Chapter III

“I smell trouble,” said O’Leary to the warden.

“Trouble? Trouble?” Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and his little round eyes looked terrified--as perhaps they should have. Warden Godfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates in the Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto the last decent job he would have in his life.

“Trouble? What trouble?”

O’Leary shrugged. “Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? This afternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.”

The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: “O’Leary, what did you want to worry me for? There’s nothing wrong with playing ball in the yard. That’s what recreation periods are for.”

“You don’t see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on the outside--an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipes don’t mix; it isn’t natural. And there are other things.”

O’Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden that it didn’t smell right?

“For instance--Well, there’s Aunt Mathias in the women’s block. She’s a pretty good old girl--that’s why she’s the block orderly. She’s a lifer, she’s got no place to go, she gets along with the other women. But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because she told Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn’t understand. Now Mathias wouldn’t--”

The warden raised his hand. “Please, O’Leary, don’t bother me about that kind of stuff.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in a desk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O’Leary, then dropped a pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring the scalding heat.

He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.

“O’Leary, you’re a guard captain, right? And I’m your warden. You have your job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job is just as important as my job,” he said piously. “Everybody’s job is just as important as everybody else’s, right? But we have to stick to our own jobs. We don’t want to try to pass.”

O’Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way was that for the warden to talk to him?

“Excuse the expression, O’Leary,” the warden said anxiously. “I mean, after all, ‘Specialization is the goal of civilization,’ right?” He was a great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. “You know you don’t want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don’t want to worry about yours. You see?” And he folded his hands and smiled like a civil-service Buddha.

O’Leary choked back his temper. “Warden, I’m telling you that there’s trouble coming up. I smell the signs.”

“Handle it, then!” snapped the warden, irritated at last.

“But suppose it’s too big to handle. Suppose--”

“It isn’t,” the warden said positively. “Don’t borrow trouble with all your supposing, O’Leary.” He sipped the remains of his coffee, made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of not noticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets into it this time.

He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.

“Well, then,” he said at last. “You just remember what I’ve told you tonight, O’Leary, and we’ll get along fine. ‘Specialization is the--’ Oh, curse the thing.”

His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.

That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O’Leary; they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.

“Hello,” barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. “What the devil do you want? Don’t you know I’m--What? You did what? You’re going to WHAT?”

He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror. Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened like clamshells in a steamer.

“O’Leary,” he said faintly, “my mistake.”

And he hung up--more or less by accident; the handset dropped from his fingers.

The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.

Five minutes before, he hadn’t been anywhere near the phone and it didn’t look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good. Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of the hard-timers of the Greensleeves.