Hard Sentences: Crime Fiction Inspired by Alcatraz Page 13

  They searched and questioned the passengers, and when they patted down Corey, they found a folded Batman comic stuffed in his back.

  Had he kept his mouth shut instead of griping about unreasonable search-and-seizure, he might’ve been allowed to keep it. But they flipped through it, likely looking for smuggled weed, and a dozen Playboy centerfolds spilled onto the dock instead, catching in the wind and flashing skin at everyone. The cops scowled at Corey, gathered up the “evidence,” and only chortled after sending him off.

  Sean offered no resistance to their pat-downs and questions, and they only harrumphed at the peacenik doodles on his jacket. Scribbles supplemented with a series of three, tri-number sets on his sleeves and lapels. Numbers likely mistaken for dates or Bible verses, for anything besides a future plan, and Sean grinned wide the whole bus-ride home.

  Miami, FL, 6/4/16

  Forty-eight hours after the crackpot interviewer left, Meryl saw him again, albeit on television.

  The nurse changing his bedpan scowled ugly when the anchor reported a naked man had streaked the stage during a TED Talk in New Orleans the previous evening.

  “A discussion of parallel universes and chaos theory turned downright prophetic Friday night when 59 year-old Sean Paredes, of Los Angeles, jumped the stage, and upon taking the microphone from the speaker, commenced on a conspiracy theory tirade before security wrestled him to the floor. Closed-circuit television captured the event . . .”

  Meryl peered at the screen over the thickset nurse wiping him down. Watched the same man who put a slug in his pillow not two days earlier bumble bare-assed towards the mousy guy talking on stage, nethers pixilated. He grabbed the mic and screamed into it:

  “You’re being lied to, people! Behold, a descendent of Apollo before you! God of knowledge and intellect! Because I know! I know Jimmy Hoffa’s in witness protection in Montana! D.B. Cooper’s a Wall Street broker, still stealing! And Frank Morris is alive and well in Miami! Because people leave clues! They always leave clues!”

  Two security guards tackled him then, though he managed to yell an “Apollo-Initiative-dot-com!” before being hauled offstage.

  Meryl ground his dentures. Gripped the .38 hidden under his blanket.

  “That poor soul,” said the nurse.

  “He’s right, you know?” said Meryl. “That’s me.”

  The nurse sighed. “Who, hon?”

  “Frank Morris. Escaped Alcatraz, June 12, 1962.”

  The nurse patted his hand. “I’ll send in Dr. Willamette, hon. He’ll start you back on Haldol. Remember, Jesus loves you.”

  “That’s a fact,” he muttered as she walked out. “A stone-cold one. Jesus loves all his daredevils.”

  Roller Canary

  by Max Booth III

  The key was to keep the ends closed. Castle your king as soon as possible. Protect your main man no matter the consequences. The guard, McKenzie, either didn’t understand this philosophy or didn’t give a shit. The young chap was too eager, too full of cum and adrenaline to collaborate his thoughts into a decent strategy. He charged onward in a direct, predictable path, a soldier on the frontline who’d learned how to reload his firearm the previous morning.

  “You ought to take your time,” Stroud said. “We’re in no rush here.”

  McKenzie chuckled despite the vermillion burning in his cheeks. “Maybe you ain’t in no rush. Me? I got a wife and kid to go home to this afternoon. Hot, home-cooked meal on the table waiting for me.”

  “How sweet.”

  “Fuck you, Birdman. You wish you had my life—hell, any life. You? After this, you’ll just go back to a bunk and play with your little sore-infested pecker. Rinse and repeat until old age eventually rots you out. It’s your turn, by the way.”

  Stroud stared at the board. Another four moves and the Leavenworth guard’s fate would be secured. Three if he was even dumber than Stroud anticipated.

  “You know, I’m not as alone and miserable as you so gleefully wish to believe.” Stroud made his move, waited for the guard to figure out his inevitable defeat. “Incarceration does not mandate solitude.”

  “Are you talking about your fuckin’ birds again?”

  “Companionship is not restricted to humanity.”

