Free A Bad Man by Stanley Elkin

cigarettes.”
    “Better yet. You owe me. In this place always get a guy to owe you.”
    “I see. All right. I owe you two cigarettes.”
    “Four,” the Fink said.
    “Why four?”
    “For the second tip. Get a guy to owe you.”
    Feldman presented the pass that the Fink had made out for him to the guard. Saying nothing, the man unlocked the door. He was in a part of the prison he did not remember having been in before. Offices opened onto a long central corridor. He wondered if the warden’s office was in this building.
    He knocked at a door marked “Personnel.” “Come in,” a voice called, and he opened the door. “You want Inmate Personnel,” a man said harshly.
    At Inmate Personnel there was no answer and he had turned to go when the door opened. A large ruddy-faced man with white hair stood inside. He had loosened the knot on his tie, and his shirt collar was open. His jacket had been carelessly placed across the back of a chair.
    “Hi ya,” the man said expansively.
    “I’m looking for Major Plubo, sir,” Feldman said. (The guards’ ratings were astonishing. Feldman had never seen one below the rank of captain. The guard who had directed him to the pencil man was a lieutenant colonel. The pencil man himself had been a one-star general.)
    “I’m Plubo. Call me Plubo. I figure an officer earns his respect or he doesn’t deserve it. What good does it do me if you call me ‘sir’ to my face and something else behind my back? Isn’t that right, sir?”
    “I was told to see you for an assignment.”
    “That was a question. You have to answer a question. I asked, sir, if this business of saying ’‘sir’ isn’t finally meaningless unless it’s earned.”
    “I guess that’s right, Mr. Plubo,” Feldman said.
    “And you can drop the ‘Mister,’ sir. Plubo’s good enough. Titles aren’t that important to me. There’s just man and man. Don’t you feel that, sir?”
    “Yes, Plubo. I feel that.”
    “Of course you do, sir.”
    “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ either, Plubo,” Feldman said uneasily.
    “Well, you see, sir, I respect you. That’s why I do that. I already respect you. It’s a voluntary thing.”
    Uh oh, Feldman thought. Uh oh, uh, oh. Not for nothing were people in jails. Even the guards. Jail was where the extortion was. A place of forced gifts, hidden taxes, tariffed hearts. You paid through the nose, and it was difficult to breathe. But if that was what he wanted, Feldman could stir him with ‘sirs.’ He would pay the sir tax. There would be no sir cease. And in a way, ‘sirs’ were earned. Robbery was hard work, and Feldman did respect him. As he respected many people here. Hats off to the strong-arm guys. Wide berths to the breakers and enterers. He was learning to send along the best regards of his suspicion and fear.
    “Sir,” he said, “I’ve been ill since I came here—in my cell—and though I wanted to work, sir, though I wanted to pull my own weight, it was impossible until just now. And then I didn’t have a prison uniform, sir, and as I say, sir, I’ve been sick in my cell—”
    “Sick in your soul, you say.” Plubo winked at him.
    Feldman, at a loss, smiled.
    “That’s more like it,” Plubo said. “Time out. This is off the record, mate. Time out. You’re lying. You’re a liar . That’s all right. There has to be lies and there has to be truth. You’re doing fine now. Go ahead. Eat more shit…You were ill? And?”
    “I didn’t get an assignment.”
    “Well now, you want an assignment, is that it?”
    “Yes sir.”
    Plubo reached behind him and slipped into his jacket. He buttoned the gold buttons. He did the button at his neck and tightened his tie. “Well,” he said, “well. What experience have you had, Mr.—”
    “Feldman, sir.”
    “What experience have you had, Mr. Feldman? (Is this tie straight? There has to be straight ties and there has to be stains in the underwear.) Have you ever made any license