The Chase

“Might I change the channel, young man?” Howard asked.

The young man, a Hispanic prisoner who went by Elf, considered this for a moment, staring back at the elderly inmate, at his overly-big smile that showcased way too many big and yellow teeth, at his dark and beady eyes that seemed to project both the wisdom of years and monstrous intent. Elf scratched his chin while he pondered. “To what?”

The old man’s smile grew bigger, shone even more yellowed teeth. “Oh, I don’t care, really, as long as it isn't this.” They had been watching Dan on the Sports, a weekly program that featured retired Minor-Leaguer Dan Somers talking mostly about baseball and hockey.

“Not a sports fan?” Elf asked.

“Never saw the point.”

“We can only change the channel once a night here, so it has to be worth it. If you ain't got nothing in mind, we’re gonna watch the sports show. It’s nothing personal.”

The old man held up a hand. “No, no, that’s quite all right, carry on with the baseball highlights. I hadn't realized the rules were so stringent.”

Elf laughed, but it was a composed laugh. “First time in the joint?”

“First time in this joint. There have been others, I’m afraid.”

“The hell did you do, anyway? Tax evasion? Lemme guess, they got the wrong guy, too.”

Elf laughed again, and Howard laughed with him.

“Nothing of the sort. No, I am quite guilty. My case was never a question of guilt or innocence, but rather how severe the sentence should be.”

Elf wasn't laughing anymore. “And how severe was it?”

Howard never stopped grinning as he told Elf he’d received a twenty-five year sentence with one year served in county, so twenty-four years.

“Damn, man. That’s rough. You kill somebody?”

“Something like that,” Howard replied. “Sorry to bother you.” He turned in his seat to face the television again.

Elf studied the man, considered his age and situation, and carefully chose his next words. “So you ain't getting out.”

Howard's eyes never left the television, which was situated high on a wall, almost to the ceiling. “I’ll get out. That’s not a worry.”

“You sure talk like you're tough but you're a old ass man, G. This ain't the place to front, dog.”

Howard quietly stood and faced the young inmate. “It’s an, old ass man, and I'd watch my words, G. This can go a lot of ways, including peacefully.”

Elf stood as well, eyes narrowed and fiery, muscles bulged and tense. “Make a move, old timer. This I gotta see.”

In a flash Howard was on him. He picked Elf up and slammed him against a concrete wall, forearm pressed hard against the man's throat. His teeth were bared in a snarl. “I don't play around, boy, and I'm not here for you. But I can be. Just say the word.”

Veins showed on the sides of Elf's neck and his face was turning a sickly shade of maroon as he fought to breathe. Beads of sweat formed near his hairline. He shook his head and Howard released him. Elf slumped to the floor on all fours, gasping.

Howard brushed himself off. “Very good then,” he said in a sing-song tone. “You'd better go watch your show. I think the good parts are coming.”

“Man,” Elf said once he could talk, climbing to his feet. “You gotta be seventy, seventy-five. What the hell?”

Howard smiled. “Hell, boy, is just a state of mind. Now, might you be able to tell me the whereabouts of another inmate here?”

Elf was massaging his throat and neck with one hand. “I don't know. Maybe. Who?”

“The man's name is Douglas Crange. White, well built, about thirty-five. He wears glasses and has—“

“A pit bull tattooed on his arm. Yeah, I've seen him.”

“Do you know where he's housed?”

“Right now in the SHU—solitary. Special Housing Unit. Where the misfits go.”

“And how do you know this, if I may?”

“I can see the rec cages for solitary from my cell. He's out there every day, from four to five.”

“Is there access to this rec area?”

Elf shook his head. “Only from solitary. It’s away from everything.”

Howard's smile broadened. “And how does one find himself there?”

“You have to, you know, break the rules a lot, fuck up. Eventually they get tired of you and put you there.”

“And if I wanted to expedite?”

“What?”

“If I needed to get there sooner, say. Like, in a day or two.”

“Man, homie, you're crazy. I mean, if you got violent or tried to hurt someone, they’d probably take you quicker.”

“Thank you.” Howard produced a blade from somewhere in his clothing and sank it into Elf's gut. He twisted it so the edge was up, and sliced to the sternum.