  “You can’t be friends with birds. That’s just not right.” McKenzie paused, thumb softly caressing the head of a bishop. “Wait. You don’t . . . touch them, do you?” He leaned over the board, genuine concern in his eyes. “Please tell me you don’t fuck those birds.”

  Stroud smirked and nodded at the board. “I’d think wisely about that next move, if I were you.”

  The guard settled back in his seat, mortified. The truth was, Stroud had never touched the birds inappropriately, but he did enjoy entertaining the rampant rumors of his strange predilections, as well as screwing with the guards and his fellow inmates every chance he got. He truly loved his birds with a great passion. Loved them like family. The birds permitted him a purpose to breathe. Without them in his life he doubted he would have survived the last twenty years.

  McKenzie simulated deep concentration. “You know, to be honest, I still don’t quite understand why we even let you keep them. Tell me how a violent murderer gets to have pets. Tell me how that makes sense.”

  Now it was Stroud’s turn to lean over the board, a grim grin upon his lips. “Have any guards fallen at my hand since my adoption of ornithology?”

  Stroud resisted the urge to remind McKenzie that he’d been a resident of this penitentiary more years than the guard had been alive. That at this point he knew more about the job than McKenzie would ever know. The simple truth was the prison granted him permission to keep his birds because it kept him busy, productive. A smart prison focused on activity rather than punishment. A smart prison actually gave a shit about its inmates.

  It was very clear McKenzie did not belong here. And if Stroud didn’t fear a prohibition on his birds, he’d attend to the matter himself.

  Finally McKenzie said, “What the fuck is ornithology?”

  And Stroud laughed, loud and true. Then he moved his queen down the board. “Checkmate.”

  “Oh, you son of a bitch.”

  The guard looked over Stroud’s shoulder and tapped his watch, then nodded. Stroud followed his stare and caught another guard standing at the prison yard entrance moments before he disappeared. Stroud didn’t miss a beat.

  “We got time for another game.” The guard nodded at the chessboard. “Interested?”

  “I think I’d rather just return to my cell, if it’s all the same to you.”

  He attempted to rise, but the guard grabbed his wrists and held them against the table. “Actually, it’s not all the same to me.”

  “No?”

  McKenzie nodded at the board. “Sit. Play. Enjoy yourself.”

  If he resisted any further, the guard would not hesitate to issue violence. You serve long enough and you learn the rules of the pen. When a guard had a look in his eyes like McKenzie did, you obeyed whatever he ordered, unless you wanted a broken nose, unless you wanted another life sentence thrown at you.

  Stroud smiled again, this time artificial and strained. “Okay. Let’s play.”

  In another week Bobby Stroud would be nineteen years old, and he had shit to show for it. He’d run away at age thirteen and since then had only visited his family once, nearly two years ago now. His drunk of a father he could go the rest of his life without talking to again, and the sooner cirrhosis ate up his liver, the better. But he missed his mother and siblings dearly.

  Like they really needed him. They seemed to be doing a whole lot better without him in their lives now that they had money. Not a lot, but they weren’t as poor as they’d been when he was a kid. One less mouth to feed. One less burden. Maybe it was better it stayed that way. Standing out in the cold, holding a package of salmon he’d bought off a street vendor, he wondered if he’d ever get around to visiting them again. Alaska was a big territory, connected to an even bigg
er country, and there was still much of it left to explore.

  Although, at this point, he was pretty goddamn sick of Juneau. He should have never talked Kitty into moving here with him. The place was a shithole if he’d ever seen one. But so was everywhere, when you really thought about it.

  It was that Russian fucker Charlie’s fault. Kitty’s old friend or ex-lover—he wasn’t sure which. Probably didn’t want to know the truth anyway. In fairness, Bobby realized he had no room to criticize whom she’d slept with. You couldn’t pimp out your girlfriend then give her shit about who’s been inside her. The world didn’t rotate that way. But there was something about this Charlie asshole that didn’t quite sit right with him. Maybe it was the way he dressed, like he was better than everybody else. Or the way he exaggerated and bragged about things that didn’t count for nothing, when in reality he was just as full of shit as anybody, if not more so.

