and the outer gate was bolted and locked behind them. Then he gave a sign to open up and waited for them to step into the yard light.
The Pima deputy was pulling a folded sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket, dragging along his handcuffed prisoner. “I got a boy name of Harold Jackson wants to live with you the next fifteen years.” He handed the papers to the turnkey and fished in his pants pocket for the keys to the handcuffs.
Bob Fisher unfolded the papers close to his stomach and glanced at the first sheet. “We’ll take care of him,” he said, and folded the papers again.
Mr. Manly stood by waiting, holding his suitcase.
“I’ll tell you what,” the Pima deputy said. “I’ll let you buy me a cup of coffee ’fore I head back.”
“We’ll see if we got any,” Fisher said.
The Pima deputy had removed the handcuffs from the prisoner and was slipping them into his coat pocket. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said. “Jesus, a nice friendly person like you.”
“You won’t put us to any trouble,” Fisher answered. His voice was low, and he seemed to put no effort or feeling into his words.
Mr. Manly kept waiting for the turnkey to notice him and greet him and have one of the guards take his suitcase; but the man stood at the edge of the yard light and didn’t seem to look at any of them directly, though maybe he was looking at the prisoner, telling him with the sound of his voice that he didn’t kid with anybody. What does he look like, Mr. Manly was thinking. He lowered his suitcase to the ground.
A streetcar motorman, that was it. With his gray guard uniform and gray uniform hat, the black shiny peak straight over his eyes. A tough old motorman with a sour stomach and a sour outlook from living within the confinement of a prison too many years. A man who never spoke if he didn’t have to and only smiled about twice a year. The way the man’s big mustache covered the sides of his mouth it would be hard to tell if he ever smiled at all.
Bob Fisher told one of the guards to take the Pima deputy over to the mess hall, then changed his mind and said no, take him outside to the guard’s mess. The Pima deputy shrugged; he didn’t care where he got his coffee. He took time to look at Mr. Manly and say, “Good luck, mister.” As Mr. Manly said, “Good luck to you too,” not looking at the turnkey now but feeling him there, the Pima deputy turned his back on them; he waited to get through the double gates and was gone.
“My name is Everett Manly,” Mr. Manly said. “I expect—”
But Fisher wasn’t ready for him yet. He motioned to the guards and watched as they led the prisoner off toward a low, one-room adobe. Mr. Manly waited, also watching them. He could see the shapes of buildings in the darkness of the yard, here and there a light fixed above a doorway. Past the corner of a two-story building, out across the yard, was the massive outline of a long, windowless adobe with a light above its crisscrossed iron door. Probably the main cellblock. But in the darkness he couldn’t tell about the other buildings, or make any sense of the prison’s layout. He had the feeling again that the place was deserted except for the turnkey and the two guards.
“I understand you’ve come here to take charge.”
All the waiting and the man had surprised him. But all was forgiven, because the man was looking at him now, acknowledging his presence.
“I’m Everett Manly. I expect Mr. Rynning wrote you I was coming. You’re—”
“Bob Fisher, turnkey.”
Mr. Manly smiled. “I guess you would be the man in charge of the keys.” Showing him he had a sense of humor.
“I’ve been in charge of the whole place since Mr. Rynning’s been gone.”
“Well, I’m anxious to see everything and get to work.” Mr. Manly was being sincere now, and humble. “I’m going to admit though, I haven’t had much experience.”
In his flat tone, Fisher said, “I understand you haven’t had any.”
Mr. Manly wished they weren’t standing here alone. “No
“Nobody will have to tell you,” Fisher said. “You’ll find out yourself.”
He turned and walked off toward the one-room adobe. Mr. Manly had no choice but to pick up his suitcase and follow—Lord, with the awful feeling again and wishing he hadn’t put so many books in with his clothes; the suitcase weighed a ton and he probably looked like an idiot walking with quick little steps and the thing banging against his leg. And then he was grateful and felt good again, because Bob Fisher was holding the door open for him and let him go inside first, into the lighted room where the colored boy was jackknifed over a table without any clothes on and the two guards were standing on either side of him.
One of the guards pulled him up and turned him around by the arm as Fisher closed the door. “He’s clean,” the guard said. “Nothing hid away down him or up him.”
“He needs a hosing is all,” the other guard said.
Fisher came across the plank floor, his eyes on the prisoner. “He ain’t worked up a sweat yet.”
“Jesus,” the first guard said, “don’t get close to him. He stinks to high heaven.”
Mr. Manly put down his suitcase. “That’s a long dusty train ride, my friend.” Then, smiling a little, he added, “I wouldn’t mind a bath myself.”
The two guards looked over at him, then at Fisher, who was still facing the prisoner. “That’s your new boss,” Fisher said, “come to take Mr. Rynning’s place while he’s gone. See he gets all the bath water he wants. This boy here washes tomorrow with the others, after he’s put in a day’s work.”
Mr. Manly said, “I didn’t intend that to sound like I’m interfering with your customs or regulations—”
Fisher looked over at him now, waiting.
“I only meant it was sooty and dirty aboard the train.”
Fisher waited until he was sure Mr. Manly had nothing more to say. Then he turned his attention to the prisoner again. One of the guards was handing the man a folded uniform and a broad-brimmed sweat-stained hat. Fisher watched him as he put the clothes on the table, shook open the pants and stepped into them: faded, striped gray and white convict pants that were short and barely reached to the man’s high-top shoes. While he was buttoning up, Fisher opened the sheaf of papers the Pima deputy had given him, his gaze holding on the first sheet. “It says here you’re Harold Jackson.”
“Yes-suh, captain.”
The Negro came to attention as Fisher looked up, a hint of surprise in his solemn expression. He seemed to study the prisoner more closely now and took his time before saying, “You ain’t ever been here before, but you been somewhere. Where was it you served time, boy?”
“Fort Leavenworth, captain.”
“You were in the army?”
“Yes-suh, captain.”
“I never knew a nigger that was in the army. How long were you in it?”
“Over in Cuba eight months, captain. At Leavenworth four years hard labor.”
“Well, they learned you some manners,” Fisher said, “but they didn’t learn you how to stay out of prison, did they? These papers say you killed a man. Is that right?”
“Yes-suh, captain.”
“What’d you kill him with?”
“I hit him with a piece of pipe, captain.”
“You robbing him?”
“No-suh, captain, we jes’ fighting.”
Mr. Manly cleared his throat. The pause held, and he said quickly, “Coming here he never gave the deputy any trouble, not once.”
Fisher took his time as he looked around. He said, “I generally talk to a new man and find out who he is or who he believes he is, and we get a few things straightened out at the start.” He paused. “If it’s all right with you.”
“Please go ahead,” Mr. Manly said. “I just wanted to say he never acted smart on the trip, or was abusive. I doubt he said more than a couple words.”
