Sleepers

'What about the warden?' I asked, leaning the mop handle against the rail. 'The people on his staff. They've got to know what goes on.'

'But they act like they don't,' Marlboro said, taking still another drag. 'Same as the town folk. Nobody wants to know. What happens to you don't touch them.'

'So they dummy up,' I said.

'That's the jump,' Marlboro said. 'And don't forget, from where those folks stand, you the bad guys. Nokes and his boys, they ain't go

'You've got all the answers,' I said to Marlboro, pushing the water pail further down the center of the floor.

'If I did I wouldn't need a state check every two weeks,' he said. 'I just know what I know.'

'I've got to finish up,' I said, pointing down to the rest of the corridor.

'And I gotta get me some more cigarettes,' Marlboro said. 'That give us both somethin' to do.'

He moved away with a wave, a snap to his walk, his baton slapping against the railing bars. A small pattern of crushed cigarette butts lay in the spot where he had stood.

'You know there's no smoking on the tiers?' I shouted after him.

'What they go

EIGHT

My hands were folded behind my head, resting against my pillow, a thin sheet raised to my chin. It was late on a Saturday night, one week after Valentine's Day. Outside, heavy snow fell, white flakes pounding the thick glass. I was fighting a cold, my nose stuffed, my eyes watery, a wad of toilet paper bunched in my right hand. My throat was raw and it hurt to swallow.

I thought about my mother, wishing I had a cup of her ricotta to take away the aches and chills. She would fill a large pot with water and set it to boil, throw in three sliced apples and lemons, two tea bags, two spoonfuls of honey and a half glass of Italian whiskey. She boiled everything down until the contents were just enough to fill a large coffee cup.

'Put this on,' she would say, handing me the heaviest sweater we owned. 'And drink this down. Now. While it's hot.'

'Sweat everything right outta you,' my father would say, standing behind her. 'Better than penicillin. Cheaper too.'

I tried to sleep, closing my eyes to the noises coming from outside my cell. I willed myself back to my Hell's Kitchen apartment, sipping my mother's witches' brew, watching her smile when I handed her back an empty cup. But I was too tense and too sick to find rest.

A number of the inmates, as tough as they acted during the day, would often cry themselves to sleep at night, their wails creeping through the cell walls like ghostly pleas.

There were other cries too.

These differed from those filled with fear and loneliness. They were lower and muffled, the sounds of pained anguish, raw cries that begged for escape, for a freedom that never came.

Those cries can be heard through the thickest walls. They can cut through concrete and skin and reach deep into the dark parts of a lost boy's soul. They are cries that change the course of a life, that trample i

They are cries that once heard can never be erased from memory.

On this winter night, those cries belonged to my friend John.

The darkness of my cell covered me like a mask, my eyes searching the night, waiting for the shouts to die down, praying for morning sun. I sat up in my cot, curled in a corner, wiped sweat from my upper lip and cleaned my nose with the toilet paper. I shut my eyes and capped both hands over my ears, rocking back and forth, my back slapping against the cold wall behind me.

The door to my cell swung open, thick light filtering in, outside noise coming in on a wave. Ferguson stood in the doorway, beer bottle in one hand, baton in the other. He had a two day growth of beard on his face and his thin head of hair looked oily and in need of a wash. His heavy eyelids always gave him a sleepy appearance and the skin around his thin lips was chapped, a small row of pimples forming at the edges.

'I just fucked your little friend,' he said, his speech slurred, his body swaying.

He took three steps into the cell.

I rolled off the cot and stood across from him, my eyes on his, toilet paper still in my hand.

'Take your clothes off,' Ferguson said, moving the beer bottle to his lips. 'Then get back in bed. I wa

'No,' I said.

'What was that?' Ferguson asked, taking the bottle away from his face, smiling, his head at half-tilt. 'What did you say to me?'

'No,' I said. 'I'm not taking my clothes off and I'm not gettin' into bed.'

Ferguson moved closer, his feet sliding across the hard floor.

'You know what you need?' he said, smile still on his face. 'You need a drink. Loosen you up a little. So, have your drink. Then, we'll play.'

He lifted the beer bottle above my head and emptied it. Streams of cold beer ran down my face and shirt, my mouth and eyes closed to the flow, puddles forming around my feet. Ferguson wiped the beer from my face with the fingers of his hand.

He put his fingers in his mouth and licked them dry.

'There's all kinds of ways to drink beer,' he said, throwing the bottle on my cot. 'And there's all kind of ways to fuck.'

Ferguson threw his baton on the cot and watched it land inches from the bottle. He turned back to me and undid the buckle on his belt and lowered the zipper of his pants with one hand.

He ran the other hand across my face and chest.

'You're right,' Ferguson said in a whisper. 'You don't have to take off your clothes, if you don't want to. And you don't have to get back in your bed.'

'Please, Ferguson,' I said, my voice barely audible. 'Don't do this.'

'Don't do what, sweet thing?' Ferguson asked, his eyes glassy, rubbing my chest harder, bringing his hand lower.

'Don't do what you're doin',' I said.

'But I thought you liked it,' Ferguson said, 'I thought all you boys liked it.'

'We don't,' I said. 'We don't.'

'That's too bad,' Ferguson said, his face close to mine, his breath a foul mix of beer and smoke. 'Cause I like it. I like it a lot.'

Ferguson ran his hand past my chest and up to my face and along my neck, resting it against the back of my head. He moved even closer to me, placing his face on my shoulder.

'Take my dick out,' Ferguson said.

I didn't move, my eyes closed, my feet still, Ferguson's weight heavy against my body, his breath warm on the sides of my face.

'C'mon sweet thing,' Ferguson whispered. 'Take it out. I'll do the rest.'

I opened my eyes and saw John standing in the doorway.

He had a makeshift knife in his hand.

John moved out of the light and into the darkness of the cell. He was naked expect for a pair of briefs, stained red with blood, and one sock drooping down the sides of his ankle. He was breathing through his mouth and kept the knife, held to his hand by a rubber guard, flat by his leg-

'Don't be afraid, sweet thing,' Ferguson whispered in my ear. 'Take it out. It's ready for you.'

'I'm not afraid,' I said.

'Then do it,' Ferguson said.

'Move out of the light,' I said. 'It hurts my eyes.'

Ferguson lifted his head and grabbed both of my cheeks in his hand, a wild, maniacal smile on his face.

'You supposed to keep your eyes closed? he said, moving backwards, closer to John, dragging me with him. 'Didn't you know that?'

We were inches from my cot, my hand close enough to reach the empty beer bottle and the baton. John was by the side of the bed, the knife still against his leg. Ferguson let go of my face, undid his pants and took two more steps back.