There’s a place, near the Little Kanawha River, without a tree in sight. It’s unlike anything in the Ohio River Valley, where bluegrass stretches as far as the eye can see, like a sweet lemonade ocean, crashing against the West Virginia sky.

The only thing in the middle of that sweet valley is a prison, which hardly seems fair to the locals. All that beautiful land kept for Society’s worst.

But, there it is, like a sore in the middle of an ancient agrarian paradise that was the first to make the fortunes of the Nation’s oil barons during the Civil War. The State Prison System eventually purchased the land, where prisoners who are far weaker than the tycoons could have ever been, are now serving their time.

The prison is a cold box of concrete and steel. Its walls are gray, rough, and hard. The inmates, packed like sardines in a tin can, perish, like food gone badly in the fridge. Bars stretch their grip over cellblocks, though, not tight enough to keep the aroma of Spring’s creation at bay.

“Open seven!”

Uniformed men escort a black man into the cell, where Jimmy V stands in the far corner, under the shadow of a bunk-bed overhead.

“Close seven!” The door marches its way to a shallow boom and locks with a heavy metal rasp.

In a matter-of-fact tone, Jimmy V asks, “What you in for, bud?”

Looking over his shoulder, the man responds, “I ain’t yo’ bud… and my dirty laundry ain’t yo’ fuckin’ business!”

Feeling the hostility, Jimmy V retires to his bed, where he resumes a fetish of his, the meticulous scribbling of numbers. A small black book holds his most precious records where he writes fervently, like Dante penning verses to a lover who had forsaken him long ago.

“Hey you!” Jimmy V looks up to see two massive hands knock him to the ground.

“That’s mine now, bitch!”

Knowing that his new cellmate could tear him in half, he accepts the new bedding arrangement, “That’s alright. I’ll take the bottom bunk.”

“I killed men twice yo’ size for half as much bullshit! So you better learn to shut the fuck up and give me peace bitch!” Being called “bitch” twice by a man thrice his size, while on death row, and without conjugal rights, is not a good sign for Jimmy V, who waits for time to calm the new cellmate’s nerves.

Antwon’s feet hang over the edge of the bed, as he lies down and the mattress shrieks with every inch of movement.

After a few moments, Jimmy V gingerly lays his head on a soggy mattress; where he stares into a concrete hell unimaginable, even to Dante.

“Lights out!”

Signaling the nine o’clock hour, the main lights flicker off in faithful obedience to the routine.

Overhead, the moon stands in the sky as a testament to the beauty that exists on the outside. To Jimmy V, the world beyond his cell still has an unbridled majesty that transcends all the ugliness he sees each and every day.

Following a trail of moonlight, he moves his eyes to the cell across from his own and awaits his favorite scene of the night. Normally, the moon doesn’t grace itself upon cell thirteen until ten-o’clock; however, this night is special.

Despite his limited knowledge in chess, he appreciates the overall strategy that eventually leads to a checkmate. Also, he loves the sound of the word “checkmate,” because it combines two passions in life, cashing a bookie’s check, and mating with a beautiful woman.

The familiar sound of plastic pieces clanking together in a cardboard box triggers his attention to a milk crate. A black and red board sits between the shadows of two men who are facing each other like generals of opposing armies hunched over battle plans. The shadowy figure on the right flips a coin in the daily toss of fate that customarily precedes the match.

Jimmy V watches the board to see who gets the white pieces as they are sifted to reveal that the man on the right won the coin toss. One by one, the board is set for the faceoff as two hands emerge from shadow into light for the ceremonial handshake. Shortly thereafter, pieces are moved in turn.

Like a pendulum, each hand launches attacks, builds defenses, and conducts maneuvers with the goal of reaching checkmate before the moonlight fades. Prisoners of war are claimed, as black and white pieces lay strewn across the sidelines. Eventually, the Black Kingdom wins this night’s tourney and Jimmy V smiles to himself as he reflects over the battle.