Elf opened his mouth to yell and Howard slit his throat. The young inmate fell to the floor with a dull thud, mouth opening and closing like a fish deprived of water. Then, he was still.

Howard cleaned the blade on Elf’s jumpsuit and wandered over to the television, where he reached up and began cycling through the channels in search of something that wasn't sports. He left it on an old episode of Three’s Company and sat back down, waiting for whatever was going to happen once they stumbled across the dead inmate. He set the blade on his lap and folded his arms across his chest.

***

Howard listened from his cell in solitary as the guards approached, one yelling at near the top of his lungs. “Blackstone! Yard time! Let’s go!” A tiny square slot in the cell door slid open and Howard placed his hands behind his back and through the opening. A guard handcuffed Howard and told him to step forward. The door buzzed like a broken alarm clock and then opened. Three armed men in uniform escorted Howard to the “Rec Yard,” which was a caged-in basketball court featuring a chin-up bar hanging from the middle of the cage. You know, for that complete workout. Solitary inmates were not allowed access to weights.

As it happened, Howard and the assignment, Douglas Crange, shared the same rec time each day, from four to five. They were separated by about twenty-five feet and two chain-link barriers. Douglas mostly kept to himself, which made it easy for Howard to watch the man, study him, while they were out there for an hour each day.

He was big, there was no doubt, and he held himself like someone who knew how the game worked. He mostly paced his area, tracing the chain-link, turning corners in military fashion, hands clasped behind his back. Just walking and circling, and pacing and walking. Howard figured he must use some other means than the chin-up bar to maintain his massive size, because Howard had never seen him do much else than pace and think.

One time, on a day when the sky was white and the ground was moist with a rainy-dew, the man had caught Howard looking at him, had stopped pacing, had kept his eyes locked on Howard, standing still as the air before a Midwest tornado. Howard, unsure what else to do, waved. Douglas shook his head, smiled, and gave him a quick head-nod before continuing to pace.

It had been three weeks, and Howard still hadn't made his move. He only had another week in the hole, and that was fine with him; there was always time. He liked to get to know his subjects as well as possible before ending them, to avoid any unwanted surprises. But Douglas was a tough read. Howard had extinguished all sorts of marks, from political figures to cops and criminals, but none were as stoic and methodical as this Crange was. Howard was not afraid, but more experiencing a deep curiosity and something else, possibly—caution. One never knew, did they?

Three days later, Howard got the information he was seeking. He was watching Douglas from his rec area, when a guard came out and interrupted the man’s pacing. There was a quick conversation Howard couldn’t hear, a nodding of heads, and a handshake. There it is, he thought, Mr. Bigtime here is working with the brass.

He knew Douglas’s history, but did not know his weaknesses. Eight years ago Douglas had been sentenced to ten for killing a man in a bar fight. But such an offense wouldn't bring a man like Howard out of the shadows. No, Howard was there because Douglas was also a high-ranking member of a notorious criminal organization, and a high-ranking member of another notorious criminal organization wanted him gone.

And now, he had reason to kill him. On the streets, working with the police could get you into a lot of trouble. But in here? It was a death sentence. Howard narrowed his eyes and smiled. He would make his move soon. Tomorrow. Now that he’d seen Douglas breaking a major life rule, the door was open. He never took others at their word, and money meant little to him. He made sure each and every mark was a justified kill. In a world where every man was for himself and loyalty was a far-off and never-practiced idea, he saw this as a virtue.

Howard woke the next morning and sat stock still on the end of his bunk, as he did every morning, warming himself in the thin beam of sun entering his cell through the tiny rectangular window by the ceiling. The beam would be gone inside of ten minutes, when the sun rose higher in the sky, so he took full advantage of the time it was there. His cell would remain cold again until four—when he went to the chain-link outside. It began cooling again around the time he returned each day, so these early and precious moments were appreciated.

