Chickenhawk: Back in the World

I jumped up. “I’m gonna try it, George. Thanks.” I left my tools out next to a tree and walked up the sidewalk behind Dorm Five and went into the mess hall. About thirty men were still eating from the ten o’clock lunch period. The regular line didn’t start until eleven. I saw three men sitting at a table with a guy that matched George’s description. I walked over.

“You Foster?” I said.

“Yeah,” Foster said, looking piqued because I’d disturbed him at lunch.

“I hear they’re looking for somebody who can type over at your place.”

“Yeah. Typing’s part of the job. You also have to know how to run a small business.”

“I’m your man,” I said. “Where do I sign up?”

Foster shrugged. “Okay. Come over to the clothing room after lunch. I’ll get you in to see Mr. Baker and you can talk to him.”

“What time?”

“Say about two?”

“I’ll be there.”

CHAPTER 27

Baker was a tall guy, probably six feet four. He spent most of his time smiling. He sat in his executive’s chair behind a gray government desk, fidgeting with a wooden puzzle that could be made into the letter L, if you knew how. I stood in his office while his inmate lieutenants questioned me. The inmate cadre of the clothing room was Deacon, the head boss; Foster, next in line; and a guy they called Rusty, a crackly voiced old guy who seemed to be kind of a Gabby Hayes sidekick for Baker.

I told them about my business experience in New York.

Deacon finally said, “I think we could give him a try, Mr. Baker. I’m not leaving for a month; we got time to find somebody else if he doesn’t work out.”

Baker nodded, smiling. He had just put the puzzle together. “Deacon, we’ll do whatever you think is best.” Baker turned to me. “We want you to start as soon as you can, Mr. Mason.”

“Okay. But I’m not sure how you go about it, you know?”

“Oh. Well, you have to apply for a job transfer. Through your counselors,” Baker said.

I guess my face dropped. I’d heard of guys trying to get job transfers for their entire stay at Eglin. Deacon said, “Don’t worry. We can get that done fast enough. You just get the blank paperwork from your counselor and bring it back here.”

I hung out in the hallway by the counselor’s office in Dorm Five, the dorm I would be going to when I got out of Three. My counselor, Mr. Josephson, whom the inmates called Waterhead, finally came down the hall after lunch. I was in a rush because I had to be back at my post before Simpson noticed I was gone. I’d waited until he drove by on the service road. Usually I didn’t see him again for an hour, but there were no guarantees. Simpson didn’t miss much, and there were so many ball-busting jobs, like digging ditches, planting trees, or shoveling gravel, that he had going on all the time, that he had plenty of fun things to keep you busy if he thought you were fucking off. I almost called Mr. Josephson by his nickname, Waterhead, because the hacks’ nicknames were what we knew them by, but I managed to say, “Mr. Josephson, can I get a form from you?” as soon as he was close to his door.

“What kind of form?”

“A job-transfer request.”

Waterhead nodded for a second. “Sure, come on in.” Waterhead was actually a very nice guy. He looked a little loopy, and he wasn’t going to give you an answer to a math problem real fast, but he was fair with the inmates, actually tried to help them. He unlocked his door with a key he kept on a recoil reel chain attached to his belt. Inside, he pulled out a big file drawer and flipped through the folders. He pulled out a form. “Here we go,” he said, handing it to me. “You realize the chances of you getting a transfer are pretty slim?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

Waterhead nodded. “You have to have some good reason, Mason, not just some whim.”

“I understand. I just thought I’d try.”

“Sure. Why not?” Waterhead said. He stared at me for a minute until I realized my business was over. I said good-bye and left.

I checked my watch. I’d been gone five minutes. I walked across the camp to the clothing room as fast as I could walk. This time, I didn’t see Baker. Deacon took me to his desk in the back room, just behind the complaint window, and sat down. Sitting at a table was the blond gimpy guy, John; a short dark guy named Joe; a one-legged kid named Griffis; a guy in his sixties, Tony Abruzzo, said to be in the Mafia; and Don Foster. Joe and John and Griffis were sorting underwear into piles of small, medium, and large, while Foster talked to Abruzzo. Foster, who owned a car dealership in New Orleans, was an executive in the clothing room and didn’t have to actually work. Abruzzo was telling stories about his early days as a young hood in New York. I tried to listen in while Deacon turned on his typewriter, since I’d never been around a Mafioso before, if that is what he was.