Living Right on Wrong Street by Titus Pollard Page B

37:12
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    Delvin pulled his hands out of the water, thankful that they were protected by industrial gauge rubber gloves. Kentucky Corrections required chlorine bleach in the dishwater, but he was pale enough without sticking his bare hands into the chemical of the servant class. He had heard of bleach being used before. He knew that outside of prison, it was how the Chinese laundered his shirts and the way his stylist lightened hair.
    He was astounded at the perspective he could gain just by peering into and pounding through dishwater. It was the last day to bust suds on his thirty-day, ninety-meal punishment. He made a mental note not to wish for the assignment again.
    Inmate after inmate filed past his area, depositing their plastic trays into what they called the Bean Chute, a twelve by twelve square that had been cut into the wall and trimmed out in welded metal. He took a rubber spatula and cleared each tray before plunging it into the hot, murky water. There was a nauseating odor of human skin and leftover scraps from that evening’s meal: Salisbury steak, green beans, corn on the cob, and fruit cocktail.
    Standing still, watching soap bubbles take shape then burst, gave him time to plot, plan, and analyze. He hadn’t forgotten where he was and that Job Wright wasn’t there with him.
    Delvin wanted redemption and soon. He knew that, although he was incarcerated, he could make arrangements to put a free man in uncomfortable positions. What better way to feel better than to pawn his former partner off, have him to think he had been placed in a little prison?
    All it took was a little ingenuity, cold hard cash, and a relentless person to damage their target. Delvin possessed all three. All he lacked was a contact on the inside. He had plucked out a name from among the ranks. But Stinson had not come through the line just yet.
    Tall, dumpy, slim, and overweight—a barnyard of roosters clucking after a late feeding came through that little hole for a brief visit. He refused to look up and make any one face recognizable. For him, each man that evening was just a shadow, a talking head with legs. With one exception.
    â€œAw man, don’t do that. Didn’t anybody tell you?” Stinson asked as he scratched the chest hair sticking out from his shirt. “You’re throwing away the goods.”
    Delvin’s heart pounded. “What goods?” He took quick glances at several trays. Nothing looked salvageable on any of them.
    â€œI still gotta lot to teach you.” Stinson took his bare hands, reached into a few trays and yanked up the corn cobs, each devoid of a single kernel. He tossed them into a nearby plastic lined fifty gallon container. He brushed his forehead and a few corn silks stuck above his eyebrow. “You’re trying to keep us from making this week’s hooch, huh?”
    Delvin was silent, yet confident that Stinson could see confusion written on his face.
    â€œNever mind, Storm. I’ll give you the low-down later. Just don’t get rid of these.” He held up another cob.
    Stinson continued to chatter on about one topic then another; he was either unaware or unconcerned that he was holding up the line. It occurred to Delvin that this man might be the very one he needed to befriend. Or better yet, use.
    Delvin cleaned the last tray while the container of cobs was whisked away to an undisclosed destination. He peeled off the gloves and hung them on a nearby high pressure sprayer. He tipped his head to the guard then exited out of the galley area. He walked into the cafeteria and over where Stinson, Saks, and Murphy were standing around one of the tables, engaging in what seemed to be a lie-telling contest.
    Delvin directed an intentional gaze at Stinson. “You have a minute?”
    â€œWho? Me?” Stinson asked. His biceps popped repeatedly.
    Saks and Murphy took the hint and gathered themselves into a remote area of the room, about thirty