While angels steal away their precious moonlight, Jimmy V places a notch on the wall under the heading marked “BK” (earlier in the year, a black inmate thought he was writing racist liturgy in the wall and threatened to kill him; hence the need for acronyms). According to what he calls his “wall ticker”, BK trails WK by three battles. His rudimentary sports report with crude notches tracks a history of chess matches for the past eight months. Winning streaks, sudden deaths, draws, and player’s odds are all derived from the notebook of chess matches that complement the wall ticker.

He records this evening’s results and runs the numbers through his meticulously penned charts, showing odds, losses, wins, streaks, dates, and averages. With a final entry made, the slap of a rubber band against black leather marks the end of the day.

Before going to bed, he stuffs his book under the mattress to hide it from unwanted eyes. Hailing from his days working as a bookie for the Tortella family of Cleveland’s West Side; Jimmy V’s black book stays tucked away, because in this gig, one lives and dies by the book.

Ruffling his bedding, Jimmy V finally lays his head for the big picture show in the sky.

#

Every morning before breakfast, the inmates take care of “business” and Jimmy V is no exception. He heads to his normal stall, chosen for its defensible space at the far corner of the bathroom, which is an old police trick he learned from a beat cop on the take. Every morning he reads a tag on the wall that reads: Flesh and bones, built these stones, for those who lived unruly. Sticks and stones may break my bones, John’s Pen, will never kill me.

“God I hate this place,” he mutters in agreement.

A low, raspy voice responds, “Ironically poetic, ain’t it?”

He turns to face the author of the words that greet him every morning. Bobby “Blue” Gee, also known as Blue Shoes, is a man of shrewd intellect and keen insight. Pointing to the wall, Jimmy V remarks, “Fuckin’ eh man.”

“Yo, thanks. I seen you around here every mornin’. You wanna do some business?”

“I strictly work numbers, not cocks or drugs. So if you’re lookin’ for some action of an intimate or psychedelic kind, hit another stall.”

With a smirk on his face, Blue Shoes continues, “I dig. I heard you can help a brotha out with some bookie notes.”

Clearing his throat, Blue Shoes continues, “I’m in real deep with yo’ new cell mate Antwon LeShawn. He be a tough motha-fucka who’s also connected in this joint, if you know what I mean.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m gonna cross that man. He’s fuckin’ huge!”

“I ain’t askin’ you to cross him. I only need you to punt some bets for me,” Blue Shoes continues, “I already got a tip on a horse that pays thirty to one.”

Jimmy V fills-in the remainder, “Right now, there’s only one horse payin’ those kind of odds at the Kentucky Derby this year; a cute lass named Cotton Shoes,” continuing in a smug tone, “And only one man can claim to own both the roughie and a sure thing. A rich son-of-a-bitch named George fuckin’ Tanaka. I happen to know that he’s been savin’ ol’ Cotton Shoes for a big payday. If you want me to punt, I charge ten percent of the take and a grand for the trouble.”

A smile emerges from Blue Shoes, “Guess I came to the right tipster. Go ahead and punt 20-G’s fo’ Blue Gee.

“Beautiful,” Jimmy V smiles.

“One more thing.”

“Shoot,” Jimmy V responds.

“Who be the roughie?”

Jimmy V laughs, “Believe it or not, an oldie that goes by the name of White Lightning.”

#

Following their transaction, Jimmy V resumes his normal routine and prepares to head for the gym after breakfast. As usual, he grabs a CD player and tucks his black book under the mattress.

He notices Antwon looking at him and motions for his cellmate to keep quiet, “Shhh.”

#

Pushing the bench-press to a classic Cromagnon industrial beat, his form is flawless, “…six, seven, eight!” Jimmy V muscles the weight from his chest and the bar caddy clanks as he lifts himself up. With sweat dripping down his forehead, he looks over his shoulder to see two guards walking toward his bench.

Instinctual fear kicks-in as he leaps to get water from a nearby fountain. Peering over his shoulder to make sure that the pigs aren’t after him, he stumbles into a mountain of a man.

Built like a brick shit-house, Officer Stetson is a force to be reckoned with. Knowing that he’s in some kind of trouble, Jimmy V greets the man, “Hello Officer. What can I do for you today? You look a little constipated. Need some Ex-Lax?”

