Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans. Sidney Sheldon

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       Chapter Nine

      Old Iron Pants had Tracy Whitney assigned to the laundry. Of the thirty-five work assignments available to prisoners, the laundry was the worst. The enormous, hot room was filled with rows of washing machines and ironing boards, and the loads of laundry that poured in were endless. Filling and emptying the washing machines and toting heavy baskets to the ironing section was a mindless, backbreaking job.

      Work began at 6:00 A.M., and prisoners were permitted one 10-minute rest period every two hours. By the end of the nine-hour day, most of the women were ready to drop from exhaustion. Tracy went about her work mechanically, speaking to no one, cocooned in her own thoughts.

      When Ernestine Littlechap heard about Tracy’s assignment, she remarked, ‘Old Iron Pants is out for your ass.’

      Tracy said, ‘She doesn’t bother me.’

      Ernestine Littlechap was puzzled. This was a different woman from the terrified young girl who had been brought into prison three weeks earlier. Something had changed her, and Ernestine Littlechap was curious to know what it was.

      On Tracy’s eighth day working in the laundry, a guard came up to her in the early afternoon. ‘I got a transfer here for you. You’re assigned to the kitchen.’ The most coveted job in the prison.

      There were two standards of food in the penitentiary: the prisoners ate hash, hot dogs, beans, or inedible casseroles, while the meals for the guards and prison officials were prepared by professional chefs. Their range of meals included steaks, fresh fish, chops, chicken, fresh vegetables and fruits, and tempting desserts. The convicts who worked in the kitchen had access to those meals, and they took full advantage of it.

      When Tracy reported to the kitchen, she was somehow not surprised to see Ernestine Littlechap there.

      Tracy approached her. ‘Thank you.’ With difficulty, she forced a friendly note into her voice.

      Ernestine grunted and said nothing.

      ‘How did you get me past Old Iron Pants?’

      ‘She ain’t with us no mo’.’

      ‘What happened to her?’

      ‘We got a little system. If a guard is hard-ass and starts givin’ us too much of a bad time, we get rid of ’em.’

      ‘You mean the warden listens to –’

      ‘Shee-et. What’s the warden got to do with it?’

      ‘Then how can you –?’

      ‘It’s easy. When the guard you want to get rid of is on duty, hassles begin to happen. Complaints start comin’ in. A prisoner reports that Old Iron Pants grabbed her pussy. The next day ’nother prisoner accuses her of brutality. Then someone complains she took somethin’ from her cell – say a radio – and sure enough, it turns up in Old Iron Pants’s room. Old Iron Pants is gone. The guards don’t run this prison, we do.’

      ‘What are you in here for?’ Tracy asked. She had no interest in the answer. The important thing was to establish a friendly relationship with this woman.

      ‘Through no fault of Ernestine Littlechap, you’d better believe it. I had a whole bunch of girls workin’ for me.’

      Tracy looked at her. ‘You mean as –?’ She hesitated.

      ‘Hookers?’ She laughed. ‘Naw. They worked as maids in big homes. I opened me a employment agency. I had at least twenty girls. Rich folks have a hell of a time findin’ maids. I did a lot of fancy advertisin’ in the best newspapers, and when they called me I placed my girls with ’em. The girls would size up the houses, and when their employers was at work or outta town, the girls would gather up all the silver and jewellery and furs and whatever other goodies were around and skip.’ Ernestine sighed. ‘If I told you how much fuckin’ tax-free money we was pullin’ down, you wouldn’t believe me.’

      ‘How did you get caught?’

      ‘It was the fickle finger of fate, honey. One of my maids was servin’ a luncheon at the mayor’s house, and one of the guests was a old lady the maid had worked for and cleaned out. When the police used hoses on her, my girl began singin’, and she sang the whole opera, and here’s poor ol Ernestine.’

      They were standing at a stove by themselves. ‘I can’t stay in this place,’ Tracy whispered. ‘I’ve got to take care of something on the outside. Will you help me escape? I –’

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