholz to wipe out my people in the infirmary. That includes Coley and Wilson. If you can squeeze Agry’s balls hard enough he’ll need Grauerholz back here.’

  Stokely regarded him for a long beat then, painful as it was, he smiled. ‘That’s just where I want him.’

  Klein stood up and held out his hand. Stokely took it and hauled himself to his feet. He glanced at Galindez and Abbott. He shuffled for a moment as if embarrassed.

  ‘I, uh, I . . . ’

  Klein said, ‘You thought you were dying, you panicked, now you feel like a yellow asshole. You’re not, forget it, let’s go.’

  Stokely looked at him. ‘Wilson was right ’bout you.’

  Klein snapped the light off as a shout echoed from somewhere in the mess hall.

  ‘Niggers, man! I saw ’em!’

  A light beam wafted towards them. Klein ducked low and headed for the staircase door. There were more shouts. Someone slipped and cursed and metal crashed loudly as a body hit the ground. Klein snapped the torch on just long enough to see the door and its handle then switched it off.

  ‘There! Cocksuckers goin’ down b’low!’

  Klein grabbed the handle blind and slid the door open. The others piled in after him. Galindez hauled the door shut behind them, cutting off the shouts from the kitchen. Klein shone the light down a short, wide flight of stone steps. At the bottom a corridor led off into darkness with doors visible to either side. They ran down the stairs and down the corridor. Behind them Klein heard the door slam open on its runners and the redneck voices shouting excitedly, like shitfaced weekend hunters in pursuit of easy game. The corridor was jumbled with ransacked cardboard boxes hauled from the storage rooms and their feet crunched on plastic forks and spoons, styrofoam cups, toilet rolls.

  ‘What the fuck we runnin’ for?’ panted Stokely Johnson.

  Klein ignored him and kept going. The corridor ended in a T junction and Klein turned left. Twenty yards on he stopped at a doorway leading down a narrow set of stairs. He waited for the others. Abbott came last at a long-legged loping walk. Klein saw the flash beam of their pursuers hit the wall of the T junction. He illuminated the stairs for Galindez.

  ‘Down.’

  He pushed Abbott after him. Stokely coughed a scatter of fresh blood droplets on to Klein’s shirt. He hawked and spat red phlegm.

  ‘I say we turn ’em here,’ he said.

  ‘When I have to fight I will. I think we can lose these clowns below,’ replied Klein. He followed Galindez and Abbott down the steps and heard Johnson behind him. The staircase was only wide enough for one man at a time. At the foot of the steps he switched the flash off and felt Stokely’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Trust me, man.’

  Klein nodded reluctantly. They were standing in a tunnel beneath a tangle of pipes and ducting. Normally there was a lot of noise down here, of tepid air being pumped through the ageing air-conditioning system. Now it was quiet. Voices drifted down from the corridor above. A light beam passed the entrance and disappeared.

  ‘I tell ya the jigaboo’s got the big looney with him. Hey!’

  The torch beam returned and swung straight down the stairs. Stokely Johnson stood in full view, the light glittering from the sweat on his bloody face.

  ‘We got him!’ The flashlight started to descend.

  ‘Come on down muthafuckas! I wanna rip yo’ muthafucken dicks off!’

  Klein’s rectum contracted violently and he took an involuntary step backwards. The sound booming through the narrow space from Stokely’s chest was the most evil A Number One baddest-nigger-in-town voice he’d ever heard. It made Ice T sound like Daffy Duck. There was a yelp from the stairs as a pair of legs lost their footing and slid down the steps towards them. A terrified face appeared briefly, then a pair of arms from behind dragging him back up.

  ‘Fuck this shit, man!’

  Bodies clattered back up to the corridor. A voice, thin and reedy after Stokely’s tour de force, dribbled down the staircase.

  ‘We’ll be back, you black turd.’

  Stokely did not dignify them with a reply. Footsteps disappeared.

  Klein said, into the blackness, ‘Only thunderbolts are to be preferred to cannon.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Stokely.

  ‘Napoleon,’ said Klein. ‘Pity you weren’t with him at Waterloo.’

  Klein put the light on. The beam was swallowed up in the tunnel ahead. Anywhere else underground and Klein would never have found his way back up again but he’d been through here a hundred times, to pay his rent to Dennis Terry. He led them through the dark and got the next two turns right first time. They came to an ancient boiler and a tangle of pipes. On the other side, where you’d never find it less you knew it was there, was a door. The door was locked.

