There were some smirks from other prisoners but on the faces of most Miles read contempt. A wizened old- timer spat disgustedly and turned away.
Miles made it through the remainder of the day back to his cell, later to the mess hall where he couldn't eat the slop he usually forced down from hunger, and finally to his cell again, with help along the way from Karl. His other three cell companions ignored him as if he were a leper. Racked by pain and misery he slept, tossed, woke, lay fitfully awake for hours suffering the fetid air, slept briefly, woke again. With daybreak, and the clangor of cell doors opening, came renewed fear: When would it happen again? He suspected soon. In the yard during 'exercise' period during which most of the prison population stood around aimlessly Karl sought him out. 'How y' feel, kid?'
Miles shook his head dejectedly. 'Awful.' He added, 'Thanks for what you did.' He was aware that the big black had saved him from being on report, as the shower room guard had threatened. That would have meant punishment probably time in the hole and an adverse mark on his record for parole.
'It's okay, kid. One thing, though, you gotta figure. One time, like yesterday, ain't gonna satisfy them guys. They like dogs now, with you a bitch in heat. They'll be after you again.'
'What can I do?' The confirmation of Miles's fears made his voice quaver and his body tremble. The other watched him shrewdly.
'What you need, kid, is a protector. Some stud to look out for you. How'd you like me for yours?' 'Why should you do that?'
'You start bein' my regular boy friend, I take care o' you. Them others know you 'n me's steady, they ain't gonna lay no hand on you. They know they do, there's me to reckon with.' Karl curled one hand into a fist; it was the size of a small ham.
Though he already knew the answer, Miles asked, 'What would you want?'
'Your sweet white ass, baby.' The big man dosed his eyes and went on dreamily. 'Your body just for me. Any time I need it. I'll take care of where.' Miles Eastin wanted to be sick. 'How 'bout it, baby? Waddya say?'
As he had so many times already, Miles thought despairingly: Whatever was done before, does anyone deserve this?
Yet he was here. And had learned that prison was a jungle debased and savage, lacking justice where a man was stripped of human rights the day he came. He said bitterly, 'Do I have a choice?'
'Put it that way, no I guess you ain't.' A pause, then impatiently, 'Well, we on?' Miles said miserably, 'I suppose so.'
Looking pleased, Karl draped an arm proprietorially around the other's shoulders. Miles, shriveling inside, willed himself not to draw away.
'We gotta git you moved some, baby. To my tier. Maybe my pad.' Karl's cell was in a lower tier than Miles's, in an opposite wing of the X-shaped cell house. The big man licked his lips. 'Yeah, man.' The hand on Miles was already wandering. Karl asked, 'You got bread?'
'No.' Miles knew that if he had had money it could have eased his way already. Prisoners with financial resources on the outside, and who used them, suffered less than prisoners with none.
'Ain't got none neither,' Karl confided. 'Guess I'll hafta figure sumpum.'
Miles nodded dully. Already, he realized, he had begun to accept the ignominious 'girl friend' role. But he knew, too, the way things worked here, that while the arrangement with Karl lasted he was safe. There would be no further gang rape. The belief proved correct.
There were no more attacks, or attempted fondlings, or kisses blown. Karl had a reputation for knowing how to use his mighty fists. It was rumored that a year ago he had used a shiv to kin a fellow prisoner who angered him, though officially the murder was unsolved.
Miles also was transferred, not only to Karl's tier, but to his cell. Obviously the transfer was a result of money changing hands. Miles asked Karl how he had managed it.
The big black chuckled. 'Them guys in Mafia Row put up the bread. Over there they like you, baby.' 'Like me?'
In common with other prisoners, Miles was aware of Mafia Row, otherwise known as the Italian Colony. It was a segment of cells housing the big wheels of organized crime whose outside contacts and influence made them respected and feared even, some said, by the prison governor. Inside Drummonburg their privileges were legendary. Such privileges included key prison jobs, extra freedom
of movement, and superior food, the latter either smuggled in by guards or pilfered from the general ration system. The Mafia Row inhabitants, Miles had heard, frequently enjoyed steaks and other delicacies, cooked on forbidden grills in workshop hideaways. They also managed extra comforts in their cells among them, television and sun lamps. But Miles himself had had no contact with Mafia Row, nor been aware that anyone in it knew of his existence. 'They say you're a stand-up guy,' Karl told him.
Part of the mystery was resolved a few days later when a weasel-faced, pot-bellied prisoner named LaRocca sidled alongside Miles in the prison yard. LaRocca, while not part of Mafia Row, was known to be on its fringes and acted as a courier.
He nodded to Karl, acknowledging the big black's proprietorial interest, then told Miles, 'Gotta message for ya from Russian Ominsky.'
Miles was startled and uneasy. Igor (the Russian) Ominsky was the loan shark to whom he had owed and still owed several thousands. He realized, too, there must also be enormous accrued interest on the debt.
Six months ago it was Ominsky's threats which prompted Miles's six-thousand-dollar cash theft from the bank, following which his earlier thefts had been exposed.
'Ominsky knows ye kept ya trap shut,' LaRocca said. 'He likes the way ya did, 'n figures ya for a stand-up guy.'
It was true that during interrogation prior to his trial, Miles had not divulged the names, either of his bookmaker or the loan shark, both of whom he feared at the time of his arrest. There had seemed nothing to be gained by doing so, perhaps much to lose. In any event he had not been pressed hard on the point either by the bank security chief, Wainwright, or the FBI.
'Because ya buttoned up,' LaRocca now informed him, 'Ominsky says to tell ya he stopped the clock while you're inside.' What that meant, Miles knew, was the interest on what he owed was no longer accumulating during his time in prison. He had learned enough of loan sharks to know the concession was a large one. The message also explained how Mafia Row, with its outside connections, knew of Miles's existence.
'Tell Mr. Ominsky thanks,' Miles said. He had no idea, though, how he would repay the capital sum when he left prison, or even earn enough to live on.
LaRocca acknowledged, 'Someone'll be in touch before ya get sprung. Maybe we can work a deal.' With a nod which included Karl, he slipped away.
In the weeks which followed, Miles saw more of the weasel-faced LaRocca who several times sought out his company, along with Karl's, in the prison yard. Something which appeared to fascinate LaRocca and other prisoners was Miles's knowledge about the history of money. In a way, what had once been an interest and hobby achieved for Miles the kind of respect which prison inmates have for those whose background and crimes are cerebral, as opposed to the merely violent. Under the system a mugger is at the bottom of the prison social scale, an embezzler or con artist near the top.
What intrigued LaRocca, in particular, was Miles's description of massive counterfeiting, by governments, of other countries' money. 'Those have always been the biggest counterfeit jobs of all,' Miles told an interested audience of half a dozen one day.
He described how the British government sanctioned forgery of great quantities of French assignats in an attempt to undermine the French Revolution. This, despite the fact that the same crime by individuals was punishable by hanging, a penalty which continued in Britain until 1821. The American Revolution began with official forgery of British banknotes. But the greatest counterfeit venture of all, Miles reported, was during World War II when Germany forged over 40 million in British money and unknown amounts of U.S. dollars, all of highest quality. The British also printed German money and so, rumor said, did most of the other Allies.
'Wouncha know it!' LaRocca declared. 'Them's the kinda bastards put us in here. Betcha they're doing some o' the same right now.'
LaRocca was appreciative of the cachet which attached to himself as a result of Miles's knowledge. He also made it clear that he was relaying some of the information to Mafia Row.