At three minutes to four, the guards came and escorted him out to his rec area. When they took his cuffs off and left him alone, he turned to see Douglas wasn't outside. His cage stood empty. Howard frowned, scanning the entire yard. Nothing. He had learned early in life not to let his emotions rule him. So instead of becoming upset, he allowed curiosity to enter and wander around in the workings. He began considering reasons for the man’s absence: Douglas could be sick, he could have gone back to general population sooner than Howard expected, he could have pissed a guard off and had his rec time taken. The man could even be dead, he supposed, which would be fine with Howard, but he’d need proof of that before he left the facility.

The guards collected him an hour later. Douglas never showed. Back in his cell, Howard wondered idly if their small interaction that cloudy day—the wave and the smile—had spooked the man, and he’d found a way to stay out of Howard's sight. Oh, how fun, he thought, a thin smile creeping to life in the corners of his mouth. A game of cat and mouse. Howard understood that the mouse only won in cartoons. “Run, run, run, little mouse,” he said quietly through his smile. “Ole Tom’s out and about.”

***

To Howard's surprise, Douglas was already outside and pacing the fence when the guards pushed him into the cage the next day. Maybe he’d misjudged the man. Must have been ill. Whatever the case, here he was, and that meant the plan hadn't changed but the date. Howard would move on him the next day, at four. As he watched the large man go round and round, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Now that he was more relaxed, Howard looked around his rec area, noticing for the first time his own chin-up bar. He rolled his eyes. He was not a man prone to working out; with gifts like his, he didn’t see the point in bulking up. That was for the simpletons, the weak. He actually preferred appearing frail and non-threatening. In his line of work, it was like an ace up his sleeve. People didn’t see him coming.

He thought about some of his victims, like Elf—too stupid to understand what was happening, too wrapped in their egos to allow things to unfold as they should. And so, they pay a price. It wasn't that he was proud, necessarily, of the things he has done and will do; no, it wasn't pride in the acts so much as pride in being the best at what he did, no matter the endeavor. And his endeavor, the way he spent his life, was extinguishing the weak and the stupid. The marked. The paid for.

He shifted his gaze from the chin-up bar back to the chain-linked cage where Douglas did his dance. The man was gone. The cage was empty. How long had Howard lost focus? A minute? Two? Surely not long enough to miss such an event as Douglas leaving. But he had. And now he had a job to do. He scanned the yard, but no one was out. Something was going on with that inmate, and Howard intended to find out what.

He turned around again. Between himself and the building, right outside the door in and out of the cage, Douglas stood, colossal and still. Rage and excitement swam like sharks in the man’s deep brown eyes. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d just gone for a run. Howard imagined that getting across the divide and into the cage so fast had taken a toll, and decided to strike.

With nearly inhuman speed he was on Douglas, biting and clawing and pummeling. The other inmate stood his ground, returning the fury in kind. The men fought like that, each receiving life-threatening damage and neither giving an inch, for several minutes. If anyone had been around, the growls and snarls alone might have been enough to cause a lasting impression. But the amount of blood and teeth and hair on the ground as they whirled, kicking and punching and biting and slamming each other, might have been traumatic to see.

After several moments, Howard fell to the ground on his back, winded, and Douglas came down on top of him, battering his face with huge fists while curses and spittle flew from his mouth, lips pulled back in a death grimace. Before long, Howard lay still and the other inmate stood over him, hands clenched and chest heaving. A click and a buzz from the door, where two uniformed officers crowded into the frame.

“Jesus,” one of them said. The other one could only stare and shake his head.

“It’s done,” Douglas said to them. “I’m ready.”

They escorted him back to his cell and took Howard to the infirmary, where they deemed him too far gone for what they had available at the facility. He was then air-lifted off the prison grounds and flown to a nearby hospital. After weeks of operations and therapy, the old man regained his faculties and was sent back to lock-up. Now that he knew Douglas was a threat, was like him, he’d have to hunt more cautiously. It was quite possible he thought Howard had died, which would be ideal. But word would soon get out; it always did.

In the meantime, there were more pressing and present matters, such as the asinine sports program playing on the television. There was one other inmate in the recreation room with him, a black man of about thirty with big hair and wiry arms. The old man turned to him, a salesman’s smile stretched across his badly-scarred face, and cleared his throat.

“Might I change the channel, young man?” Howard asked.