“Listen up dick-head. You gave up your right to free speech when you landed your stupid ass in this fucking shit-hole!” The other two guards surround the convict.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my workout. Nice chattin’ with you boys,” Jimmy V inches his way out.

Pointing his battering ram at Jimmy V’s face, Stetson replies, “You aren’t moving one inch unless I say so. Your candy ass workout is over.”

Comprehending the futility of resistance, he submits to their will. As he’s ushered upstairs to the Warden’s office, he notices a giant plaque overlooking the hallway that reads: Ezekiel Ch. 21: v. 9-11.

Two knocks later, the door opens and Jimmy V faces the feared lion of the West Virginia State Penitentiary System. Sitting at his desk, Warden Griffith opens a manila nine-by-ten folder marked “CONFIDENTIAL,” and adjusts his reading glasses as he contemptuously reads the file out loud.

“Richard James Vanderbilt of the Nashville Vanderbilt family. Born 1954. Rich kid gone bad. A terrible disappointment to his family and friends. Convicted of multiple counts of extortion, money laundering…”

Jimmy V interrupts, “Yup… Racketeerin’ and illegal gamblin’. The D.A.’s office thought it’d be a nice touch to throw in money launderin’ ‘cause it reads well in the papers.”

“Do you know why you’re in here?” Griffith looks into Jimmy V’s eyes.

Jimmy V motions to Stetson, “’Cause I landed my stupid candy ass in prison?”

Griffith cracks a wry smile, “No son. You’re here for the simple fact that you are one of those unreformed rich-boy assholes that hopes to cruise through our prison system unscathed.” Jimmy V can’t get over the fact that the Warden sounds exactly like Walter Cronkite. “John’s Pen is not a club-med for you to play your usual games. I liken the prison to the hand of God. Mighty and forever righteous. Like the judges of the Old Testament, it is my job… no, my purpose… to be the sword that cleanses the world of unrepentant scum like yourself.”

Griffith pulls out the bookie’s little black book and lays it on his desk. Jimmy V’s eyes are fixated on the only thing that matters more him than the sound of money. He swallows nervously.

“Don’t act as if you didn’t know that I would eventually discover your dealings in my prison,” pausing to sip golden liquid from a crystal flask, he continues, “This little black book was all the proof that I needed to crucify you.”

“Jesus from your precious Bible was crucified. You’re just gonna pop a cap in my ass!”

Picking-up on the convict’s use of the Bible to strike at him where it hurts, Griffith’s voice hardens, “Shut the fuck up convict!” Drinking an even bigger gulp from his flask, he continues, “If you’re curious, I shall enlighten you with regard to the reason for your presence in my office,” motioning to the door behind Jimmy V, Griffith barks out a command for Stetson to let “him” in.

Jimmy V looks over his shoulder only to find Antwon Leshawn standing behind him, “What the fuck?”

“James, meet your new cellmate,” the Warden cocks his head back to drink more of the liquid sunshine.

Now, fully aware as to how he was set-up, Jimmy V makes his thoughts known, “I get it. You set me up. What did the little snitch need to turn me in?” In prison, there is nothing worse than a snitch, and Jimmy V will play this card as long as he needs to stay alive.

“Some time off and…” the Warden pauses, “…conjugal visits with a local hooker did the trick.”

Brushing off Antwon’s angry stare, Griffith continues, “Never mind that. Because as far as I’m concerned, it is time that you pay the goddamned piper.”

“Isn’t stealing against your religion?” Jimmy V continues his onslaught.

Griffith laughs and mouths the only words that could scare Jimmy V worse than an unpaid bookie note, “So is murder.”

“I don’t have any cash I can give you,” he mounts his defense. Griffith makes his move, “Do you take me for a petty thief? It isn’t cash I’m after.”

Noticing Jimmy V’s attention toward the black book sitting on his desk, Griffith palms the soft leather and runs a thumb through the gold leafed pages. Reaching a page marked KY-Derby, he reads out-loud, “20K punt for BG,” he pauses for a moment to let the words sink in, “Who is BG?”