  Sure, back in Cordova, it had been a different story. The way Charlie spoke about Juneau made it sound like a magical land of promise and prosperity. In retrospect, maybe Charlie had only been trying to steal Kitty from him. It made sense. What Kitty lacked with youth, she more than made up for with beauty. Any young man would kill for a piece of her. And if not kill, they’d at least pay good money, as Bobby had soon discovered. Kitty didn’t seem too upset about it. In fact, it’d been her idea to start up again in the first place. Back in Katalla, where they first met, she’d been making a healthy living as a whore. It made sense, at least until Bobby could find a new job in Juneau. Six months they’d been in this fucking place, and success seemed unreachable. At least in Cordova people would hire him. He’d made an impressive amount of cash on the railroads there. It was hard, exhausting work, but the pay was worth it. Only a fool would have quit such a job.

  Bobby Stroud laughed in the middle of the street, feet buried in snow. It amazed him, sometimes, the paths people took. One day you’re a thirteen-year-old kid getting whipped by your drunk father, the next you’re nineteen with a prostitute for a girlfriend, unemployed, and just as hopeless as ever. What awaited his life one year from now? Would he even still be in Alaska? Would he still be with Kitty? The uncertainty of it all fueled him onward. Some people feared mystery. Bobby thrived on it.

  An owl’s hoot echoed in the night, and Bobby spotted a small boreal perched atop a cottage, staring straight at him. Hesitant, he raised his hand and waved. For a moment he was convinced it would wave back at him, but a woman’s scream shattered their shared silence and scared the owl away.

  Up ahead, the screaming woman stumbled toward him. The blood did a wonder of disguising her identity, but it took no time at all for him to recognize Kitty. Bobby dropped the packaged salmon and bolted forward, catching her just as her legs surrendered to gravity. He carried her off the street and laid her gently into the snow. There was no question what had happened. Clearly a john had gotten too rough. It’d happened in the past, but never this bad.

  “Where is he?” Bobby already envisioned his fists breaking the man’s face. He wouldn’t kill him, but he’d make him wish he was dead.

  Kitty spat something thick and hard out of her mouth. “Charlie . . .”

  “What?” Bobby pulled her up, forced her eyes to meet his. “What did you say?”

  “He’s crazy . . . Charlie . . . he . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  “It’s okay.” He hugged her tight, rage pumping and keeping him warm. “It’s okay.”

  “You know, I’ve never been given a straight answer,” McKenzie said, falling into Stroud’s trap and replacing one of his pawns with a rook.

  “To what are you referring?”

  “The birds.”

  Stroud sighed. “Do you honestly believe I would fornicate with—”

  McKenzie held up his hand. “No, obviously you don’t fuck birds, man. I’d have know about that. What I mean is, why birds? How did it start? Why do you even give a shit?”

  Stroud considered his answer. He could have told him the long story. How he found the injured canaries twenty-some years ago in the prison yard, just when the dark thoughts started to become truly unbearable. How he raised them back to perfect health and set them free. He could have told him how birds listened better than any human being he’d ever met. How he’d never felt more at home than in his cell with his books and birdcages. How the universes had aligned to implant Robert in this spot, that his destiny was right here, advancing ornithology into the second half of the twentieth century. Birds were his purpose. It took many years to learn this truth, but now that he understood, he would dedicate the rest of his life to the cause.

  Stroud cleared his throat, stared seriously at the guard. “What is the one thing these birds have that every inmate here desires?”

  McKenzie shrugged.

  Stroud pointed up. “Flight.”

  “You want to fly, old man?”

  “Could you imagine the possibilities?”

  The guard chuckled and moved his queen. “Where would you fly?”

  “Maybe back to Alaska.”

  Only he’d fly back in time, too, redo it all. Embrace ornithology earlier in life. Life is so short, and knowledge so infinite. If he’d started his research in his teen years; maybe he would have actually been able to accomplish something worthwhile.

  “What makes you think anybody still cares about you there?” the guard asked.

  “Oh, believe me. They don’t.”

  “No?”

  “I miss the snow.”

  “It snows here.”

