“Holy hell!
I knew I’d see you in here again, Brand Meeker, but I never thought it’d
be like this!”
Meeker tipped back his cowboy hat with one
matchstick-thin finger. He recognized
the balding, middle-aged guard, but he could not recall the name. Not that it mattered. The last time he’d seen the fat bastard was
on Meeker’s last day as an inmate. The
guard had led him to the front gate and had warned him to stay on the straight
and narrow.
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Meeker had said,
hoping he didn’t sound facetious.
“I’ll see you back here soon,” the guard
replied, and at the time, Meeker could sense all the doom and fear of the Book
of Revelation in his voice.
“Glad to see you’ve cleaned up your act,
son,” the guard of the present said. “I
have all your records.”
“Your words inspired me to give up crime,”
Meeker said. Like hell! He’d pulled so many jobs since his exodus
from Jonah County Jail, Al Capone would have been aghast. Despite having one of the most famous faces
in rock ‘n’ roll since Elvis gave TV censors a coronary via hip-flinging,
Meeker hadn’t taken a single fall in all those years. In obscurity, twice, but in the
limelight? Never. Besides, who would believe they’d been robbed
by Brand Meeker?
“Would you sign them words on my records?”
the guard asked. “I got ‘em in my locker.”
“Sure thing,” Meeker said. “You just bring ‘em on by whenever you get
the chance, y’hear?”
“No hard feelings, then?” The guard extended a red, pudgy hand.
“Business is business.” He shook the proffered hand vigorously.
~
When Meeker caught up to the rest of his
band, they were standing by as guards checked their equipment. The job was swift and cursory, as if the
guards believed it to be merely an exercise rather than actual work. Why would a famous band try to sneak weaponry
into jail? Meeker could have smuggled an
atomic bomb past these guys.
“Gonna’ have to check you, too, Mr.
Meeker.” A guard gestured to the wall,
and Meeker pushed against it, legs spread, a position with which he was quite
familiar. Hands patted loosely across
his body until they happened upon his right leg.
“What’s this?”
“A brace,” Meeker said. “Broke my leg in a couple of places. Damn drunk driver. I need those rods to support my weight. I hide ‘em because I don’t want people to
know.”
“Is it permanent-like?” the guard asked.
“Yep.”
“Damn.
Next thing you’ll say, Jerry Lee Lewis wears a truss.”
Meeker offered his most pleasant smile,
transforming his face into an imitation of the benevolent doll that bore his
name, priced at only two dollars at your local toy store. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “Heard rumors about Bill Haley, though.”
The room erupted into laughter. “Damn good one.” “That was hilarious!” “Gonna’ have to remember that one.” Were there any people left that weren’t yes
men?
A man dressed in a pitch black suit, like a
funeral director, with a pencil-line mustache and well-groomed, wispy hair,
seemingly materialized out of nowhere, clapping. “Mr. Meeker!
So excellent to have you here!
I’m Milo Connor, the warden’s assistant.
Pleased to meet you.”
Meeker shook the weasel’s hand, disgusted
to find it as soft as it was the day he was born. A damn paper-pusher, and paper-pushers were
not to be trusted, especially when they possessed names like Milo.
“The warden wants me to bring you on a tour
of the place, so as soon as you’re done with security . . . .”
“He’s clear,” the guard said.
“Excellent!” Milo
said. “Come with me!”
~
Rumors had been making their rounds: Brand Meeker would be performing in the mess
hall by the end of the week. When Carter
Devin heard the news, he began bragging.
“Brand’s my step-brother,” he was fond of
saying. “When he shows up, I’ll
interduce y’all.”
There was some skepticism among his fellow
inmates, but then again, why would he lie about something that could readily be
proved or not? Though most tended to
believe him (and the rest kept quiet, as Devin was a large, muscular man about
to be transferred to the state pen after his recent conviction of killing two
people), he couldn’t help but feel inadequate, as if everyone thought him crazy
or stupid. A rush of emotions, seemingly
housed where his spine met his skull, urged him toward proving himself in the
eyes of all cons.