  ‘Give me that shiv,’ said Stokely.

  Galindez handed over the screwdriver. In two fierce jerks Stokely had the door open. A dim flickering light drifted down a short flight of wooden steps. Klein called up.

  ‘Terry? Dennis Terry? It’s Ray Klein.’

  No answer. Klein climbed the steps. At the top was a small room, immaculately decorated to look like the set of the Dean Martin show: grey carpet, a bearskin rug, a bar along one wall with two high stools, an old-style stereogram, a TV in a walnut cabinet, a sofa to match the carpet. A third high stool stood behind the sofa. The room was illuminated by a burning candelabra standing on the bar. Next to it was an empty glass and a bottle of gin with an inch of liquor left in the bottom. In two separate heaps by the stereogram were a stack of album covers and a heap of long-playing records, each one snapped in half. Klein took a step forward. The top album cover was of Sinatra’s ‘September Of My Years’. Terry had used his wealth to recreate a fantasy of the world he left behind thirty-five years before, when Dino was even cooler than Sinatra and Eisenhower was in the White House. On the bar was a silver-framed photo of a pretty twenty-year-old girl, the fiancée Terry had strangled for teaching English to the wrong Portuguese short-order cook. The illusion of Fifties hep was broken by the ceiling, across which ran a series of three-inch cast iron pipes carrying electric cables. One of the pipes had been wrenched from its mooring and cracked in two at a joint. A handful of wires were dragged down in V shape by the end of a leather belt that had originally been looped around the pipe.

  Klein found Terry sprawled behind the sofa by the stool with the other end of the belt around his neck.

  He was still breathing. As Klein unwrapped the belt from his neck Terry’s eyes flickered open. He mumbled something unintelligible in a slurred voice. Klein hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. Terry staggered. Klein took his arm and walked him round to the sofa. Terry collapsed onto it with a groan and sat with his head between his knees, massaging the back of his neck.

  ‘Water,’ said Klein.

  Galindez went to the bar and brought Klein a glass of water. Terry held out his hand for it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he croaked, weakly.

  Klein dashed the water in his face. Terry reeled back, spluttering. Klein handed the glass back to Galindez.

  ‘What the hell, Klein?’ said Terry. He blinked through the water in his eyes at Stokely and Abbott. ‘Christ.’

  Klein sat down next to him. ‘Listen Terry, you fucking old lush, you wanna commit suicide you’re gonna do it like a man and go out there and get your throat cut with the rest of us. Okay?’

  There was a silence. They all seemed taken
aback by Klein’s violent technique. Galindez brought a second glass of water and handed it to Terry. Terry looked at the Salvadorean for the first time.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Terry, glancing at the others and back to Klein. ‘Where’s Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen?’

  Klein felt in the breast pocket of Terry’s shirt and pulled out a squashed pack of Pall Malls. He pulled one out and stuck it in Terry’s mouth. He lit it with a gas lighter from the same pocket. Terry inhaled, coughed violently, and inhaled again.

  ‘Thanks, Klein.’ He looked up over his shoulder at the pipes hanging down from the roof. ‘Listen, I . . .’

  ‘Haven’t got time, Dennis,’ interrupted Klein. ‘We’ve all got our reasons. You still want to die later we can fix it for you. Right now we need you more than Yul and Steve.’

  ‘Go on.’ Terry’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Galindez says there’s an emergency electric generator in here somewheres.’

  Terry nodded. ‘Runs on fuel oil. It’s out by the south-east wall, in that redbrick outhouse between the machine shop and the garage. Why?’

  ‘We want you to splice in the power supply and open the cages in C block.’

  ‘C’s still locked down?’

  Klein nodded. ‘You cut the power lines during their third count.’

  Terry dragged on his Pall Mall, squinting thoughtfully into space. ‘That would put a shovelful of red hot chilli peppers up Nev Agry’s ass, wouldn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘It’s possible then,’ said Galindez.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Terry, sardonically. ‘I just gotta get over there, break in, disconnect the control circuits from the admin block, and fire up the turbines from a cold start. Then I got to get all the way back to the gate office on C with the fucken lights on and break into the circuit board to fix up a bypass loop to spring the cages. Easy as fallin’ off a log.’