Ben Carver sat at one of the back tables, table three. He was dressed in his usual white shirt, white pants and white socks. He had a pair of matching patent-leather slippers that his mother had sent, but Ben seldom wore them outside the cell because he didn’t want them to get dirty.
Everybody had a persona in prison, a different personality they adopted that helped them survive. The thugs got meaner, the Aryans more cruel, the gays gayer and the loonies absolutely fucking nuts. Ben fell into this latter category, and he worked it like a master thespian. Not that John thought it was much of a stretch for the man. By the time the GBI caught up with him, Ben had killed six men in the surrounding Atlanta area. His particular twist was to cut off their right nipples for souvenirs. During his arrest at the main branch of the Atlanta post office where Ben had worked as a mail sorter for eighteen years, one of the cops became a little overzealous and slammed Ben to the ground. A piece of tissue—later identified as the right nipple of his last victim—flew out of Ben’s mouth where he had been sucking on it like a Lifesaver.
This lurid detail combined with Ben’s appropriate last name of Carver had made a big splash in the press. Unlike John, he made the national news, even got his own nickname: the Atlanta Carver. Ben had never been particularly pleased with the moniker, but then he was also angry with Wayne Williams, the man convicted in the Atlanta Child Murders case, for pushing him off the front page a few weeks after his arrest.
“My dear boy,” Ben said, smiling his thin smile as he sized up John. His lips were wet, a black stain at the center where he usually kept a cigarette. His teeth were likewise marked, nicotine drawing a bull’s-eye right at the center. One of the first things Ben had told John was that he had something of an oral fixation. “Better cigarettes than your right tit, my dear boy.” John had never complained about his smoking after that.
“So,” Ben said.
John stood at the table, not sure whether he wanted to sit. He told Ben, “You look good.”
“Of course I do.” He pretended to primp his hair, which was practically nonexistent, winking at someone behind John.
Though Ben was in protective custody, there wasn’t really a room set up to accommodate visitors in that wing, so he had to sit with the general population on the rare occasion someone came to see him. Any prisoner from the Level III mental health unit was at his most vulnerable during visitation. He had to rely on his fellow inmates being too distracted by their whores or too respectful of their wives and girlfriends to pull out a shiv and rip open his belly.
John said, “I had to see you.”
Ben tsked his tongue, and John tried not to think about what the man would have in his mouth right now if the cops hadn’t caught him. “Didn’t I tell you not to ever come back to this hell hole?”
“It’s good to see you,” John said, and he meant it. He hadn’t seen a welcoming face since he’d gotten out.
“Well,” Ben said, smacking his lips. “What have you brought me?”
John took the carton of unfiltered Camels out of the bag.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Ben cradled the carton to his chest. “My sweetness, please do sit. You know I don’t like hovering even if it does give me a wonderful view of your package.”
John sat, feeling embarrassed by Ben’s language. He had forgotten how Ben spoke to him, the way he made you feel dirty even if he was just asking you what time it was. John had to remind himself this was part of Ben’s act, the way he got through the day without cutting his own throat open.
Ben confided, “Oprah is doing her favorite things today.”
Oprah, the only program the entire cell bloc could agree on.
“I’m sure it’ll be a good one,” John said. He didn’t add anything else as a guard walked by, lingering near their table for a few minutes before moving on.
“Now,” Ben said, “you know I can’t stay away from my nicotine for long. What do you desire?”
John leaned in close, keeping his hands flat on the table so the guard could see he wasn’t doing anything to break the rules. “I’ve got a problem.”
“I assumed as much.”
The guard had moved on. John resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. Ben was scoping out the situation behind him just as John was keeping his eye on everyone behind Ben.
“Precious,” Ben said, “let’s keep in mind the walls have ears.”
The tables, more like. John wasn’t sure whether it was true or not, but everyone in the prison believed there were bugs all over the visitors’ room—some under the tables, some overhead in the fluorescent lights. The cameras were visible enough, sweeping the room back and forth, zooming in on suspicious visitors. You couldn’t trust a priest in here.
In low tones, John told Ben about the television, the credit report, the post office. He told him about the man with the umbrella, careful not to say his name because who knew if the rumors were true.
When he had finished, Ben said, “I see.”
John sat back a little. “What should I do?”
Ben’s full lips pressed together and he put his finger where the black dot was burned into the flesh. “The question, my love, is not an easy one.”
“He’s jacking me up for something,” John said, then, because he wasn’t sure, “Right?”
“Oh, indeed,” Ben agreed. “There’s no other reason for this type of behavior. No reason at all.”
“He’s using me as a cover.”
“He’s framing you, my love.”
John shook his head, leaning in close again. “It doesn’t make sense. This started six years ago. I was in here six years ago. It’s an airtight alibi.”
“True, true,” Ben agreed, tapping his finger to his lip again. “Did he know you got out?”
John shrugged. “He could find out.”
“But did he know?” Ben said. “I must say, my darling, that it came as a surprise even to me when you spoke so eloquently to the parole board. Such a silver tongue.”
John nodded. He had surprised himself.
“Let’s pose a what-if,” Ben suggested. “What if your friend assumed you would rot away here in our little Maison du Feces?”
“Okay.”
“And what if, much to his surprise, he found our little darling boy got out?”
“Yeah?”
“And what if he felt threatened by your return?” Ben leaned in closer. “He has something going, obviously.”
“Yes,” John agreed.
“And he doesn’t want you to interfere with this little side thing, does he?”
“Right.”
“So, what does he do?”
Both men went quiet, tried to think it to the next step.
“I don’t know,” John admitted, frustrated. “I need to find him.”
“You’ve tried all the obvious routes?”
“Yeah.” He had checked the phone book, but the guy wasn’t listed. He’d even tried the computer at the library, feeling like an idiot as he followed the printed directions on how to do an Internet search. Nothing.
John said, “I have to find out what he’s up to.”
Ben fingered the carton of cigarettes, picking at the edge. John knew he was running out of time. “Of course, I could use the contacts from my previous life to get you this fella’s current address.”