The opportunity came when Milo Connor made
the announcement to “behave,” then proceeded to introduce Brand Meeker, former
inmate of this fine institution.
“There’s yer brother, Dev,” his cell-mate,
Gumption, said. “Go’n, interduce me like
ye said.”
Devin jumped off his cot and pressed
himself against the bars. Sure enough,
his step-brother was limping—did he always limp?—down the safe part of the
aisle, marked off with chipped yellow paint.
Not much had changed since the last time he’d seen him—the sideburns
were new, and perhaps his hair was a little on the long side—so fame couldn’t
have altered his personality much. Maybe
he’d even be willing to spot him some cigarette money.
“Hey, Brand!” he shouted. “How the hell are ya?! It’s me!
Carter!”
Meeker glanced in his direction, and for a
minute, Devin thought his brother was going to burst into one of his customary,
wild salutations. But then, Meeker’s
face changed. “Do I know you, buddy?”
“Shore you do!” Devin said. “It’s me!
Your step-brother! Carter Devin!”
Meeker bit his lower lip in thought. “Nope.
Can’t say as I’ve heard of you.”
Devin’s jaw dropped. “Uh . . . maybe it’s the uniform. I ain’t shaved in a while. You’re kidding, right? I mean, we grew up together.”
“Sorry, buddy. Never heard of you.”
Each word the rock ‘n’ roller said was a
wad of spit in Devin’s face. As the
convicts roared laughter and insults, he felt like he’d pissed himself in front
of his girlfriend.
“Sorry,” Meeker said again, starting to
move on.
“Wait, you son of a bitch!” Devin yelled,
trying to reach through the bars. “What the
hell do you-?!”
A guard pounded the bars with his
baton. “Shuddup, Devin! Siddown!”
He beat the cage several times.
Only when he jabbed the baton between the bars and into Devin’s ribs did
the convict back off. He fell to the
concrete, panicked and wondering if he’d ever breathe again.
Gumption peered down at Devin, picking at
his glass eye. “Dumb baserd,” he
grunted. “Knew you wadn’t on
d’level.” He spat a stream of tobacco
juice next to Devin’s head, a redneck St. Peter condemning him to a hell of
ridicule.
The cacophony of caged convicts clashing
against their enclosures like wild monkeys rose as they hurled fecal insults
down at Devin’s oxygen-impoverished head like hands squeezing a balloon. A primal scream tore from his mouth, and he
pushed himself to his feet, aimed like a bullet at Gumption’s back.
Gumption, who’d been a champion brawler
during the Depression, felt Devin coming before he’d so much as stood. He turned, simply holding up his cinder
block-sized hand. Devin’s own momentum
laid him flat on his back with a bloody nose and pride broken in several
places.
“Stay down, Dev. Don’t wanna’ hurt ye n’more.”
The braying laughter of the convicts could
almost be seen like beams of light, penetrating Devin’s hung-over ego. He could do nothing but close his eyes and
feel the warmth of blood on his face.
~
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Milo said, twisting his hands into a nervous Gordian
knot. “Some of our, um, residents have
schizophrenic tendencies, and many are violent.
Mr. Devin is a murderer, has just in fact been sentenced to die in the
electric chair and will be transferred to Death Row next week, but he is
well-confined and can do you no physical harm.”
“Not to worry,” Meeker said. “I trust your jail.”
“We’ll increase security on him, if you
think it’s necessary.”
Meeker shook his head. “Feel sorry for the fella. No need to be harsh.”
Milo
smiled, and his wrestling hands fell apart.
“Of course. Absolutely.”
As the warden’s assistant continued the
tour, Meeker followed, hoping everything was all right with the band.
