No Man's Land Read Online Free

the
walkway toward the elevator, knocking on windows as he ambled down
the cellblock. Driver flipped a half a dozen switches, then sat back
in the chair. Watching Kehoe walk brought it all back to him. That
first week in Walla Walla. How he could tell there was somebody else
in the block other than him. How the trustees would make chitchat
when they brought him meals, but would pass nary a word with whoever
else was down there at the end of the row.
    Just scrubbed the floor and hurried
back to feed Driver, looking thankful to have returned at all.
    Fifth night he was there. After the
physical exams and the orientations. After the shrinks and the social
workers. Just about the time they were about to assign him a cell in
the general population. It was late. After lights out, when the voice
broke the perpetual daybreak of the block. “Hey,” someone called
with an adenoidal twang. “You there?”
    Driver slid from the bunk and padded
to the front of the cell.
    “What?”
    “The Mexicans sold your ass to them
Nazi skinheads,” the voice whispered, then paused in the darkness
for the words to have the desired effect.
    “What?”
    “The Mexicans don’t buttfuck,”
the voice whispered. “It goes against their macho thing. So, when
it’s their turn, they always sell the fish for cigarettes. Usually
to the niggers, for like, two, three cartons. Somethin’ like that.”
A dirty laugh rolled down the concrete like a steel wave. “I hear
they got thirty cartons for you. You worth that much?
    “No,” Driver had answered.
    A chuckle. “No is right.”
    The chuckle turned into a full,
braying laugh. “Sheeeeet. You may be hot shit on a submarine, but
around here you ain’t nothing but food, baby. That’s all . . .
just food. That Kurtz ain’t but a biscuit away from four hundred
pounds. He’s a lard bucket, but . . . I’m tellin’ you, boy, I
seen you come in. You in deep sewage.”
    Driver said, “No” again. This
time in his full voice. The sound of liquid moving through pipes
suddenly filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps could
be heard. And then a shout.
    “Gonna send you somethin’ first
thing in the mornin’,” the voice said.
    And then the conversation was over.
Later, sometime in the night, Driver closed his eyes and slept.
    As promised, a surprise arrived
before breakfast. Guy mopping the floor passed it to Driver through
the bars, rolled up in a paper napkin. It was an old toothbrush. The
sharpened plastic shaft had a small hole drilled through the blunt
end. A thin wooden dowel had been slipped through the hole, forming a
T grip. Driver pulled the dowel from the hole, laying it gently in
his palm next to the toothbrush.
    The voice whispered. “You put that
in your shoe, Mr. Captainman. On the inside of your foot, business
end forward;p. You can go the through the metal detectors all day
long with that motherfucker in your shoe and nobody’ll know. Time
comes to use it, make damn sure it’s together tight.”
    Driver had tried to stammer a thanks,
but his throat had been too dry.
    “Remember, the Mexicans won’t
help him none. They hate those Nazis damn near as much as I do.
They’re just there to make sure Kurtz gets a fair shot at what he
paid for. You start messing him up, they’ll be gone in a
heartbeat.”
    The corridor lights snapped on and
began to hiss. Kehoe talked more quickly now. “You best go for the
face,” he said.
    “Anyplace else ain’t gonna stop
that big piece of shit.” The words poked Driver hard in the chest
like a thick a finger. And then the doors slid back and Cutter Kehoe
came walking by with that same loose-jointed shamble Driver was
watching now.
    He paused at the door of Driver’s
cell. “You comin’?”
    Driver shook his head. Kehoe curled
his lip again.
    “Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
Mr. Captainman. Might as well have breakfast. The juice is in on this
thing. Not eatin’ ain’t gonna make no difference.” He smiled,
then headed off