“Billy Gifford, an old friend of mine back in Cleveland,” he looks at Griffith with a straight face.

“Officer Stetson,” Griffith drinks from his flask, “Bring forth our guest.”

Jimmy V looks over his shoulder to see the Warden’s answer to his bluff, the battered shell of the once vibrant Blue Shoes.

“I do believe that you gentlemen have been acquainted,” Griffith smiles at the word “gentlemen”, “Please have a seat Mr. Gee.”

Griffith continues, “As you can see, I have the upper hand. When I ask you a question, you may assume that I already know the answer,” shifting in his chair, the Warden opens another crystal flask and takes a swig, “I would appreciate straight answers from you. Shall we continue?”

Jimmy V knows that it wouldn’t take much for the Warden to extract the information he needs in order to win this sick game. With that in mind, he works the only strategy he has left, which is to play for checkmate.

“Here’s what I need from you,” Griffith’s eyes meet Jimmy V head on, “I want you to provide me and my associate here,” he waves to the snitch, “a piece of the action.”

Griffith pulls a briefcase from under his desk and opens it to reveal several small bills that amount to what Jimmy V quickly calculates as being twenty thousand dollars, “Your good friend is going to pay back my associate with this gracious donation. Isn’t that convenient for Mr. Gee?” Looking at the cuts on Blue Shoes’s face, he realizes that they must have tortured him to a pulp before getting the money.

Digging into his memory bank, he thinks back to a recent Time Magazine interview with the reigning chess champion, Bobby Fisher, where he talked about the knight being the strongest piece in achieving checkmate. Being that the only strategy he can pursue at this point is to win this match, he figures that now is the time to spill the beans and let the odds work the rest of the board. Staring into Griffith’s eyes, he unleashes his knight, “You ever hear of White Lightning?”

#

After making a deal with the devil and his snitch, Jimmy V is placed into solitary confinement for six months. Considering the alternative, he takes solace in the forced solitude. After a few months in the hole, he figures the Warden would have had him killed so as to dispose of any evidence leading to foul play; however, the time passes without a word.

#

“Open Solitary!”

After patting him down, the guard takes Jimmy V to his old cell.

Surveying the emptiness, he asks, “Where’s Antwon?”

“Dead,” he sounds numb to the fact.

“How?”

“Something about a deal gone bad. He owed the Tortella’s some big money. And when they found out that he snitched on a member of the family,” the guard winks, “they chopped him up and fed him to the fishes.”

Jimmy V scratches his head, “And the Warden?”

“Snuffed like dust in the wind man.”

“How?”

“Bobby Gee stabbed him to death.”

“Really? What happened to Blue Gee?”

“Cut his own throat before SWAT reached the Warden’s office.”

“John’s Pen never ruled him alright,” he whispers.

“What?” the guard shoots him a puzzled look.

“Nothin’. Just thinkin’ out loud.”

Turning his thoughts to White Lightning, his knight in shining armor, he realizes that Bobby Fisher was truly a fucking genius.

The guard presents him a Bible.

“What’s this?”

“The new Warden wants every inmate to have one. Take it.”

The guard noticeably avoids the mattress as he inspects the cell. After removing Jimmy V’s restraints, he yells, “Close Seven!” and the door shuts with a loud clank.

An elated Jimmy V sits down and thinks back to the verse that was burned into his memory on that fateful day in the Warden’s office. He opens the Bible to the book of Ezekiel, chapter 21, verses 9 through 11 and reads out loud, “Son of dust, tell them this: A sword is being sharpened and polished for terrible slaughter. Now will you laugh? For those far stronger than you have perished beneath its power. It is ready now to hand to the executioner.”

Instinct kicks-in as Jimmy V reaches beneath his mattress to find what he’d been longing for, his little black book of numbers. After a moment of reveling in the familiar scent of old leather, he opens to a blank page and writes, “Son of Dust: CHECK fuckin’ MATE.” Three words couldn’t sound any sweeter to the bookie serving the rest of his sentence in a concrete hell unimaginable, even to Dante in the middle of an ancient agrarian field, where fortunes were made and now lost, by the Little Kanawha River.