~
As soon as the guards had led them to the
mess hall, the Brand Meeker Band began setting up. Their techs set up the amps first, leaving
enough space between the speakers for the drummer and bass player (named Ryan
Davidson and Tom Skokie, respectively) to begin dismantling their instruments
within the shelter they formed. First,
they removed the strings from two acoustics so they could reach in and retrieve
the grenades and M1 clips that had been taped up on the inside. A couple of the electrics were hollow, and
from them they pulled more pieces of the M1’s.
Disassembled Colt .45’s were concealed in the drums, and the ammo for
them was stashed in the amps, along with several sticks of dynamite and a
collection of knives and blackjacks. The
handguns were easy to put together and load, but they still needed Meeker
before they could put together the M1’s.
In the meantime, they stockpiled the weapons in the hidey-hole and
started setting up their instruments.
They were almost ready for the sound check
when Meeker finally showed up, doing his best to shrug off Milo.
“If there’s anything I can do to make your
performance better,” the mewling whelp said with all the ardor of a whore, “let
me know. The guards can have me here
within a minute. And I’ll be here to
view your concert, as well.”
“Thanks a lot, Milo,”
Meeker said.
“Oh!
One more thing!”
Meeker ground his teeth behind a
smile. “Yeah?”
“I always liked your song, ‘High-Heeled
Strutting.’ Would you by any chance play
that tonight?”
“You bet, Milo.” Meeker winked. “Just for you, buddy.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Meeker. Let me say it’s an honor to meet you, and I
hope everything goes well tonight. Break
a leg!”
Meeker bit his tongue and did his best not
to wince. He felt the urge to kick Milo’s scrawny ass as he walked away. If he had a ha-penny for every time some son
of a bitch had wished a fractured leg on him . . . .
“Brand!” Skokie
said. “What took you?”
Meeker nodded after Milo. “Talkative bastard. Everything set up?”
“Except for the rifles. We need the barrels.”
Meeker looked both ways before lifting his
pants leg, exposing the last pieces the band needed to complete their
stockpile. “Quick, get ‘em off me. Before anyone catches us.”
Skokie and
Davidson stripped the barrels from their leader’s ankle. The bassist asked, “Did you see Carter?”
“Yeah.
He’s mighty pissed at me, I reckon.
Still, he’ll be glad in a couple of hours. Had to pretend I didn’t know him. He must’ve been bragging about me, ‘cause the
cons all laughed at him when I said I didn’t know him.”
Davidson took the barrels and ran for the
shelter of the speakers. Over his
shoulder, he laughed and said, “Carter’s never going to live this down.”
Just as Meeker rolled down his pants leg,
the old guard appeared with an armful of records, all in very good condition,
as if he’d just bought them. “Sorry to
bother you so soon,” he said. “I just
had to make sure to get to you before I forgot.
Uh . . . well . . . .” He looked
at the rifle barrels just as Davidson made them vanish behind the speakers.
Meeker had no time to think; instinct drove
his fist forward into the guard’s jaw line slightly to the left of the
cleft. The off-button, as he liked to
call it. The guard was unconscious
before his eyes even closed.
Skokie
caught the limp guard, barely maintaining his balance. “Damn, Meeker! What the hell?”
“He saw the gun barrels,” Meeker said. “Can’t risk him waking up.”
“We can’t—“ Davidson started.
It was too late. Meeker had taken a hold of the guard’s head
and savagely twisted it to the side. A
crack echoed down the mess hall, as if someone had thrown a marble down on a
concrete floor.
“Jesus Christ, Meeker!” Davidson
exclaimed. “What the hell? Why?”
“It had to be done,” Meeker said, dropping
the corpse between the speakers. The
head rolled back and forth on the ground, held in place only by flesh. “Besides, he’s not going to be the only dead
body here tonight. Remember the plan?”
“I guess so. I’m just not used to killing folks on a
job. It’s not regular, you know?”
“You better get used to it,” Meeker
said. “I don’t want you screwing this
up. We have to be wild, like Tasmanian
devils. They have to fear us and our
chaos, get me? Or we’ll fall, and
Carter’ll go to the chair. We might even
join him. Understand?”