  “It doesn’t snow here.”

  Stroud slid his bishop down the board. “Well, no place snows like Alaska more than Alaska. Checkmate.”

  McKenzie checked his watch and sighed. “One more game?”

  He found the Russian in his cottage, a ball of snow pressed against his bruised knuckles. At the sight of Bobby, Charlie jumped up from the dining room table and backed against the wall.

  “Now, just hear me out, all right? It’s not what you think.”

  It didn’t matter what Charlie had to say. Words were useless at this point. Bobby struck him once, twice, then threw him across the table. Waited for him to get up, then kicked him in the face.

  Maybe Bobby’s misfortunes couldn’t be blamed on the Russian. Not all of them. Not most of them. But goddammit it felt good to finally have a visage that differed from his own reflection to direct the guilt. Three more punches and Charlie stopped moving, but the rage hadn’t come close to dying down. He hit him a few more times, then pulled out the pistol from the back of his trousers and pressed it against the Russian’s head.

  “Speak,” he said, but received no response.

  He pulled the trigger.

  After he cleaned off his face, he wrestled Charlie’s wallet from his pocket and headed out the door. Before his rampage, he’d recruited the aid of a neighbor to assist with Kitty’s wellbeing. Now, halfway to the neighbor’s cottage, an unknown force halted him in his tracks.

  Where do you go from here? a silent voice cried, alien and raw.

  He looked at the wallet in his swollen hand and dropped it in the snow. It disappeared. Somewhere, a boreal whispered secrets, and Bobby listened and understood with perfect clarity. He couldn’t go back. Not now. Not to Kitty, not to his family down in Washington. Some things couldn’t be reversed. Some things couldn’t be erased from existence no matter how hard you blinked.

  He gave the neighbor’s cottage a farewell glance and turned around.

  Oh, Kitty. I’m sorry.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to the police station.

  “Aren’t you married?” Smugness ran freely across the guard’s face, asking questions he already knew the answers to.

  “I’d rather not discuss my marriage.” Robert Stroud lowered his head, tried to focus on the game.

  “It’s been a few years since you’ve been allowed to see her, ain’t that right?”

  Stroud grunted and thought, More like five years, but stayed silent
. He looked at the board, but all he saw were the faces of the women in his life. His mother, who’d disowned him at the discovery of his secret marriage. Della, his wife and partner in ornithology, permanently banned from visiting him. And Kitty. Sweet, beautiful Kitty, her namesake the natural enemy of birds everywhere.

  He had let all of them down.

  The guard cracked his knuckles. “But you never really gave a shit about her, did you?”

  This got Stroud’s attention. “Excuse me?”

  McKenzie shrugged. “Just, you know, rumor is, she was just some cock-hungry prison fanatic who wrote letters to you about birds. Then you manipulated her into marriage as a way to avoid transfer to the Rock.”

  “Look up at the sun,” Stroud said, not taking the bait. “You can describe it as bright, but surely you understand it isn’t that simple.”

  “Uh-huh.” McKenzie laughed. “Whatever the fuck that means.” He focused on the game for a moment, captured Stroud’s rook. “Do you miss her?”

  “I miss everything,” Stroud said, softly, vulnerable, and he was reminded of the Eurasian crow which shared the name of his fallen chess piece.

  “You think you’re gonna write another book?”

  “Have you read my other work?” Stroud raised his brow, doubtful.

  The guard snorted. “I’m not really the reading type.”

  “A very surprising statement.”

  “Prick.”

  “I trust you’ve heard about Roller Canary.”

  McKenzie stared at him blankly.

  “The publisher of Diseases of Canaries. My book.”

  Recognition clicked. “Oh, yeah. They ripped you off, right?”

  Stroud nodded. “In my age, I’ve come to learn penitentiary walls do nothing to separate the criminals. They inhabit this world both inside and out.”

  “What, he didn’t pay you royalties, so you bitched about him in some magazine, and now he’s trying to get you transferred?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “You think he’ll be successful?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  “You could have just let it go. So what if he didn’t pay. Not like you can spend shit, anyway, Hemingway.”