Smooth Operator (1/4) By Edward C. Lynskey

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4).

Kenny was a thief. Nothing big. He'd only rip off the 'swag' owners wouldn't miss right away: CDs, auto parts, jewelry, tools, handguns from nightstands. Yeah, he was a smooth operator, nickelling and diming 'ditch-digging chumps.' A pawnshop run by his pal (never mind who) did a bang-up business, too. Why did Kenny steal? Can't say. Could be he swore the world owed him a living. If you didn't believe it, all you had to do was to watch him. And I'd been watching out for him far too damn long.

One rainy afternoon, a Neighborhood Watch lady in her SUV caught Kenny's bantam ass snaking through a downstairs window. She reported him on her cell phone; rookie cops nabbed him red-handed. That was 18 months ago. Kenny was incarcerated at a correctional center, his release mere days away. We three were paying him an obligatory visit in my van.

Josh piped up from the rear seat. "I brought a carton of Marlboro Lights." "Marlboro Lights? Shit. Kenny doesn't smoke them. It's a broad's cigarette," Andy said. He activated windshield washer fluid to squirt the bug-crusted glass, squeaky blades smeared the view. "Kenny can't be picky," I said. "They'll suit him fine." Andy gloated. "Hell, I'm smuggling in a jay and roach clip." "No, you're not. Don't go and start trouble," I said. "Leave any crap like that inside the van. I'm not jiving you either."

"Sure. Okay. Fine," Andy said. "He's your kid bro'in jail. Not mine." "Damn straight," I said. "Kenny is done with stealing."

"Sure, he is. No more five-finger discount for Kenny. Whatever you say." After cranking down the window, a smirking Andy spat. "If he doesn't straighten up and fly right, I'm ditching him." Andy: "I hear that." The correctional center was on a semi-country road off Route 236, six of so miles near Woodbridge. It resembled an old Army base - serviceable but primitive. A twelve-foot chain link fence encircled a cluster of cinderblock huts painted spinach green. At least no razor wire crowned the fence.

Security seemed lax. Trustees here had earned a degree of respect and freedom. Soon they'd rejoin our general population. Yet, I also knew the bankrupt State Government was laying off prison guards left and right. Jails were expensive to erect and even more to inhabit. As we shambled into the gravelled lot, a rust-pitted sign warned us where we were. "I'll do the talking," I told Andy and Josh. Josh: "You betcha."

A tan uniformed guard, bulked up like Frank Zane, ordered us to halt at the front desk. His face, a seamed softball, was humourless. He poked a baton through the grocery bag Josh had carried. "Clown," he growled. "You're not sneaking contraband into my house, right?" My tailhole sucked wind. Next thing we'd be strip searched, forced to squat and cough three times. "No sir," Josh said. "Just the carton of cigarettes. Marlboro Lights."

Andy snorted through his nose. I shot him a warning glance before saying, "Came to see Kenny Malone. We should be on his visitors list." "Kenny mouthed off. That got him latrine duty plus three more weeks in my house." The guard liked that. "Meantime, you three clowns can park your punk asses over yonder. Keep it quiet, too." His raised baton jabbed at a row of ladder-back chairs under a barred window. They looked uncomfortable for a reason. This was jail.

Continued... Next Page (2/4)

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