“Yeah,” Davidson said.
“Good.”
Meeker checked his watch. “We
have an hour before the prisoners get here, so we’d better hurry up. Let’s go.”
Davidson offered a glance to the old
guard’s corpse and the mess of records he still clutched in his stiffening,
intertwined hands. The bassist’s eyes
did not linger.
~
As dinner hour arrived, the prisoners were
herded into line and led down to the mess hall.
Along the way, Carter Devin shuffled with a hand held to his nose. It still throbbed but was not seriously
injured, yet he felt he should keep up the pretense, as if it would make his
jeering fellow prisoners have mercy on him.
It didn’t work. The digs continued to rain down on his mind,
creeping through his ears like worms to feast on his tender nerves. He wanted to rise up against them, to put
them in their place, but they all knew he was a bitch, and rebelling would
demand violence. He’d already gotten his
ass kicked once and did not want a repeat performance.
As he filled his tray with the usual slop,
he tried to ignore the juvenile affronts involving food and sexual
positions. He kept his eyes down and
took it, every last word.
If I
see that son of a bitch again, he thought, I’ll murder him. Rock star. Prima goddam donna. Teach him a lesson he’ll learn just in time
to get a pitchfork in the ass.
~
“Please welcome . . . Brand Meeker and the
Brand Meeker Band!”
The prisoners howled and slammed their tin
cups down repeatedly until it sounded like an army was marching through the
mess hall. Brand Meeker, with his
acoustic guitar strapped on, waved at his audience. As he stood at the front of the stage, he
knew the techs were sneaking among the prisoners, pretending to check
electrical cords while actually passing out small weapons, blackjacks and
knives mostly. Very soon, it would be
time. He tried to locate his
step-brother, but there were too many faces.
“Good evening, fellas,” Meeker
drawled. “It’s been a long time since I
was in here. Recenize some’ve ya’. How y’all doin’?”
The crowd roared.
“Yeah, I know how it is. ‘S why I’m here now, to make you feel
better. I’m known for my rock ‘n’ roll
music, but I know how y’all like country.
Thought I’d start out with a little Hank Williams. How’s that sound?”
The applause shook every bar in Jonah
County Jail, and so he began. After Hank
came a few of his own songs, including “High-Heeled Strutting.” Since the crowd was really going, Meeker
threw in a couple of Elvis tunes and Chuck Berry’s new one. Someone in the audience shouted a request for
Robert Johnson, so they played “Me and the Devil.”
When he got the signal from the techs (a
thumbs-up, meaning the extra weapons had been distributed to the nearest cons),
he nodded to the band. It was time for
their closer, a song the Standards and Practices Department over at Sun Records
wouldn’t let them put on their latest album.
It was time for “Just Broke Out (and I Need a Piece),” a raucous,
licentious tale of tail meant to sound like a search for a gun. Two minutes and thirty-five seconds remained
until the end of their final performance.
Meeker felt regret shock his gut.
There was still time to stop, still time to hold onto his rock ‘n’ roll
career.
But that meant leaving his step-brother to
die in the chair. Their mother would
never forgive him.
The last chorus began, and he could see the
techs congregating near the stockpile, using its shelter to disguise their
preparations.
Meeker belted out the last line, and the
music abruptly ended. “Thank you,
gentlemen! You’ve been a helluvan
audience! Hope to see you on the outside
someday!” He bowed, then turned to the
clapping guards. “You be kind to these
fellas now, y’hear?”
That was the signal. The techs popped out from the hidey-hole and
threw their World War II grenades at the three groups of guards. The explosions were deafening in the echoing mess
hall, but the band had prepared with ear plugs.
Bits of guard were sprayed all over the tables and prisoners, but none
of them noticed. They were too busy
either running or utilizing their newly acquired weapons.
The sniper guards, shaken by the sudden,
brutal violence, quickly recovered from shock and began firing at the
prisoners. The band, who were the only
ones armed with guns, started taking out the snipers. The M1’s were particularly useful for this
exercise.
Meeker saw Milo
rushing for the gate, and he took careful aim with his rifle. He nailed the weasel in the back of the
head. Milo’s
soft, mousy face now decorated the bars of the gate.
“Carter!” Meeker shouted, already
forgetting the murder he’d just committed.
“Guys! Find Carter!”
~
When the explosions began, Devin was blown
off his seat, and the world’s volume was instantly turned down. Prisoners rushed around him, and some even
stepped on him, but he didn’t feel anything.
Dumbly, he stood and watched as bodies dropped and hunks of flesh
flew. Blood splattered on his face, and
he didn’t notice. Thoughts of his
transfer to the state pen were buried as he staggered forward, no destination
in mind.
Distantly, he saw the out of focus image of
his step-brother on stage, and his mind roared back to life, as if someone had
turned it on with a key. He remembered
the humiliation he’d suffered earlier, and he remembered his vow. Nothing else mattered.
Suddenly, Tom Skokie, a childhood friend,
was at his side, shoving a Colt .45 into his hand, shouting and grinning. Since Devin’s ears were ringing, he heard
nothing his old companion had said. He
could see Brand Meeker, however, and he started making his way toward the
stage, clutching his new favorite toy.
~
Meeker and Jameson were laying down cover
fire while the techs worked at setting up dynamite on the gate when they saw
Carter Devin shuffling toward the stage.
“Damn glad to see ya’, brother!” Meeker
shouted. “Get up here! We’re gettin’ you outta’ here!”
It didn’t look like Devin had heard, but
only Jameson noticed. “You all right,
Carter?”
Devin brought up the gun, shouted a
garbled, deaf curse, and fired into Brand Meeker’s gut.
Meeker felt the air rush out of him as his
guts spilled out the exit hole in his back.
He looked at his step-brother, trying to figure out why this was
happening. What had he ever done to
Devin that was so bad? Meeker was trying
to save him before the dumb bastard was sent to Death Row. And they could also use him on a bank job
they were setting up. Life, freedom, and
employment! The three wise men couldn’t
have topped those gifts! AND! AND!
And Meeker was giving up his life in the limelight for his step-brother! There wasn’t a way he could have been more
loving!
And Devin fired again, blowing Meeker’s
life out the back of his head.
“Jesus, Carter!” Jameson screamed. “What’re you-?!”
Devin turned to look at another childhood
friend, but as he swiveled, so too did the .45, and Jameson didn’t
hesitate. Devin was the unfortunate
recipient of a dum-dum slug in the head.
He joined his brother on the floor as the gate exploded. The prisoners surged through, only three
gates away from freedom, and they still had plenty of dynamite.
Jameson shook his head at the two dead
brothers, but that was all he had time for; as he tried to rid his mind of
Devin’s folly, he followed the others in hope of escape.
~
Only three prisoners made it out of Jonah
County Jail alive, but only because they managed to get some dynamite and blow
out a wall that led into the exercise yard.
Going over the barbed wire at the top of the chain-link fence was easy,
since the guards of the tower were busy elsewhere.
The rest of the cons tried to get through
the front gate, but that was where the guards were waiting with Tommy-guns. The first prisoners through the demolished
gate were shot down without warning. As
soon as the others realized what was going on, they surrendered, and what came
to be known as Meeker’s Rebellion met its conclusion.
Of Meeker’s crew, only Jameson survived,
but he never said a word, not even at his trial. Because of his proximity to Meeker, now a
local folk legend more popular than Jesse James (and two incarcerated codgers
claimed to have known the old outlaw), his fellow inmates regarded him as a hero.
The jail never held another prisoner. Because of the damage the building sustained,
it was torn down not long after the night Brand Meeker returned to Jonah County
Jail. The rock ‘n’ roller would have
appreciated this.
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